With her feet spread wide and her lucky clipboard clutched tight to her chest, Coach Kate Snyder tipped her head back and gazed at the scoreboard suspended over center court. She didn’t need to check the display to know they were up a mere three points in these final seconds, but superstition kept her chin up and her eyes locked on the garish display.
She never watched the last play of the game.
The LED display exhorted the crowd to “MAKE SOME NOISE.” The timer switched over from minutes and seconds to seconds split down to hundredths. Her heart beat as hard as the sneakers pounding hardwood.
Without looking, she knew the opposing team’s point guard was driving the ball down court with little impediment. Kate’s players wouldn’t risk a foul at this point. The Wolcott University Women Warriors played smart. They weren’t about to give up any free shots. She’d made it clear she’d prefer to play it out in overtime rather than witness her Warriors exhibiting any self-defeating behavior.
Guard the perimeter. Make them shoot for the tie. Keep it out of the hot hands of the other team’s lethal power forward. These were the key points she’d driven home in their final time-out. Now, she had to trust her team to execute. The increase in noise level told her their defensive strategy was working.
A collective gasp signaled the Huskies had finally succeeded in getting the ball to their shooter. The roar of blood in her ears muffled the mixture of cheers and groans. Two and three-tenths seconds left on the clock.
Then, a sharp slap shattered the preternatural calm. Cheers erupted into unchecked screams. Kate heard the lazy thump-thump-thump of a loose ball and tuned in just in time to see the basketball bounce to a roll, heading for the other end of the court.
The buzzer sounded and the bench emptied.
Staring up at the screen, hoping for a replay, Kate allowed herself to be carried along on a swell of people. Assistants and trainers pummeled her shoulders and back. Three of her senior starters enveloped her in sweaty, tearful hugs. Reporters tried to muscle their way into the throng, but her Warrior Women formed a wall around her.
A stepladder was set up under the home team’s basket. They moved toward it in a clump of jubilation. Someone plunked a hat atop her head. One persistent reporter snaked a microphone through the mass of bodies, but the question was lost in the shuffle. Kate kicked her pumps off at the foot of the ladder and started to climb. One step, two. She’d been able to touch the cool, smooth iron of an orange-painted rim since she was fifteen, but the sensation never grew old. Perching a hip on the highest step, she reached for the gleaming gold-plated scissors her boss, Wolcott University Athletic Director Mike Samlin, passed up to her.
Security tried in vain to herd the players toward center court, but it was no use. They weren’t moving until the net came down. Reporters continued to thrust their microphones in her direction, though how they’d isolate her answers in the cacophony of celebration, she’d never know. Still, she answered one inane question for each loop of nylon she cut through.
Snip. How big a role did strategy play in their victory?
She bit back the first sarcastic answer that sprang to mind. Her friend and university public relations guru, Millie Jensen, would be so proud. “Like flattery, strategy will get you everywhere,” she called down to the milling crowd. “You can’t win if you don’t know how you’re going to play.”
Snip. “Yes, I am incredibly proud of these young women.”
Snip, snip. “God yes, I’ll miss these seniors. We’ve been through a lot of battles together.”
Already impatient to move on to the trophy ceremony, she started hacking at the loops on the far side of the hoop. Snip, snip, snip.
“Of course we expected a fight out of the Huskies,” she answered, trying to hide her irritation with a wide smile. “This is the championship game. We wanted a fight.”
She pretended not to hear the garbled questions coming at her as she worked her way around the rim. There’d be a press conference immediately following the presentation of the trophy. They could wait until then to pepper her.
Mike Samlin beamed at her from his spot at the foot of the ladder. As he should. They’d done it. The Wolcott Warriors were the NCAA Women’s Basketball champions again. Their boosters would be ecstatic. Alumni donations would roll in fast and furious. At least, for a little while. They’d gain a smidge more respect in the conference and leverage within the NCAA as a whole.
Millie gave her a squinty-eyed glare, but Kate knew her old friend well enough to be certain she was doing mental backflips behind that mask of imperturbability. The other member of their unholy triumvirate, Professor Avery Preston, was most likely scamming leftover nachos from one of the snack bars. Athletics weren’t her thing, but Avery was a good friend. She accepted her ticket to the game with only a few grumbling words about the possibility of bleacher butt.
Kate skimmed over the crowd of reporters, looking for one familiar face, but came up empty. Tamping down a sharp pang of disappointment, she sliced through the final strands, then waved the net high over her head.
