Susanne Novan: Driven

The owners of the Lightning, a consortium of old money gents from the deep south, panicked. Their team had held the championship title for five years,

and if a sixth wasn’t a sure bet, a great number of people would be very angry. And anger from some of the more notorious investors would mean a great

deal more than a nasty fan letter or two. Dark haired men in darker suits were experts at making their disappointments disappear. Permanently.

The fact of the matter was, however, that without their superstar, the Lightning was a mediocre team at best, more than capable of bringing up the

league’s rear in any given season. The owners had become so miserly and lazy after Dylan’s signing that they hadn’t even drafted a competent backup for

her, despite Mac’s loudly voiced objections, and instead spent their money on a plethora of short guards who were of no use to them now.

Seeing this, the rest of the league’s teams licked their chops like a pack of ravenous wolves with a dying elk in their midst. Trade offers were cut off at the knees as owners and general managers rubbed their hands together with glee, convinced that their ships had finally come in.

All, that is, except for one.

The Birmingham Badgers was a rookie expansion team chock full of cast-offs, over-the-hill rejects, and mildly promising rookies long on potential and short on experience. They weren’t planning on making any upward moves in the next few years, but no one seemed to mind. The Badgers had two things in

abundance; money and time. What they didn’t have was a coach.

Thus, the wheels were set in motion for a trade the likes of which had only really been seen in the NFL. The Badgers dealt two of their power forwards—a crafty, if slow, veteran, and a young, somewhat talented rookie, plus their number four pick in the draft, all for the services of Pallas Dylan Lambert as the Badgers’ new head coach.

When Mac heard the news, he came as close to having a stroke as he hoped he’d ever get. All of his arguments, and he made quite a few, fell on deaf

ears.

He tendered his resignation the day the deal was signed.

The Badgers accepted him with open arms the next day.

Which was why, two years later, he found himself sitting in the crowded stands at Madison Square Garden, watching Dylan Lambert watch ten young

women run up and down a basketball court during the final game of the NCAA Women’s Basketball Championship.

The game itself was an entertaining one, with the number one ranked University of Connecticut Huskies going up against the number two ranked

University of Tennessee Lady Vols. The lead had changed hands two dozen times and halftime was still five minutes in the future. The young players were giving it their all, both for the glory of their schools, and for the eyes of whatever professional scouts happened to be watching.

Shifting uncomfortably in a seat much too small to hold his generous frame, Mac turned to his left to study Dylan’s profile as she stared, with hawk-like intensity, down onto the court. From the corner of his eye, he could see several fans staring at Dylan and whispering among themselves. Thus far, his

glares had been enough to warn them off, but he knew that wouldn’t be the case for long.

Since her playing career had ended, Dylan’s public appearances had dwindled down to almost nil, by choice. Even so, she was a bigger draw than even the

game the fans had paid good money to see, and things could get sticky for them both.

He shifted again. “Dylan…”

The piercing gaze swung his way, all put pinning him to his seat. Even after eight years, he still wasn’t used to it.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you think we could get back up to the Sky Box now? They’re starting to watch you more than the game.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when Dylan’s gaze swung away to casually scan the crowd, then tightened up again when she looked back at him, a smirk

firmly in place on her face.

“Aww, c’mon, D.,” he rushed on, desperate to get her to see things his way. “Remember last time you were out like this? They practically had to call in the National Guard to get us out of the mob scene! I’ve stillgot fingernail marks in places fingernails were never meant to be.”

“You can go up if you want.” Her voice was deep and warm, holding a slight note of affectionate teasing.

“Dylan…Mr. Johnson spent good money for that box. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to at least pretend you’re enjoying his generosity?” He knew he was whining, but somehow, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Going corporate on me now, Mac?” The teasing note turned a bit wry, and Mac held back a wince by sheer will.

“You know that’s not true, D. It’s just…this crowd’s making me a little antsy, y’know?”

Dylan’s gaze swung away again, looking over the crowd. The intensity in her eyes caused all but the most ardent admirers to blanch and turn away. Her

smirk broadened. “I’m comfortable where I am, Mac. G’wan back up. I’ll be along in a while.”

“Excuse me, Dylan, but no way. If you’re so set on staying in the lion’s den, I’m staying with you. Somebody’s got to watch your back and it might as well be me.”

Shaking her head, Dylan turned her attention back to the court just as the halftime buzzer sounded. As the players began to file back toward their locker rooms, she leaned back in her seat and opened her program, idly leafing through its glossy pages.

Only when she noticed Mac’s tension reach the breaking point did she deign to look up. A large group of fans was headed purposefully in her direction and gaining steam as word spread swiftly that “the Goddess” was in their midst. Mac stood quickly, edging his burly body in front of her for protection.

Though only an inch taller, he was double her weight, and would have made an effective shield if she had let him.

But Dylan Lambert was born knowing how to play the game, and with a smile more manufactured than genuine, she stepped from behind her living wall to

greet her adoring public. Pulling a Sharpie from the inside pocket of her leather trench, she accepted the first program with grace and scrawled her

signature before handing it back and accepting the next.

As if from behind a broken dam, the programs, basketballs, trading cards, T-shirts, hats, and the occasional bit of bared flesh came under the heavy caress of her pen. On and on it went until finally the arena’s security guards filtered down and dispersed the crowd back to their seats.

Heaving out a relieved breath, Mac plopped back down in his seat and took out a handkerchief, mopping his sopping brow. “God, I hate this shit,” he

muttered, half under his breath.

Dylan gave him a fond clap on the shoulder, then turned back to the court as the players filed out from their locker rooms. Her gaze immediately zeroed in on one young woman from the Huskies who effortlessly caught a rifle-pass from her teammate and made a sweet shot from just past mid-court. Her

teammates cheered as the ball went through the basket without touching the rim, and the young shooter pumped her fist as she ran toward the basket to

rebound.

Dylan smiled.

Mac straightened in his seat when he saw that smile bloom, and squinted against the bright lights in an attempt to see what had generated such an

expression. It was an impossible task.

“What?” he finally asked.

Dylan turned away after a moment, and quickly leafed through her program until she came to the page she wanted.

“Her,” she said, tossing the program on his lap.

Mac looked down to see a fresh-faced, attractive green-eyed blonde woman staring back up at him, the grin on her face an interesting mixture of