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exercise in exquisite pain. She’d even caught herself flinching when one of her teammates had rifled a pass to her. Thank God Dylan hadn’t come out on

the court yet. Cat knew she’d have been benched before the first whistle blew.

She met with yet another obstacle as she took her place on the court. Her old nemesis, Keisha Brown, drafted an ignoble fifth and starting for the LA

Quake, took up a position beside her, sneering as she gave Cat a slow, head to toe glance. “So, butchie, what happened? Your girlfriend didn’t like the way

you fucked her last night?”

Brown’s words caused a surge of anger to rise up in Cat, a surge she was hard-pressed to push down. She wanted to lash out, to hurt someone as she had

been hurt, to make the pain go away by forcing it upon someone else. And Brown was there, in her face, all but asking for it, bringing back the memories of

the night before with crystal clarity.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped inside her, she felt the anger recede behind a wall as cold and hard as the winter’s ground. Some of that coldness

must have reached her eyes, because Brown took a half step backward, uncertainly flashing briefly across her features.

The whistle blew, and it was time to get down to business.

Cat played like a machine, as if the seeds of her talent had burst into full bloom all at once. The basket seemed to her the size of a swimming pool; her

teammates, ten feet tall. She made passes without looking and shots without aiming, hitting the mark time and time again. It looked effortless, and to Cat,

it was.

Her teammates, and even the opposition, watched with awe as she blazed through the court like a comet. Brown couldn’t touch her. No one could. She

was, as they say, “in the zone”, and nothing, short of a natural disaster, could get her out of it.

It never came. The Badgers won by 19 points, and Cat finished the game with a career high 28 points and 17 assists. She was carried from the court on the

shoulders of her teammates as they jostled and fought for the right to bear her up.

When they arrived in the locker-room, the women set Cat gently down and continued their celebration with handslaps and loud cheers. Though in the

center of the melee, Cat felt strangely detached, almost as if she were watching what was going on from somewhere outside of herself.

The feeling worried her, but was quickly swept away under the tide of enthusiastic congratulations directed her way.

Dylan pushed her way through the celebrants, accepting congratulations of her own for the game plan she’d put into place. She wasn’t ashamed to admit

that it had felt damn good to trounce her old nemesis like that. Said trouncing was a long time in coming, and it tasted sweet.

As she made her way to the center of the crowd, she laid a gentle hand on Cat’s sweat-soaked shoulder, smiling when the younger woman spun to face

her. “Good game,” she said softly, knowing Cat could hear her.

“Thanks, Coach. Thanks for believing in me and letting me do this.”

“No problem.”

Dylan was about to turn away, but something stopped her. Something about the look in Cat’s vibrant eyes. It was a look she hadn’t seen from the young

woman before, and had doubted she ever would. There seemed to be some sort of hard, savage joy there mixing with the honest pleasure of a job well

done. It gave Dylan pause.

“Are you alright?” she asked, tone still soft.

Cat blinked, then smiled. “Sure. I feel great!”

Still, Dylan paused, unsure of what she thought she’d seen was a figment of her imagination or actually there. She wanted to say something, but wasn’t

sure what. It left her uncharacteristically tongue tied.

As if sensing Dylan’s discomfiture, Cat broadened her grin and laid a hand atop the one on her shoulder. “I promise, Coach. I’m fine. I can’t even feel my

bruises and I think I’ll be riding high for the rest of the night. Some game, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, giving a half-hearted smile. “Some game.”

The moment was interrupted by Mac entering in to congratulate them both, and by the time Dylan knew what was happening, Cat had been swept away to

the showers and she was on her way to meet Johnson for what she was sure would be falsely offered praise. Her gut twisted with worry for a brief

moment, then she let it go as she allowed Mac to lead her to the skybox suite where Johnson was waiting.

The next several days went quickly and quietly, though not without note. Cat’s injuries had begun to heal, and she seemed none the worse for wear. She

followed instruction precisely as ever and was sharp as the edge of a razor in practice. If anything, at least outwardly, the assault that had tested Cat’s

resolve had left her stronger than ever before.

Still, Dylan was concerned, and watched her with a hawk’s eye. It was nothing she could point to and say “There! This is what’s wrong!” It was more of a

feeling; a nebulous thing that told Dylan that things weren’t exactly as they seemed. Every time she asked Catherine how things were going she was put

off—nicely, but put off nonetheless—with a smiling, polite “Everything’s great, Coach! Couldn’t be better!”

The look in those green eyes was sincerity itself.

Why, then, did she know, deep in her gut, that Cat was lying?

She spent her days frustrated, caught between the rock of wanting to know if everything was okay with her star player, and the hard place of not wishing to

intrude upon Cat’s private life. Divining emotions from subtle hints was never her strong suit, and her frustration left her snappish and tense. She’d all but

bitten Mac’s head off when he’d had the temerity of asking her to go with him for some lunch, scaring the big man out of a few years of life. He’d left her

alone to stew then, taking great pains to keep from darkening her doorstep any more than he had to.

Luckily for Dylan, her dealings with Johnson and the advertisers had come off much better than expected. A large group of lesbians, gay men, and open

minded individuals had heard about the threatened pull-out and had made it clear that they would boycott the boycotters, thereby proving once again that

in the business world, capitalism won out over bigoted morality every time.

With that piece of desiccated meat swept clean from her overfull plate, Dylan was left once again to ponder.

By the end of the second week, Dylan had had enough. The worry in her gut wouldn’t go away no matter how she tried to subdue it. She knew her mood

would remain miserable until she was finally able to put away any doubts she harbored over Catherine’s emotional state. And those doubts could only be

put away by talking to the young woman herself.

Privately.

Her mind made up, she waited until after practice on Friday evening, staying away until she was reasonably sure the rest of the team and coaches had left

for the day before slowly walking toward the arena proper, running over opening gambits in her head.

She was surprised when entering the arena to find the lights already dimmed. The place was empty save for the ready-to-retire janitor who was pushing his

broom along the side of the court nearest the benches.

“Lo, Miss Dylan,” he said politely, doffing the baseball cap that covered his cotton-wool head.

“Hello, Jerome,” Dylan replied, distracted. She looked down at her watch, then back at the court, blinking dumbly. Even if Catherine had started the minute

practice ended and hit all of her freethrows in a row on the first try, she still should have been in the arena.

But she wasn’t.