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from having a fit of gargantuan proportions right there in the office, the assistant director had made the executive decision to assign her this single,

normally reserved for resident assistants.

The room was neat and very orderly. Everything had a place and everyplace had its thing. Hodge couldn’t stand clutter and this was one of the biggest

reasons she was grateful for her single room. She had been forced to share a room with a woman the year before who was a total slob and it had driven

her half out of her mind.

Pulling a bottle of water from the small fridge, Hodge flipped on the TV and dropped down to her bed, frowning as the abused springs poked her in places

that were most definitely sore. She looked around the room at the pictures and posters hanging on the walls. Photos of her family had a place of honor at

the foot of her bed so that her parents and younger siblings were the last things she saw at night and the first things she would see in the morning.

The rest of the room, however, was dominated by pictures and posters of some of her favorite basketball players. There were a lot of them, from various

eras of the game, but her eyes were drawn to what some of her friends lovingly referred to as ‘the shrine’. Pictures, posters, T-shirts and trading cards

dominated one entire wall, all bearing the face and form of one Pallas ‘The Goddess’ Lambert. Her favorite was a life-size poster of Lambert standing alone

at center court, a faraway gaze in her piercing eyes. One hand perched on her hip, while the other cradled the basketball tucked under her arm.

To Hodge’s eyes, in that one perfect moment in time, the superstar veneer had faded, leaving a flesh and blood woman standing in her place. The image

had captivated Catherine for years, and for some reason, staring at too long always left her with a strange sense of melancholia.

It was to this image that she spoke, her voice a subdued whisper.

“Regardless of what anybody thinks, I’m glad you got to see me play at least once Goddess. Thanks.”

She turned her attention to the TV where the weatherman was droning on about something she wasn’t particularly interested in, and very slowly her eyes

dropped closed.

The sound of a ringing phone shocked Dylan out of a particularly pleasant dream, and she awoke to find herself pinned beneath the heavy weight of a dog

who was aiding the wake up process by enthusiastically licking her face. “Brunhilde! God! Dog breath. Move it, you big oaf, before I turn you into dog

puree!”

Voicing her displeasure with a loud groan, Brunhilde absented herself from the bed in a leisurely fashion, allowing Dylan to pick up the phone on its fifth

ring.

“Yeah.”

Mac’s smug tones oozed through the phone. “You owe me, Lambert. Big. Not candlelight dinner big. Not front row Pacer’s tickets big. Diamond watch

big.”

Sitting up, Dylan dry scrubbed her face with her hand, lips curling in disgust at the dog saliva coating her palm. “He go for it?”

“Hook, line, and sinker, my friend. He wants to see her at pre-draft camp, though. Up close and personal, so to speak.”

“Why? Isn’t he afraid her gayness might rub off on him?”

“Dylan….”

“Mac, the man’s a bigot. You know it, and I know it, so let’s stop beating around the bush, alright?”

“Hey, at least he’s willing to listen to reason. So now all we need to do is find out if she’s planning on going.”

Dylan sighed and shook her head. “Fine. Book us a flight for tomorrow morning and we’ll find out.”

Mac’s sigh was louder. “Dylan, you know I love you, but I do have a wife I haven’t seen in three weeks.”

“Make it three weeks and two days then, Mac. Your wheeling and dealing got us into this mess, you’re gonna help us get out of it.”

“But….”

“Bye, Mac. See you tomorrow.”

As she hung up the phone, Dylan looked up at the ceiling, praying for strength. Then she pushed herself out of bed, scowled down at the two oh so

innocent faces staring back up at her, and headed for the shower to begin what was left of the day.

The Rusty Bucket was a small, hole-in-the-wall tavern well known to the students of UCONN. Though it was a bit of a hike from the main campus, it had

the reputation for being a little lax when it came to checking ID’s, and so was a hit with the underage crowd.

The interior was typical for a college dive. Dim and smoky, it had a long, badly abused bar, stools bleeding foam stuffing from mortal wounds, and a

smattering of splintered and sticky tables set much too close together. The tiny dance floor was fronted by an even tinier stage from which local talent

was invited to do its best to drive paying customers away.

This night, the local college sensation, Laying Rubber, was pounding out the atonal chords and drum riffs that passed for music among the eager young

crowd. Their hit song “My Girlfriend is a Blow-Up Doll” was a particular favorite, and they played it so often that the bartender seriously considered

rupturing his eardrums with his own ice-pick just so he wouldn’t have to hear it anymore.