Susanne Novan - Driven

"Jackass," Dylan muttered, shaking her head. "He just cost his team the game."

"Think so, huh?" Turning slightly, Cat gazed at the backboard. "Guess it’s time to see if all those hours of free throws paid off, huh?" Her smile was slightly pained.

"Just do your best," Dylan replied, putting a hand on Cat’s shoulder and giving it a brief squeeze.

Cat grinned. "You know it."

With a short nod, Dylan walked off the court as the teams lined up just outside the key. The ubiquitous whistle blew yet again as the referee tossed Cat

the ball.

The large crowd went silent. Not that that mattered to Cat. She wouldn’t have heard them if they were buck naked and playing the Star Spangled Banner on

kazoos. All she heard was the slow, calm beat of her heart overlaid by the sound of the ball hitting the varnished cart and bouncing back into her hands.

Once. Twice. Three times. Get a quick look to the hoop. Shoot.

The crowd erupted as the ball slipped through the basket, hitting nothing but net.

Smiling at her teammates, she accepted the praise and deft pats on various parts of her anatomy before again receiving the ball and taking her position.

The second shot wasn’t quite so pretty, and Cat’s heart leapt into her throat as the ball came down too quickly and bounced on the front of the rim,

shooting straight up and rattling around the rim for a good bit before finally deciding to drop through the net.

The crowd stood and cheered as Cat again received the congratulations of her teammates, this time liberally sprinkled with good-natured teasing.

The third shot was anticlimactic. Cat knew it was a done deal as soon as the ball left her hands. She was already walking toward the sidelines before it

even went through the net, only to be swept up by her teammates and paraded across the court like a conquering hero to the excited cheers of more than

ten thousand fans.

The whole thing went by in an adrenaline-filled haze, but Cat would always remember the bright blue eyes, filled with pride, meeting and melding into her own.

*******

Cat was waiting for Chaney as the taller woman hobbled out of the trainer’s room on a set of crutches. Her foot and ankle were encased in a bulky splint,

and the look on her face was anything but pleasant.

"Damn, Chane! Are you alright? What’s the verdict?"

"Ain’t no big deal, just a strain. I don’t even know why I have to use these damn things."

"You’ll use ‘em because I told you to use ‘em." Norton walked out of the room, straightening the lapels of her lab jacket. "Because if you don’t…."

"I know, I know," Chaney replied, hanging her head.

"I know you know. Just know that Ihave spies everywhere, so don’t let me hear that you wowed the patrons at that pro am next weekend, and you won’t have to hear me tell you you’re benched for the next two months."

Chaney’s eyes widened. "Shit! The pro-am! I totally forgot about that!" She turned to Cat, a look of misery on her face. "I’m sorry, Shortchange. Damn."

"It’s okay," Cat replied. "It’s more important to get than ankle of yours better."

"Yeah, but…damn." She brightened a touch. "Hey! Maybe you can get one of those guys to sub for me?"

Cat shook her head. "Can’t. They’re either using the break to see their families or taking a nice stress free vacation."

"Shit." Chaney looked around. "What about Caulley?"

Cat’s jaw dropped. "You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding."

Chaney laughed. "Alright, so she’s not the best replacement in the world, but at least she has a pulse, right?"

"I think I’d kill myself first."

Both fell into the silence of their individual thoughts. Suddenly, Chaney’s eyes lit. "Hey! What about--?"

"No."

"But—"

"No. Don’t even think about it."

"Why not? She’s perfect! You couldn’t ask for a better draw!"

"Except for one tiny little detail."

"What’s that?"

"She doesn’t play anymore, remember?"

Chaney flapped her hand, almost losing a crutch in the process. "Aww, that ain’t a big deal. I bet if you asked her real nice, she might consider it."

"I think you’re overestimating my persuasive abilities."

Chaney leered. "Aw, c’mon Shortchange. You could talk Eskimos into ice cubes and you know it. You got charm oozin’ outta your…"

"That’s enough," Cat warned, grinning. "I get your point, even if I don’t exactly agree with it."

"So? You gonna ask her?"

"I…don’t think so, Chane," she demurred. "You know how quiet she is on the b-ball topic."

"Oh, c’mon, shorty. What’s the worst she could say? No?"

"She could throw me out on my ass and trade me."

Chaney laughed. "She ain’t like that and you know it. Now go on, chickenshit, or I’ll do it for you."

Cat looked at her, wide-eyed. "You wouldn’t."

"You bet your sweet ass I would, girl. So," she grinned, easy and wide, "what’s it gonna be?"

"I can break that other ankle for you," Cat mock-warned.

"And miss seeing this gorgeous face rescuing your ass every game? I don’t thinkso."

Shaking her head, Cat laughed. "All right, all right, I give."

"So you’ll ask her?"

"Yes, I’ll ask her."

"You go, girl! Gimme a day or so and I’ll turn over all the money I collected to you, k? It’s a lotta green."

"Chane, you don’t have to do…."

"Sure I do. It’s for a damn good cause. Knock em dead, shortchange."

With a last wide grin, Chaney hobbled away, cursing her crutches every step of the way.

When the door swung shut, Cat was left in the hallway alone. Rubbing suddenly sweaty palms against her jeans, she tried to assemble the thoughts

running scattered through her head. After a moment, she sighed, shoulders slumped. "I can’t believe I let you talk me into this."

"Talking to the arena ghost again?"

The velvet voice close over her shoulder scared several years of life out of the young player. Jumping, she spun and almost ended up in Dylan’s arms.

"Jesus! You just scared the crap outta me!"

Dylan smirked. "I called your name, but you didn’t answer. You seemed…preoccupied."

"Oh! Well. I was. Kinda."

"Mm."

Cat sighed.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I…um…." She looked down at her feet, then back into Dylan’s intense eyes. "You remember me talking to you about the Children’s Cancer Initiative Pro-Am tourney?"

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. Gave you a contribution a few weeks back."

"That’s right," Cat replied, remembering her shock at the number of zeroes following the first figure of said contribution. "Thanks again, by that way. That was incredibly generous of you."

Dylan flung a negligent hand.

"Well…my playing partner was supposed to be Chaney, but Doc Norton’s keeping her off her foot until the break’s over, so I’m…kinda stuck."

"Anyone else available to help you out?"

"No," Cat replied, shaking her head. "Everybody’s leaving for vacation."

A slow, if not entirely pleasant, smile spread over Dylan’s lips. "Let me guess. Chaney tried to talk you into asking me to sub for her."

"Yes?" It might not have been meant to be a question, but it came out that way.

The smile disappeared. "No."

"But…"

"No." Dylan sighed. "Look, we’ve been through this before. I don’t play anymore. Period."

"But you do, Dylan. You play every day in practice."

"That’s different," Dylan replied, scowling.

"How? How is it different? You play harder than the rest of us combined, and you know it. You’re out there every day, for hours at a time, putting us through our paces. No one can keep up with you, though God knows we try. And I’ve even heard some of the coaches say that you practice at home as well. So tell