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have liked to represent your country in the Olympics, right?”

“Well, yes,” she replied, trying to keep it casual. “I might have mentioned something like that once or twice.”

Dylan nodded carefully. “So…it’s something that you might want to consider?”

“It might be,” she replied slowly. “If it’s something you’re willing to consider as well. I know what happened last time, Dylan. It just about ruined your

career.”

“But it didn’t. And the more I think about it, the more I think I’d like to try the whole experience again. With you.”

“Funny. That’s exactly what I was gonna say to you. Except for the ‘again’ part.”

“So, we’re in?”

“We’re in.”

And the two lovers kissed to seal the deal.

Seven months later, Cat grinned as she looked over the mantle in the house that they both shared. Inside a velvet lined, glass fronted box hung two gold

medals, their rewards for taking the USA team to the very top of the Olympic world. She grazed her fingers very close to the glass, seeing the bright and

shining memories of that heady, wonderful time in the medals hanging before her. She could almost hear the chants of “USA! USA! USA! USA!” when they’d

been called to the top of the podium to receive their just rewards. A large framed shot held the place of honor next to the medals. It was a picture of the

whole team standing atop the highest step of the podium. Dylan and Cat, in the center, were holding hands, eyes sparkling with tears of pride as they

watched the flag being hoisted to the top of the arena, mouths frozen in the singing of the National Anthem.

“God,” she whispered, “what a time.” She could feel the goosebumps prickle across her skin and a warm, tingling flush of blood moving through her. “What

a time.”

Taking her tea, she moved to sit in the butter-soft couch that lined the back wall of the den. Dylan was off getting her face plastered on Wheeties boxes

from here to Peoria. Cat herself had just returned from a relatively tame Nike shoot. All of her clothes had stayed on, at any rate. And right here, right now,

she was perfectly content. The past was unchangeable, the future not yet set in stone, and she could, for once in her life, live completely in this moment.

Unfortunately, this particular moment wasn’t exactly the most exciting of its genre, and she soon found her lids grow heavy. Listening to her body, she

placed the tea mug on the table beside the couch, and slipped more comfortably into its warm embrace. She was asleep more quickly than she ever

realized.

In his opulent office, Horace Johnson mopped the sweat from his brow with a slightly yellowed handkerchief, then looked back down at the latest offer

sheet. It was a blind offer, and it irked him no end not to know who was behind this thing. But as his daddy had been prone to say in similar circumstances,

beggars can’t be choosers, and it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The Platitude King was Johnson’s father, currently residing in the hottest pits

of Hell, if his son’s prayers had any effect on the thing.

He looked at the final numbers again, and scowled. The offer was much, much less than his asking price. He was getting scammed by a pro. A pro too

chickenshit to show his face. “Shit.”

“It’s a viable offer,” his lawyer informed him, as if he was blind to that fact. “Less than you wanted, of course, but more than anyone else has put on the

table. Of course, we could give it more time.”

Time. That blasted thing that Johnson seemed to be accumulating less and less of as the months went by. He could all but feel the combined nooses of the

IRS and the SEC tightening around his neck as every hour passed. Most of his legitimate businesses had had to be shut down to conserve rapidly

diminishing capital. What he needed, and quickly, was a chunk of cold, hard cash that he could use to buy the best lawyer in town, and let him slide an

easy judge a bribe he couldn’t refuse. Barring that, a good bit of grease would get him far away from here, perhaps to a place where there was no

extradition back to this cesspit of a country who wouldn’t rest until they saw him trying to pick up the soap in a shower-room filled with degenerates.

“Alright,” he grumbled, finally. “Alright, I’ll sign the damned thing. You’re sure the payout’s in cash, right?”

“That’s part of the deal, yes.”

“Alright, then. Let’s get this over with.” He signed page after page after page after page with his usual flourish, realizing with a sense of almost relief that

he was slowly, but surely, taking himself out from beneath that dyke bitch Lambert’s unnatural thumb. Oh yes, he would pay her back for what she’d done

to him. Pay her back in spades. And his life would once again be sweet. Heck, it might be that the new owner of the Badgers would be willing to go in on it

with him. It was a well known fact that the league owners hated queers every bit as much as he did. Some even more so. Yes, he thought, smiling, life

turns out good after all.

He pushed the stack of papers to his lawyer, his customary smirk, which had been absent lo these past several months, returned in all its force. “Now that

we got this out of the way, think the new owner will meet me now? I think we might have a few things to talk about.” His smirk broadened, then lost some

of its steam as his own lawyer supplied the same expression in return.

“Oh,” he remarked, “I have no doubt that can be arranged. Stay here for a moment and I’ll check with them to make sure everything’s acceptable. Then you

can meet, ok?”

“Perfect.”

Feeling every inch a fat, satisfied cat, Horace put his feet up on his shiny desk, pulled a cigar from his pocket, and lit it with a flourish. He eyed the bottle

of cognac sitting on an antique table nearby, and began to laugh.

Several minutes later, his lawyer stuck his head in through the door. “The new owner’s ready to meet with you now.”

“Send him in,” Horace replied expansively, round face flushed with joy. “Send him right the hell in.”

The lawyer’s head disappeared, and the heavy door slid open.

Horace choked on his cigar as the new owner of the Badgers strode into the room, briefcase stuffed with cash in one hand, an insufferable smirk on her

stunningly beautiful face. “Hello, Horace,” came the low purr.

“N—” He choked again. “No! Nooooooo!!!! It can’t—you can’t---I won’t---”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. It can, you will, and I just did. Enjoy your blood money, maggot. The Badgers are mine.”

Wide, bulging eyes turned to his lawyer, who shrugged, but didn’t look all that unhappy.

“Signed, sealed and delivered boss, just like you ordered.”

With a grin, Dylan Lambert tossed the heavily laden briefcase across the table, where it landed against the chest of the former owner of her team. “There

ya go, scumbag.”

“You can’t! I protest! I didn’t…..”

Dylan strode across the room to the other side of his desk. Placing both palms flat against it, she leaned over until their faces were mere inches apart.

“Game over, Horace. You lose.”

“Noooooooooo!”

“Mac?” Dylan tossed over her shoulder.

“Yeah, boss?” the giant man responded, stepping into the office. “Something you wanted?”

“Yeah. Get this pig outta my office before I call the cops and have him arrested for trespassing.”

Mac grinned. “With pleasure, boss. C’mon, you. You’re outta here.”

Pale and trembling, Johnson didn’t even put up a fight as Mac dragged him from his chair and across the room. “I’ll get you for this, you dyke bitch. If it