Unknown - Driven_589066

“Betting against your own team, Horace. That’s a new low, even for you. Of course, it’s not just the kind of thing that’s against league rules. It’s also

illegal.”

“What you lack, Ms. Lambert, other than good breeding and good manners, is proof. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to the game. Leave now,

or I’ll have security escort you out, and it’s you who will be spending the night in jail.”

“I wonder how many of those refs your purchased tonight will stay bought?” she mused, as if to herself.

Johnson frowned. “That is the second slanderous allegation you’ve made against me in these past ten minutes, Ms. Lambert. Because I’m a gentleman, I’ll

allow you those two free of charge, as they say. A third, and you will be escorted from here directly to the nearest police station, and that I can assure

you.”

Dylan smiled her dangerous smile. “Oh, I think I’ll chance it, Horace. Because I really don’t think you’d want me to leave before you had the chance to look

at this.”

With an easy toss, the file slipped into his hands. “Really, Ms. Lambert,” he remarked with a martyred sigh, “you’re becoming quite the bore. If I didn’t

know any better, I’d…..” There his voice trailed off as he opened the folder and began to read the documents inside. His face paled even as a string of

sweat beads popped out across his forehead.

“Horace, Horace, Horace. If you’re gonna try to make a living outta scamming Wall Street with that insider trading shit, don’t you think you should have

taken a couple lessons from Martha and covered your tracks just a little bit better?”

He looked up at her. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, and stayed that way.

Grinning, Dylan slipped into one of the obscenely opulent skybox seats and crossed her legs casually. “Now it seems to me that my best course of action

would be to call the cops right now. But, because I’m a ‘lady’, and a fair one at that, I figure now might be the perfect time for us to do a little dealing.”

A strangled sound came out of his mouth.

Dylan smirked. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” She pretended to think on her words. “You’re scum, Horace. You know it. I know it. Your wife and kids know it. But

you’re lucky, because I like your wife, and your kids. A lot. Almost as much as I detest you. And I really don’t want to see them deprived of your company-and your money—for, oh, say the next ten years or so.”

Another strangled noise. The folder slipped from his hands as one fist came up to clench at his heart.

“Not that I wouldn’t spill every single word in those documents to the DA, the press, and anyone else I felt like spilling it to, but if you give me a reason not

to, I might be persuaded to keep my mouth shut. For now.” When it was obvious he was incapable of responding, she continued. “Here’s my one time only,

never to be repeated, take it or leave it offer, Horace. You let Cat out of her contract, quickly and quietly. An amicable decision all the way around. No

whispers of improprieties, no nothing. You just…let her go. Me, you can fire if it’ll make you feel any better, but Cat is not negotiable. You also let anyone

else who wants to get off this team go, no questions asked. And…for my final demand, you sell the team. Tell the league owners it’s too hard on your

health. Tell them it takes too much time away from you banging your secretary. Tell them anything you want, but you sell and retire from the sport

permanently.” She smiled. “If you don’t, then I walk, and then I talk, and I keep on talking until there is nothing left of you but a pair of holey boxers. Do we

understand one another?”

“Urk….heart…..”

“Heart? You mean you actually have one of those? Please.”

“...heart….”

Dylan slowly stood until she was towering over him. “Do we have a deal, Horace? A simple yes or no will suffice. Yes, and I get on the horn and get you an

ambulance. No, and I get on the horn and get the cops. What’ll it be?”

“Fuck…you….dyke….”

“Bzzt! Wrong answer.” She strode easily over to the phone hanging on one wall. “I’m sorry about this, Horace. Really, I am. But if you can’t swim with the

big dogs, well….I’m sure you know how the rest of it goes.”

“Yes! Yes!! ....deal….!”

Dylan beamed. “I knew you’d see it my way eventually. For the record, though, I would have called in the paramedics either way. You’re scum, but I want

you to live with your mistakes and my threat hanging over your head for a good long while. I get nasty that way when you threaten people I love.” Picking

up the phone, she called for the paramedics and ambulance crew stationed outside the arena. Hanging up, the turned to the pale, panting man and patted

one of his cheeks before bending down and retrieving the folder. “Goodbye, Horace. A little slice of heaven, and all that.”

As she exited the box, he slid slowly down the wall, clutching his chest and retching violently. Behind him, barely heard, the buzzer sounded, ending the

game.

Cat walked, shoulders slumped, down the long, dark hallway leading to the locker room. She could hear the boos of the crowd echoing along the corridor,

but it did little to lift her spirits. Even the fact that she’d managed, somehow, to score thirty two points in the game didn’t cheer her. If she had known that

her last second three pointer had narrowed the lead to eleven, thus losing the ubiquitous Horace Johnson two hundred thousand plus dollars, she might

have smiled.

Then again, she might not have.

Cat was a woman who didn’t like to lose. And she had never, ever lost a championship game she’d ever been a part of, from the Bridgeport Girl’s Club Rec

League all the way through her final year at UConn. When it counted, she always found a way to win.

Always.

“Except today,” she mumbled, looking at the scuffed and dirty floor as it passed beneath her scuffed and dirty sneakers. “Fuck.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

As Cat looked up, Dylan detached herself from the shadows, crossed over to her, and enveloped her in her long, strong arms. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Cat snuggled into the warm embrace, tears pricking at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Dylan,” she murmured against the fabric of her lover’s warm-up jacket.

Dylan pulled away just enough to reach a hand under Cat’s chin and tilt it up so that their eyes met. “Sorry? What could you possibly be sorry for? You did

great!”

“But we lost!”

“Hon, that wasn’t your fault.”

“But—”

“Cat, listen to me. You did everything you could. How many times does the point guard, one with four fouls against her, by the way, get to be the high

scorer of the game? Thirty two points, Cat! Seven steals! Nineteen assists! Those are All-Star numbers! Hell, they’re Hall of Fame numbers! You need to be

proud of that! I sure as Hell am!”

Cat shook her head, looking away from her lover’s blazing eyes. “It doesn’t matter. We still lost.”

“No, Cat. Remember what I said before. We didn’t win because Horace fixed it. But we’re not losers. Listen to that crowd out there. They know who won.

And it wasn’t the Monarch, no matter what the scoreboard says.” She chuckled. “And it certainly wasn’t Horace Johnson, either.”

Cat’s eyes went round. “What? But how can you— But you said—”

“Yeah, he bet against us, that’s true enough. But, he also bet against the spread, and with your last second bucket, you brought us inside that spread and