Mike took the severed net from her as he handed her down from the ladder. Kate wriggled her feet into her pumps, then started toward the hastily stretched-out red carpet at the center of the arena to accept her prize.
There’d be no denying her legacy now. Kate Snyder was the winningest coach in the history of Wolcott athletics. Period. No need to add any pesky sport or gender qualification to the accolade.
Anxious to score good positions, the reporters scurried off to the press room while the NCAA commissioner took his spot next to the table holding the trophy. Her players slipped championship T-shirts over their heads and snapped selfies. Unlike the endless hoopla surrounding the men’s tournament, this celebration was already winding down. Only a few die-hard fans would stick around for the presentation.
“You ready, Coach?” Director Samlin asked, taking his place beside her.
Kate smiled, then plucked her net from his hand. She liked Mike, but winning this tournament meant she had the balance of power firmly in her grasp. This particular battle was over, but the war wasn’t won. Yet.
“I’m more than ready, Mike,” she said as she draped the net over the corner of the trophy. “More than ready.”
* * *
“I can’t tell you how proud the entire Wolcott Warrior nation is at this moment…”
The athletic director’s words faded to background noise as Kate surveyed the crowd crammed into the too-tiny conference room. Never in all her days as a player or a coach had she seen so many media outlets assembled in one spot. Well, maybe when she played in the Olympics, but certainly not here in America.
She didn’t see Musburger or Costas in the crowd, but National Sports Network had sent their golden boy, Greg Chambers. She hadn’t seen him live and in person in years. Something was up. Something juicer than an NCAA Women’s title.
A lump of apprehension formed in her stomach. Cameras whirred and flashes blinked like strobes. She shifted on the utilitarian metal folding chair and squinted into the glare of the portable lights set up on either side of the stage. Needing something to ground her, she reached out to touch the severed net dangling off the edge of the trophy. Ironic that something that usually hung nine feet off the floor should make her feel more secure.
“…Coach Snyder’s unwavering dedication to the Warrior athletic program is an inspiration to me and everyone who has known her as a player, leader, mentor, and role model.”
Kate plastered a gracious smile back on her face and promptly zoned out as Mike launched into the usual spiel. She didn’t need to be reminded of her accomplishments. The proof of her hard work and determination sat front and center on the table.
The Wolcott University Warrior Women were the national champions, and she, Kate Snyder—Wolcott alumna, WNBA all-star, and Olympic gold medalist—was the one who’d led them there. Again.
This was her moment. The net-draped trophy was her third Division I championship as a women’s basketball head coach. A stat that placed her a half dozen wins behind the current king—Geno Auriemma, from the University of Connecticut—but next in line after her idol, the late, great Pat Summitt, in the record books.
A banner achievement. One more personal milestone. She just never imagined it would garner this much press attention. Kate drew a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves making her heart stutter-step, and tuned back into what the AD was saying.
“Kate Snyder is the personification of the title ‘Coach.’ Grace under pressure and the instincts of a born champion…”
His voice held a slightly too-enthusiastic edge. Kate shot him a curious glance. Mike was a former NFL player turned collegiate program builder. Women’s basketball probably wouldn’t have even registered on his radar if his first gig as athletic director had landed him anywhere but Wolcott. But the Warrior Women held the only bragging rights the university had reaped in decades. That meant it was time for Mr. Former Football Star to suck it up and sing the praises of women’s hoops.
“We are honored that Coach Snyder continues to call Wolcott University home…”
Ah, a shot across the bow. Her contract was up this year. He knew it, she knew it, and the handful of people in this room who actually cared about women’s basketball did too. Kate Snyder was no longer willing to be treated like the protégé she’d once been.
No more jokes about the salary differential between her and her male counterparts being her contribution to the alumni fund. If Mike thought he could bamboozle her with a charming smile and a hefty dose of sentiment, he had another think coming. She was done shooting from the outside. He’d better be prepared to pay her what she was worth or be ready to take a charge, because she was coming at him straight down the middle.
“Kate Snyder is the epitome of a warrior, and I, for one, am damn glad to have her on my team.” He turned his smooth-operator smile on her. “Coach, on behalf of the Warrior nation, I congratulate you on another fantastic season and thank you for doing us proud.”
The two of them exchanged smiles and nods. She reached out to touch the net again, and a barrage of flashes nearly blinded her. Kate hoped the cameras captured every morsel of Mike’s sincerity. Her agent was most likely recording the press conference, but Kate wanted to be sure they had a good record of the depth of his gratitude. Those things were easy to forget once contract negotiations began.
