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having seen her on television any number of times over the years.

Diana Caulley was the first assistant coach of the Birmingham Badgers. Standing five feet, eleven inches tall, she was fit and well formed, with sandy hair

that curled around her collar and deep set, intelligent gray eyes that missed very little. A shoulder injury had ended a promising career in her rookie year,

but she’d parlayed her love of basketball and a keen intelligence into a coaching job and never looked back.

The woman standing beside her was one that Hodge didn’t recognize, but to judge by the woman’s body-builder’s stature and the chiseled, no nonsense

expression on her face, she had a feeling that a less than pleasant acquaintance would be drawn up in the not-too-distant future.

So thinking, she slowly rose from her place on the varnished court and moved to join her fellows in a rough semi-circle before the two women, waiting for

the fun to begin.

Diana’s eyes narrowed as she took in the nine women standing before her. She recognized them all, of course, having been instrumental in bringing almost

half into the sites of one Dylan Lambert and setting up this opportunity for them to show what they could do. They were veterans, cut from other teams, or

in the case of Anya Seletskaya, lured away from less than lucrative foreign contracts and into the bright lights of a new opportunity.

The rest were draft picks, fresh from college and chosen by Dylan’s own hand. Of the nine, only four would emerge to fill the vacant slots on an already

established team. It was Diana’s job to help cull the wheat from the chaff and to put forward only those worthy of their contracts. It was duty she

considered almost a sacred rite, and she was very, very good at her job.

Each pair of eyes met hers, then darted away, message received.

Satisfied, Diana smiled. “Welcome to the Badgers.”

There was a soft murmur as the women returned her greeting.

“I’m Diana Caulley, first assistant coach, and this,” she said, indicating the 5’9″ mass of muscle to her left, “is TJ Barnes, strength and conditioning coach.

For the next three weeks, we are all going to get to know one another very well indeed.” Her smile broadened, thin lips curling into more than the hint of a

smirk. “And in order for us to do that with as much ease as possible, here are a few, non-negotiable, ground-rules.”

One hand uncurled from her hip, long fingers splaying to tick off the pertinent points. “First…this is called ‘rookie camp’ for a reason. I don’t care if you’ve

been playing in the league for years or if the ink’s still wet on your sheepskin. You’re all rookies here, and you’ll be treated that way until I say differently.

Is that understood?”

More quiet murmuring.

“Good. It’s best to get that out of the way first. There aren’t any prima donnas here. First round draft pick,” and this was said with a long, hard, significant

look in Hodge’s direction, “or walk on, everyone is at the bottom rung of the ladder until they prove otherwise. Leave your egos at the door, ladies.”

Good God, Hodge thought, this woman is a walking cliché.

Gray eyes met hers again and Hodge resisted the urge to swallow hard. She knew her sentiment, at least in part, had been read and the battle lines drawn.

Great. Just what I need. The drill sergeant from Hell on my ass my first day. What is it with me and lousy first impressions anyway?

The assistant coach continued on. “From Monday through Saturday, seven am until seven pm, you all belong to me. You will eat, breathe and sleep

Badgers’ basketball. When you’re not here, you’ll be home, studying the playbook until every single punctuation mark is stored in your brains. You will not

drink, smoke, party or otherwise get yourselves into trouble or you’re out the door, contract or no. Am I making myself clear?”

Nods all around.

“Alright then. Let’s see what you ladies are made of.” The smirk fully bloomed as Diana turned and gestured to the large arena. “Four times around, if you

please, and make sure you hit every step.” A sharp blast of her whistle punctuated Caulley’s order, and the women were off and running into the stands.

Hodge might not have cared for running, but she did it well, easily pacing herself as she hit the first set of stairs and started upward. Her father had long

been a proponent of “slow and steady wins the race”, and she’d never seen the need to separate herself from his apt philosophy.

Slipping into an easy rhythm, she allowed her body to carry her along mindlessly as she concentrated on the rest of the group. Two young women, tall, thin,

and looking enough alike to be twins, were far ahead of the rest, playing rabbit. They’d tire soon enough, Hodge predicted, confident in her own abilities.

The rest of the small group strung along in a line, one behind the other, each slipping into her own favored stride. Anya was close behind Hodge, very light

on her feet despite her stocky size.

By the end of the second lap, the rabbits were slowing and, setting her jaw, Hodge began to reel them in like fish on the line.

She led them out of the stands and onto the court, her lungs and legs burning in equal measure. On the whole, however, she was satisfied with her

performance.

Caulley, on the other hand, looked as if she’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon as she stared down at the stopwatch clutched tightly in one hand.

“Abysmal, ladies,” she stated flatly, walking over to the gasping group. “Just abysmal.” Several blank faces staring back at her caused the pinched look to

deepen. “That means ‘bad’, Coles.”

Coles, a rangy forward who’d been drafted in the third round, flushed and looked away.

Caulley shook her head, and turned to her conditioning coach, speaking in a loud stage whisper. “Remind me to steer my nieces away from UC Berkley.”

Coles’ flush deepened, now tinged with anger as well as embarrassment.

Caulley smirked. “Don’t sweat it, pumpkin. I’m sure those underwater basket weaving classes taxed you to your limit, hmm?”

Coles’ mouth opened, then closed, and her throat worked as she swallowed her words.

Caulley smiled. “So, you have some brains up there after all. Good.” She gave each member of the group a pointed look, stopwatch dangling loosely by its

strap. “I should make you run the arena again until you take at least twenty seconds off this crappy time, but I’m in a good mood today.”

Nine sets of shoulders sagged in relief.

“So we’ll do windsprints instead.”

Nine groans echoed through the empty building.

Caulley smirked again. “Two lines, ladies. Get ready to go on my whistle. Ready? Go.”

Hodge groaned with pleasure as she slid down in the tub until her chin touched the swirling water. Though she would have rather had her eyes plucked out

with rusty spoons than admit it aloud, her body ached from the day’s labors. Caulley and her partner-of-few-words were true taskmasters, though she had

to admit they were very good at their jobs. In one day of practice, she’d come close to learning more than during the four years she’d spend at UCONN.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Cat,” she muttered to herself as one slightly wet hand reached out to grab the thick playbook resting on the tiled floor.

She’d already leafed through the book half a dozen times, looking at the plays and their attendant diagrams with interest. What she saw both surprised and

pleased her.

“Dylan drew up these plays, you dolt,” she chastised herself. “That alone should tell you they’d be anything but run-of-the-mill.”