Susanne Novan - Driven

Hodges staring at the now closed door and cradling her hand against her chest.

*******

Mac managed to make it to the rental car before he collapsed, laughing so hard tears sprung into his eyes. Dylan patted him companionably on the back

as choked out the last of his hysteria.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “Did you seethe look on her face when she opened the door?” The memory sent him off into another gale of laughter.

Dylan could only roll her eyes and wait out the storm.

When Mac was finally able to loosen his cramped stomach muscles enough to lean back in the seat, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and

turned to Dylan. “You know, if Johnson was with us, that would have been the end of any dream you might have had of drafting her.”

“Johnson isn’t with us, and he’s not gonna hear about this. Ever.”

Mac nodded. “Not from me. Mum’s the word.” Somehow, that set off another laughing spell.

Shaking her head, Dylan started the car and shifted into reverse. “Let’s just get the hell out of here before you have a stroke.”

And so they went.

*******

Hodge stood in the sidelines with the rest of the women chosen to show what they could do in hopes of finding a spot with the Birmingham Badgers or one

of the other pro teams present.

The camp was in its third day, and Hodge was looking forward to actually playing some basketball. The previous days had had the young women poked,

pricked and prodded, weighed and measured, and generally treated like prime horseflesh. She’d run windsprints till it felt as if her lungs were going to exit through her ears, covered two miles in a very respectable time, and had shown off her vertical leaping abilities like some sort of demented kangaroo.

Today was the day to show what she could do on the court, and she was awaiting it with eager anticipation. She made sure to check everyone out, sizing

up the competition. Seven other point guards had been invited to attend the pre-draft camp, including Hodges’ nemesis, Keisha Brown of the Stanford

Cardinal. Topping Hodge in height, weight and attitude, Keisha was a woman who believed her own hype. And, early in the season when Brown was

selected by most to go first in the draft, that hype seemed well founded.

Hodge’s late stretch run, however, cast what was once a certainty into the deep shadows of doubt.

Moving a bit away from the rest, Hodge began her warm up routine, every now and then casting what she hoped were covert glances toward the bench

area, where Dylan and Mac stood. Dylan appeared to be in full “head coach” mode; focused and intent on the job at hand.

Which was fine with Hodge, since she knew from previous experience that if their glances so much as crossed, she’d be reduced to a blushing schoolgirl

once again. And that wouldn’t do at all. After their near disastrous and completelyembarrassing first meeting she decided that it was absolutely imperative that she concentrate entirely on the tryout. She had to prove to The Goddess that her decision to ask her to compete was not a bad one.

Of course, she had made a solemn vow neverto be caught in a situation like that again. Even if it meant given up women forever. Well, maybe forever was a bit of a stretch, but at least until Pallas Dylan Lambert and the Birmingham Badgers were out of her life.

Decision made, Hodge hit her warm up routine with gusto, stopping only when she felt a presence looming over her. She straightened, looking up into the

dark, flashing eyes of Keisha Brown.

“I seen you eyeballing Lambert over there, shorty. Just keep lookin’, girl, cause that’s the closest you’re ever gonna get.”

Hodge easily stood her ground. “Think so, huh?”

Brown beamed. “Oh, honey, I knowso.” With that, Brown moved swiftly by, making sure to slam Hodge hard with her shoulder as she passed.

The whistle blew, and the camp’s directors filed out onto the court, basketballs in hand.

“Okay ladies, listen up. Now’s your chance to show our esteemed guests what you’re really made of.”

Hearty cheering echoed through the gymnasium.

“First up are shooting drills. When I call your name, go to the ball racks and start shooting. One shot per rack. The whistle will tell you when time’s up.

Good luck. Brown! You’re up.”

Hodge took in a deep breath to settle the butterflies in her stomach. Looking around, she could see other women wiping sweating palms on their shorts

and shifting nervously foot to foot, anxious to prove their worth to the coaches. Perversely, this made the butterflies in her own stomach vanish entirely.

When her turn came, Hodge trotted up to the first rack and began shooting without an ounce of nervousness.

*******

Dylan took a seat courtside, rather than in the benches set aside for the staff members. She wanted to watch the women play, not sit around and talk

about what color new Mercedes some half-assed coach had just bought with a bonus they didn’t deserve. She was here to do a job, not schmooze and eat

the free buffet.

The recruiting class was a good one, chock full of talent at all positions. While Dylan carefully scrutinized each woman, right down to her shoe size, she made no bones about the fact that one player in particular drew her interest.

“So that’s Super Girl, huh?”

Dylan had the good sense to roll her eyes and keep her groan to herself before she turned around to face Horace Johnson, the owner of the Badgers. A

shade under six feet tall, he fashioned himself a JR Ewing type, right down to the Stetson. His protuberant belly hung listlessly over his belt, and his suit jacket was a size too small. The cologne he all but bathed in was enough to raise the dead, and Dylan found herself stifling a sneeze.

“That’s her.”

“She’s short.” Johnson observed, past the toothpick he was chewing because his damn doctor told him to quit smoking.

“She compensates for that with her abilities.”

“She’s young.” He plucked the toothpick from his mouth and made a sucking noise through his teeth that made Dylan want to slap him.

“No younger than anyone else here, and older than a few.”

“She’s queer.

Dylan dropped her head then looked back up at the man, sighing softly before speaking. “She’s gay. And that has no impact on her ability to play

basketball.”

“Don’t like queers.”

“I don’t imagine they’re real fond of you either.” Dylan mumbled.

“What?”

“I said it shouldn’t matter. Her talent is amazing and if you want me to give you a winning team, you’ll let me draft her.”

Squinting his beady, close-set eyes, Johnson made a show of examining the young woman in question.

“Make you a deal, then.”

Dylan tried not to look annoyed. “What?”

“I’ll let you draft the little Sodomite on two conditions.”

Dylan looked over to Mac, who was standing out of the line of fire. Mac shrugged. Dylan glared at him, then returned her attention to the owner. “And

they are?”

“First, you’re completely responsible for her behavior. I don’t want her caught in some queer nightclub and I sure as hell don’t want her marching in any gay pride parades.”

“And number two?”

“I want you to go out with Hunter Locke again. This team gets damn fine publicity when you two go out together.”

Dylan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Since when did I become your corporate whore, Horace?"

The toothpick rolled again. "Why, since the day you signed my contract, darlin. You want that queer little filly in your stable, you gotta put out. Got to give me what I need."