“Thank you, Director Samlin.”
Squashing the rising tide of nervousness building inside her, she scanned the crowd, looking for a friendly face to focus on while she gave her statement. She didn’t need to look any farther than the front row.
Jim Davenport from the Sentinel held his micro recorder pointed directly at her. She stifled a smirk when she noted the grim expression on his face. It seemed out of place. Jim was Wolcott’s hometown sports reporter and a die-hard basketball junkie. You’d think that would make him the friendliest face of all, but no. He frowned every bit as fiercely as he glared at the other reporters, clearly peeved by the additional media coverage. Why hadn’t he been out on the court?
A hot flash of annoyance fired in her gut. Jim ought to be happy. He was the guy with the inside track after all. He should have been the first clamoring for a quote. Pushing through her irritation, she ignored Jim’s snit and scanned the room until she landed on the familiar face of Steve Bishop from one of the Nashville news affiliates. When their gazes locked, she turned on her brightest smile and dredged up a little of the drawl she’d never quite shed.
“And thanks, y’all. My, I never imagined a turnout like this. I thought I’d just let y’all catch a couple of pictures of the new hardware and then hop on the bus.”
Her comment was met with a low rumble of chuckles. Though she’d been dealing with the press for years, it still took her some time to get her feet under her at media events. She zoomed in on Jim for a moment, allowing herself to dally in her comfort zone before making eye contact with the bigger sharks in the tank.
“I appreciate Director Samlin’s praise, and trust me, I’ll be playing that sound bite over and over on my DVR,” she added, flashing her boss a cheeky grin. “But I’m not the one who won the game, am I?”
Lifting a challenging eyebrow, she turned her attention to Greg Chambers. She hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing the National Sports Network’s lead basketball commentator since she’d been in the WNBA and he’d been hanging around the sidelines hoping for a quote. Well, she had one for him now.
“Most of y’all didn’t expect much out of us this year, and I want to thank you personally for giving these twelve phenomenal young women the kick in the long baggies they needed to get the job done. Just imagine: if we’d believed our own press, we could have been watchin’ the game from home.”
The press corps gave another appreciative chuckle, and she plowed ahead, confidence growing. “Then again, if we were watching from home, we would have had snacks.” She pressed a hand to her stomach and grinned at the assemblage. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to bring us any Ro-Tel dip? Maybe one of those six-foot sub sandwiches?”
That earned her a heartier round of laughter, but it was laced with discomfort she couldn’t quite identify.
“Of course, it’s also nice to be able to wrap this one up so close to home. The Music City has been awful good to us, but I hope that the good people of Nashville won’t be offended when I say I think we all look forward to sleeping in our own beds tonight.”
She went on to praise a few individual players for outstanding performances and heaped the usual load of “I couldn’t do it without you” on her assistant coach, but still an undercurrent of impatience hummed through the room. Reporters tapped pens and repositioned equipment. Onlookers gathered along the walls shifted their weight from foot to foot. Her words came slower, but her mind raced.
Was she missing something? Forgetting to thank someone critical to the process? Was her blouse buttoned correctly? Or maybe she was committing the kind of unwitting gaffe that would turn her into an internet GIF before the evening was out?
Watching the crowd warily, she wound down with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I guess that’s all I have to say.”
She glanced at Mike and found the athletic director sitting rigid in his seat, his eyes fixed on someone at the very back of the room. She squinted, but like ninety percent of the guys in the room, the object of Mike’s attention was dressed in the off-duty jock uniform of khakis and a knit polo shirt. He wore a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, but it didn’t bear the Wolcott Warrior logo or the logo of any media outlet. No, his hat had what looked like a coiled snake appliquéd just above the bill.
A jolt of unease fired through her belly as every reporter’s hand shot up, but she kept her smile firmly in place. Director Samlin gave his head the tiniest shake, but she wasn’t about to be waved off. They’d won. This was her night, and damn it, she could alley-oop any question the jackals threw at her. Her team had played strong and clean. She had nothing to hide.
So she went straight to the biggest jackal of them all. “Yes, Greg?” she said, giving NSN their due by nodding to Chambers first.
To her surprise, he didn’t direct his question to her but spoke to the man sitting next to her.
“Director Samlin, at five forty-three this evening, a private plane owned by Richard Donner, one of Wolcott University’s biggest boosters, touched down at Nashville International. Witnesses at the airport confirmed that the plane was carrying former Northern University football coach Danny McMillan.”
