Driven_589066

“And now that I’ve put you all to sleep with my opening remarks, I’ll try and wake you all back up by introducing the holder of the first pick in this year’s

draft. Representing the Birmingham Badgers, Ms. Pallas Dylan Lambert.”

The crowd erupted into loud, sustained cheering as Dylan made her way across the room to the podium. An entire constellation’s worth of flashes went off

simultaneously, capturing forever the image of their beloved Goddess.

Swept up in the crowd’s excitement, Hodge found herself standing with the rest, applauding for all she was worth and cheering herself hoarse. She

watched Dylan turn her head away from the cameras’ bright flashes, and at that moment, their eyes met, and locked.

For Hodge, the sounds around her faded beneath the loud hiss of blood in her ears. She knew she was still clapping, she could feel the motion in her arms,

but it was as if she was bringing two blocks of wood together repeatedly for all she could feel of her hands. There was something between them. She

could feel it, as if someone had stretched an invisible, thrumming wire from one to the other, connecting them in that one brief infinity in a way that was a

little frightening in its intensity.

Behind the podium, Dylan felt the same strange pull, not so much a physical reaction as one borne deep within her oft times buried emotions. She allowed

herself a brief moment to analyze the sensation, then quickly raised the walls she’d built to protect her from public scrutiny.

The applause finally died down, and the guests found their seats once again.

“Thanks for the welcome,” Dylan said, flashing the brilliant smile that had made the covers of untold numbers of magazines throughout the years. There

was some laughter and some cheering in response before the room quickly became quiet and filled with eager anticipation.

“On behalf of the Badgers, it is my pleasure to announce that the first pick of this year’s draft is…” She paused, looking around and enjoying the control

she had over the crowd. “Catherine Frances Hodges.”

Stunned silence filled the room for several long seconds. Then a murmur of disbelief rose up like fresh water bubbling in a tidal pool. Isolated, almost

hesitant applause, broke out and spread throughout the audience.

As if she were viewing events from within a tunnel, Hodge barely felt the congratulatory slaps her fellow draftees were bestowing on her. She felt herself

come to her feet, and briefly wondered if she might faint. Dylan’s expectant gaze lanced into her again, and she felt pulled forward by the strength of that

warm look alone.

Finally, though the distance she’d traversed seemed like miles rather than a few scant yards, she reached the podium and accepted Dylan’s firm

handclasp.

“Congratulations,” Dylan said, then softened her tone. “You alright?”

“I…I think so. Just…if this is a dream, please don’t wake me up, alright?”

Dylan laughed. “It’s no dream. Here.” She draped a purple and black Badgers jersey emblazoned with the number 3 over Hodge’s chest and set a Badgers

cap atop her head. “Welcome to the Badgers, Catherine.”

“Thank you,” Hodge replied, slowly coming out of her daze. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank you.”

A split second later, Hodge felt herself easily pulled alongside Dylan, and together they smiled as the cameras flashed once again.

Hodge took a deep breath and braced her hands against the wall of the green room, trying to calm herself before the upcoming press conference.

Straightening, she found a pitcher of water on a nearby table and poured herself a glass. As she drank the cool liquid she ran her fingers over her jersey,

which was lying over a chair. “They’re gonna retire this number when I’m done.”

“That’s the attitude.”

Hodge closed her eyes and bit her tongue gently when she heard Dylan’s voice behind her. “Why does this keep happening?” She turned around to find the

tall woman leaning in the doorway.

“What?”

“You keep showing up when I say or do something stupid.”

“Lucky I guess.” Dylan pushed off the doorframe and entered the room. She smiled slightly, brushing her hand against Hodge’s jersey. “I said almost the

exact same thing when I got drafted.”

“Yeah, but your number is retired.”

“Sure. And yours will be too.”

Hodge’s eyes widened. “How can you be so sure?”

Dylan grinned. “Wouldn’t have drafted you otherwise.” She laughed at the astonished look she received, and touched Hodge lightly on the shoulder.

“C’mon. Let’s go face the press.”

A side door opened, and Dylan entered the large room filled with reporters. Hodge followed close on her heels. Cameras flashed and whirred, and the

excited hum of voices grew and swelled.

The two women crossed to the long, microphone-festooned table and took the two chairs nearest the center, settling down in them with nearly identical

grace. The questions started up almost immediately, but Dylan held up a hand. “One at a time, ladies and gentlemen. One at a time.” She pointed to a

red-headed young man from Sports Illustrated. “Mark? You go first.”