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The room roared with laughter as congratulations continued to circulate. Each person took their turn clapping Hodge on the back, or snapping her rear end

with damp towels, to the general hilarity of all.

Though she enjoyed the adulation of her teammates, and the pure adrenaline rush that came with winning the long-coveted title, Hodge found herself

wishing for a shower. She was hot, she was sweaty, and she was sticky, and as soon as she found out who had upended a jug of Gatorade over her head,

there would be hell to pay.

Until that time, however, a little alone time in a nice hot shower would do the trick nicely. Managing to slip away, she headed for the showers and was

soon delighting in the feel of the hot water pounding her body and loosening muscles just beginning to stiffen. Bracing herself against the wall, she

dropped her head and just let the water beat her neck and shoulders.

“Oh Hodgie…”

She groaned at the singsong sound of her name. Slowly she raised her head, spitting out the water flowing over her face. Opening her eyes she saw Marlie

Edgars, one of the assistant coaches, grinning at her with an ‘I’ve got a secret’ expression.

“What’s up, Coach?”

“Did you by any chance notice who was in the crowd tonight?”

“I was kinda busy, Coach. You know, playing and all?”

“Smart ass. C’mon, try to guess.”

Grabbing the towel her coach held out to her, Hodge sighed and began drying her hair. “Hmmm about 35,000 of our biggest fans?”

“34, 999 of our biggest fans and,” she paused, grinning from ear to ear, “The Goddess.”

The towel was slowly lowered from her face, and a wide eyed kid looking every bit of twelve stared back at the coach. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. She was mid court, a few rows above floor level. Watching you like a hawk, short stuff.”

Hodge snorted. “Right, Dylan Lambert was here scoping out my talent tonight.” Green eyes rolled. “Come on Coach I won the game, why do you have to

torture me?”

“I’m serious Hodge. Lambert was here and she was taking notes.”

“You are serious,” Hodge replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“As a heart attack, kid.”

“Ohhhh shit!”

The coach grinned. “Congratulations, Kitty Cat. You just might be the first to go come draft day.”

So struck was she with the news, Hodge actually let the coach get away with using her detested nickname, which was, in and of itself, a minor miracle.

Edgars’ smile faded slightly, and she snapped her fingers in front of the young player’s face. “Hodge. Hodgie. Anybody home in there?”

“Huh?” Catherine’s head came up with a snap, and she blinked as if coming out of a daze.

“The press is gonna be coming in soon, kid. I know you could use the exposure, but I don’t think this is exactly the sort you had in mind. Maybe some

clothes…?”

Hodge visibly drew herself together. “Uh..yeah. Right. Stall them for me, will you?”

“Sure, kid. And Hodge?”

“Yeah, Coach?”

“You were damn good out there. Way to go.”

Hodge’s smile threatened to split her face. “Thanks, Coach.”

Dylan tossed her keys on the small table to the right of the door, shifting out of the way as her two dogs, Siegfried and Brunhilde, bounded past and chased

each other around the large foyer. Rolling her eyes at their antics, she stooped to retrieve her mail, idly leafing through the envelopes as she made her

way through the parlor and into the rarely used kitchen.

“Junk, junk, a nasty letter from Manny, junk, and more junk.” Tossing the mail down on the chef’s island, she looked down at the dogs who were sitting at

attention, awaiting their nightly meal. “Haven’t I taught you to kill the mailman yet?”

The large Dobermans stared back at her, heads cocked. Dylan snorted. “Some guard dogs you are.”

After filling their bowls with kibble, Dylan exited the kitchen and walked into the large, tastefully appointed living room. Chrome, glass, and modern art

dominated the room, but did little to detract from its almost sterile air. Grabbing the remote from one chrome and glass end table, she switched on the

large flat screen television which stood proudly between the two huge French doors facing the back of her property.

ESPN was replaying the closing seconds of the game she’d just seen, and she paused for a moment to watch Catherine Hodges sink the winning bucket as

time expired. “Oh yeah,” she said softly to herself. “She’ll do nicely.”

A glance down at the phone caused her smug grin to fade. “Twenty two messages. Christ.” One long finger flipped through the caller ID display, deleting

messages and the phone numbers attached to them with impunity. It was only when she got to the fifth call from Manny Blum, a pain in the ass disguised

as her agent, that she pressed the “play” button, wincing as the whining voice came through the small speaker.

“Dylan, this is Manny. Remember me? The short, skinny guy who gets paid to represent you? We need to talk, sweetheart. Those Nike idiots aren’t

getting any younger, and if I show up empty handed one more time, sweets, they’re gonna shove a size 14 golf spike up my ass, understand? C’mon, D, just