Kate’s gaze immediately flew to the mystery man at the back of the crowd, but the snake charmer was gone. Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for Mike’s reply. Turning to look at the AD, she found Mike wearing a mildly curious expression. But the man’s eyes were sharp.
He offered an apologetic but confused smile. “I’m sorry, was there a question I missed?”
“What is he doing here?” Chambers asked. “Are you thinking of hiring him to replace Coach Morton when he retires?”
“Coach Morton has not informed me of any retirement plans, so I think it would be a bit presumptuous to start looking for candidates to fill his job,” Mike answered smoothly.
“Then what is Coach McMillan doing here?”
The smile Mike turned on the reporter probably got him laid back in his playing days based on wattage alone. “Perhaps he wanted to come watch the game.”
“But you and Coach McMillan played together—”
Mike held up a hand to stop the reporter. “People, I can honestly tell you that no one employed by the Wolcott athletic department is thinking about anything but basketball tonight. This is Coach Snyder’s and her team’s night, and if you don’t have any further questions pertaining to tonight’s stellar championship victory, I’m going to thank Coach for doing us all proud once again and let her get back to the celebration she so richly deserves.”
The room exploded with shouts and calls, but Mike ignored them all as he pushed his chair back and rose. She stood too, and the moment their eyes met, she knew every word he’d just said was complete bullshit.
* * *
A week later, Kate stood inside the Warrior Center, her back to a spanking-new trophy positioned under a glowing spotlight. The damn thing had just been placed on its pedestal two days ago. There hadn’t even been time for a layer of dust to settle on it. She should have been on top of the world. Yet here she was, watching a train wreck unfold right in front of her.
She assumed her sideline stance—arms crossed over her chest, chin up, eyes wary and watchful. Her shoulders ached from the exertion of keeping her spine straight, and her fingernails bit into the thin knit of her sweater. But all the while, she was plotting. Planning. Sketching out plays in her head and wiping them away in the blink of an eye.
She was a fast-break girl. A woman unafraid to attack the goal. And somehow, this game was moving slowly and disconcertingly fast at the same time.
“A rolling stone and all that crap.”
Kate jumped and turned, grimacing as she rubbed at the knot of tension below her ear. The Wolcott men’s basketball coach, Tyrell Ransom, lounged against the corner of the massive display case. His posture was as casual as Kate’s was taut, but his dark eyes were focused on the small cluster of people gathering on the steps just beyond the athletic center’s glass doors, like hers had been moments ago.
“Rolling stone?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Gathers no moss, right?” Ty kept his eyes locked on the commotion on the front steps as he straightened. The man was long and lithe, nearly six foot eight and as graceful as a panther. Sleekly handsome to boot.
Aside from his looks and grace, Ty was talented. Not just on the court, but on the sideline as well. It might take some time, but he’d get the men’s program up to snuff. There were few men who’d made the transition from the NBA to coaching look as seamless as Ty did. Just as there were few people in the world who might recognize the restless gleam in the man’s eyes. But Kate did. The man practically shimmered with the impatience of a person who was used to winning and hadn’t been lately.
“Mike already had an ace in the hole when he took the job as AD.” He smiled as he turned to look at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Shifting his attention back to the scene beyond the doors, the smile faded. “Within just a few years, he’s managed to bring me in, and now this guy.”
His brow puckered. “You’re a no-brainer, of course. Alumna, all-star, winner of all things great and good. But me and this guy?” He wagged his head in bewilderment. “I’m thinking Mike must have had a thing for nursing broken birds when he was a kid.”
“You’re hardly a broken bird,” she retorted.
“I could have scored major endorsement deals for splints, and we all know it,” he shot back. “Funny how after that meeting with Donner, all Stan could talk about was retiring.” His eyes narrowed as if searching his memory for any clues the old football coach might have dropped. “I don’t remember him mentioning any desire to buy an RV and explore the campgrounds of the world.”
Kate’s snort faded into a chuckle as she pictured Stan Morton, Wolcott’s pudgy, pugnacious football coach, wedged behind the wheel of a luxury motor home. “No. Last I heard, he was having a hissy fit over the fact that his daughter was trying to set a wedding date for a Saturday in late September.”
Ty laughed. “That had to be intentional.”
