Unknown - Driven_589066

her best against impossible odds.

The thing that bothered her most was the attitude of the other team; they really seemed to be getting off on what was happening. She wondered if they

were in on it too, or just stupid. It was true that they were a damn good team, and under normal circumstances the Badgers would be working hard to give

them a run for their money, but now the game was being handed to them and they seemed to be enjoying it.

She took a deep breath, as the ball was returned to play. This moment seemed to be going well. They were moving the ball down the court for a shot; the

ball came to her and made a fast pass to Dylan who was clear and ready for a beautiful three pointer.

Then it happened. As they tried to block Dylan she whirled to get around them and the whistle blew. She had felt her elbow make contact with her

opponent when she tried to make the turn, but she knew, the opponent knew and the fans knew it was accidental and would have been ‘incidental’ contact

in a normal game. But this was not a normal game.

“Son of a bi…” the look from Dylan stopped the words form Cat’s mouth as they waited for the ref to make his call. Dylan was warning her against getting

pitched out for unsportsmanlike behavior, because the coach knew damn good and well the ref’s would do it.

When the foul call came down and Dylan was sent to the bench the fans were on their feet, screaming and yelling and booing. The referees (and

coincidentally some players as well) were pelted with programs and wadded bits of paper that rained down on the court. A time out was called to get the

litter cleaned up.

Cat closed her eyes and scratched her fingers over her scalp to work out some of the frustration she was feeling. She didn’t care if it did go against her

personal code. Someone was going to die if this kept up. Striding over to the bench, she grabbed a towel and draped it over her head as she took a long hit

from the water bottle thrust into her hand.

“Well that’s it; they’ve managed to wrack them up against us…” Caulley remarked, looking down at her ever-present clipboard. It was covered with

scribbles that might as well be Egyptian hieroglyphics for all the good they were doing the team.

“It’s bullshit!” Cat growled as she toweled her neck.

“I know it is, Catherine, but we don’t have a choice. Dylan is done, so we need to do the best we can here. From this point forward, we’re playing a straight

passing game and we’re going to do our damndest to keep ourselves and the ball away from them. If we can’t get close to them, then we don’t want them

close to us.”

“They’ll just call us out for traveling.” Chaney grumbled from her position kneeling at the coach’s feet. “Look at what they’ve been doing to Shortchange.”

“There’s no easy answer here.”

“Maybe we should just forfeit.”

“No way.” Caulley stood, pointing her tablet at the guard. “You’re going to go back out there and you’re going to play this game. We’re not going to let

these people down. You can bet we’re going to challenge these calls, but we can’t do it now. All we can do it give it our best shot.”

Diana looked at each of her players and she could see that mentally, they were beaten, but she wasn’t going to let them give in. “I promise you all that this

will work out. Not today and maybe not tomorrow, but it will work out. You have to act like the professionals you are. So go back out there and do your best.

Party at Dylan’s house tonight for the best damn team in the league.”

Everyone couldn’t help but laugh as they made their plans to finish the game.

Dylan zipped her warm-up jacket as she strode down the short, dark hallway toward the Skybox that held one Horace Johnson. Standing next to the closed

door was Mac, resplendent in a dark suit and crisp white shirt, his face grim. “D….”

“Buzz off, Mac.”

“But—”

“I’m serious. You don’t want to be here right now. I’ll catch up with you later.” She reached for the door handle, only to have Mac’s huge hand clamp onto

her wrist at the last second. She looked down at the hand for a moment, then turned cold, steel-colored eyes to her friend. One eyebrow slowly rose.

Clearing his throat, Mac released her wrist, and thrust a folder into her face. “Before you do anything, just take a look at this, alright?”

After a moment, she relaxed her muscles and, with a frustrated breath, grabbed the folder. Inside were three summary sheets. She began to smile. It

wasn’t a pleasant one, by any means, but its very presence caused Mac to breathe a silent sigh of relief.

“We got the bastard,” she said finally, eyes sparkling fiercely.

“Yeah, we got him. Safely, and legally. D, listen to me, please. You don’t have to do…whatever it is that you’re going in there to do. You do something

stupid, and this could all blow up in our faces.”

“‘Stupid’ as in using his fat head to test the tensile strength of the window glass inside his skybox?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Dylan patted his chest with the folder. “No worries, my friend.”

“But—”

“I mean it. This is between Horace and me. You were never here. Now buzz off.”

“Dylan….”

“Now.”

With a grunt, he pushed himself away from the wall. “Don’t make me have to bail you out of jail, D. Not again. Please.”

“Just go.”

A last, pleading look, and he went.

Dylan twisted the door handle, opened the heavy door, and slipped silently inside. Horace was alone, standing before the huge windows of his box, staring

down onto the court. He was rocking on his toes, hands clamped behind his back. He looked, in short, like a naughty little boy whose dreams were one

second away from coming true.

“Always were a little lax with your personal security, weren’t ya, Horace?”

Johnson slowly turned. His smirk seemed a permanent fixture on his seamed, homely face. “Ms. Lambert, how wonderful to see you here, darkening my

doorstep.” He looked down at the folder in her hand. “Your letter of resignation, I presume? It’s a terrible pity, though it has been fully documented that

ones of your particular…perversion…never were able to accept responsibility.”

Dylan crossed the room in a few long, silent strides. “You’ll probably want to be rethinking that…boss.”

“Really? Why?” His eyes were filled with a babe’s innocence, but the smirk never left his face. “Whatever you’re going to show me, Ms. Lambert, please do

it quickly. I’m missing the end of the game.”

“As if you didn’t know how it was gonna end already. Does the name Tony Scippone ring any kind of a bell with you, Horace?”

A muscle twitched, just briefly, near the corner of one eye. Then his brow smoothed and the smug look returned. “Can’t say as it does, Ms. Lambert. Friend

of yours? Fellow Sodomite, perhaps?”

“Las Vegas bookie, actually. Some degenerate laid down two hundred grand on the Badgers to lose by fourteen or more points.”

“Really,” he drawled, rocking on his toes again. “I’d say that that person was in for quite a handsome profit, given that the team is currently losing by….” A

quick look over his shoulder, “...twenty one.”

Dylan shrugged. “Guess you’re going to have to fire the help, then. Seems that your new admin assistant…Bambi….Barbie….Bimbo…whomever placed the

bet in her name, but used your line of credit with ol’ Tony to do it.”

The muscle twitched again, then smoothed. “Pity. She had the makings of an excellent assistant.”