By Tom Clancy, Diane Duane, Steve R. Pieczenik
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Despite the best efforts of all the players of the other teams, it somehow managed to squirt straight through them, though their arms and legs flailed out in an attempt to stop it. There was a roar of satisfaction from parts of the crowd, and much waving of yellow objects, some of them resembling giant inflatable bananas. Still using the impetus from his push, the player who had made the throwback went after it as his teammates also used the curve of the nearby walls to launch themselves in various directions, but not, Catie noticed, at the ball.
Catie turned on the cold water in the sink and let it run for a while, looking around her and wondering how they would all cope when the renovations finally started and left them with no back to the house for a couple of weeks (an image which her mother had been repeatedly invoking in an attempt to get the project put off for a few more months). She got a tumbler down out of the cabinet and filled it, and drank thirstily. Even though Catie hadn’t actually been playing, the mind was still able to fool the body into feeling thirsty sometimes…and this was one of those times.
Because if word ever gets out…” He smiled. “Scandal. Bad publicity. ” “Of course. ” The first man nodded slowly. “All right. We can try it your way first. ” “Get on it, then. Do what you have to. But hurry up! This was the last of the preliminary bouts. The serious betting always starts at the eighth-final level. It’s started already. ” Heming looked thoughtful for a moment. “Obviously we won’t get results until the first eighth-final game,” he said. “That’s Monday,” Darjan said. “South Florida versus Chicago versus Toronto, if I remember correctly.