“Of course it was.” For the first time since she’d walked out of that jam-packed conference room, Kate smiled and actually meant it. “The man named his only daughter Lombardi, for cripes’ sake. He had to know retaliation would come at some point.”
Kate stifled a sigh when Ty moved to stand beside her. At six two in her stocking feet, there weren’t many men in the world who made Kate feel small, but this one did. Ty was living proof all the good ones were taken. Most of them by women more than ten years younger and about fifty shades blonder, like Ty’s wife, Mari.
His chuckle went a long way toward dispelling some of her tension. They’d become friends since he’d come to Wolcott, but that didn’t mean the sight of his thick gold wedding band didn’t ding her battered heart. To this day, Ty had no idea that his hiring had thrown a wrench in her ex-husband’s ambitions and pounded the final nail in the coffin of Kate’s marriage.
“Not much of a turnout for a press conference,” he commented, nodding to the small knot of reporters gathered at the base of the steps. “You’d think there’d be more, what with all the scandal he stirred up a few years ago.”
About halfway down the stairs, Millie Jenkins, Wolcott University’s public relations guru and one of Kate’s closest friends, flitted around the two men positioned at dead center. The woman was in her element. Millie was born to direct, position, and basically boss people around. She was a master of spin, and this little one-act play was her brainchild.
“It’s not a press conference,” Kate murmured, not taking her eyes off the two men at the eye of the storm. Mimicking the self-proclaimed PR goddess, Kate gave a fluttery wave as if wielding a magic wand. “It’s an impromptu gathering of select members of the press.”
Ty barked a laugh. “Right. Of course it is.” He pursed his lips as he watched the small throng of reporters shift impatiently. “Frankly, I always thought the guy was kind of a scapegoat.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. Was Ty actually going to stick up for a man who’d been ridden out of Division I coaching on the proverbial rail? “He admitted to having an affair with a grad student.”
Ty waved the point off. “Not that. The recruiting violations, sanctions, and that stuff. He wasn’t doing anything everyone else wasn’t doing. He just got caught, and they needed to make an example of someone.”
Kate snorted. “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
He raised both hands. “Not defending him, just saying I’m not sure I believe everything I hear about the guy, that’s all.”
“Where there’s smoke—” she began.
“There’s usually someone like Millie fanning a match,” he concluded.
Kate laughed. How could she not? He was right. So much of their world was little more than smoke and mirrors. “Point scored.”
Grinning, he pushed off his pivot foot and nodded to the shiny new trophy. “Beautiful prize there, Coach.” He turned in the direction of his office and called over his shoulder, “Enjoy the circus. And be careful. Don’t let the clowns in tiny cars run over your feet.”
Kate pursed her lips as she watched Ty walk away, his gait thrown off by a slight limp that favored his right leg.
The minute he rounded the corner, she returned her attention to the scene unfolding beyond the tinted glass doors. Circus was right. Millie was damn good at her job, but soon it would be three rings around here—with one guy at the center of it all.
Her eyes narrowed as she homed in on the man of the hour. Danny McMillan was a fine-looking fella in his own right. Dark-haired, tall, and solid. Not beefy, like so many former football players. Of course, he’d been a quarterback in his playing days. Those guys were expected to be trimmer, more agile than the guys paid to put up a protective barrier around them. Still, he looked like a man who could take a hit and keep his feet under him.
And he had taken more than his share. She had to admire his stamina. If only grudgingly. This guy had the balls to step foot into her press room, walk onto her campus, and stand on the mica-studded steps of the athletic center her program had built as if he owned them.
He was the savior they’d all been waiting for—the man who could make Wolcott football something more than a sports radio joke.
She moved to the doors for a better look, gratified to note that the assembled members of the media looked unimpressed. Jim Davenport was there, of course, but she didn’t recognize the painfully young blond wearing NSN credentials on a lanyard around her neck.
Did Mike Samlin truly think he could hire the bad boy of collegiate athletics, at a purportedly astronomical salary, and not have that come back to haunt him at contract time?
Oh, hell no.
She was a Wolcott Warrior and a champion. These men thought they could waltz into her world and take what they wanted? Not likely.
The heels of her palms came to rest on the door’s crash bar. She watched as McMillan spoke, trying not to notice the way his eyes crinkled when he squinted against the sun or the open hopefulness in his smile. Attractive he might be, but this man was a rule breaker and a cheat. He didn’t deserve to stand on the steps of the house she built.
This was her time. Her turf. The center ring belonged to her.
And she’d be damned if she let some clown run over her to get to it.