Tamika had long since become comfortable with the fact that she would never be a traditionally good-looking woman. That wasn't her lot in life, and it wasn't the role she would have been comfortable playing anyway. She knew that most people thought she was as gay as they came, and it amused her that while she wasn't, their precious St. Louis Shooter was.

The late afternoon game had ended, Houston going down in flames early and never recovering. The locker room was utterly deserted. Even the cleaning staff had gone home for the day. She was completely alone. The only light in the room came from the lamp she had set into her locker. Off came her filthy shorts, off came the sodden jersey and under-jersey, off came the sweat-drenched socks and the equally disgusting sports bra, until the cool air caressed her damp skin. She showered quickly to get the grime off her skin, and toweled off in record time. Her street clothes were neatly laido ut in her locker. A subtly padded bra edged in pale pink lace replaced the weary white sports bra. Silk stockings rolled up her legs without even the whisper that would have come with a snag. She struggled with the clasp of her knee-length blue skirt, carefully aligning the seams along the sides of her legs. A royal blue low-cut top, the color of the Saints road jerseys, soon followed, its sheen givng away its synthetic nature. She pulled her cornrows into a neat, tamed ponytail, then put on rhinestone earrings, again in team colors. The next-to-last accessory was a scarf of the same blue as the skirt, and the last accessory a black beret-style hat. She sat down in order to put on black pumps. With a careful stride, she walked over to the mirror to gauge her appearance. She looked good- damn good, if she said so herself. Her handbag, black leather with a myriad of pockets, went over the top, and she was ready to go.

This was a side of her that not even Cassie, her best friend on the team, or the all-seeing Chris ever got to meet. Even those people who knew her as more than the straight-off-the-streets enforcer who couldn't get through a sentence without cursing didn't know that she had such a girly side. She liked it that way; after all, a woman had to have some secrets in her life.

No one was waiting by the players' entrance except one elderly photographer who didn't even blink when she passed him. Her heels clapped out a rhythm against the pavement as she made her way into the parking lot. A tall black man was leaning on the hood of her sleek blue hybrid. "Hey, baby," he purred. As she approached the car, he said, "Hell of an anniversary present, sugar."

"It was easier than shopping," Tamika replied, kissing her husband. "You got that nice girl Shawntice as a sitter for Aisha, right?"

"No."

"Maurice..."

"Shawntice is the crack-addicted ho. You're thinking of her sister Ravynna, the honors student, and yes, Ravynna is sitting for Aisha."

"You scared me. I thought we were going to have her showing up in the damn backseat every time you kissed me."

"Not a problem," Maurice assured her. "I got us reservations at a very nice new French restaurant."

"Oh, thank you." Tamika sighed. She had loved the year she had spent in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne. She looked forward to the offseason, when she would return to her team in the French league; she'd actually been thinking about applying for French citizenship so that travel would be less of a hassle- of course, that might come with the bonus of being able to play for the national team, but that was immaterial.

"I don't know if it's Parisian cuisine. It might be more southern," Maurice warned.

"So long as it isn't American southern, I'll be fine."

Maurice laughed. "Deep-fried escargot, anyone? Just to let you know, I'm driving tonight. You have to spend the ride looking at your presents."

"Multiple? Oooh, I'm very impressed." Tamika climbed into the front passenger seat, while Maurice got behind the wheel.

"First one's in the glove compartment," he told her. She opened the glove compartment. 'For mah shorty off da streetz, from yo' Mo', the card read. The package contained a diamond-encrusted cross, fortunately without the suffering Christ.

"Oh, wow. I think I could use this to pretend to smuggle my weed onto the team plane. You could fit a couple of joints in here. Mo, you didn't have to do this."

"Under the seat, okay?"

She looked under her seat. A larger, flat package eventually met her questing hand. "For my incredible and unique wife, from your Maurice," this card read. She tore the paper off.

"'The Prophet'? I've heard great things about this- very thought-provoking. I've been dying to read it, thank you so much!" She threw her arms around him- fortunately, they were at a red light. She had the common sense to let go when they had to move again.

"I want to give you the last piece at the restaurant," he said suddenly. "It seems more appropriate that way."

"All right. How much longer?"

"Not much."

"Good. I'm starving!"

They pulled up in front of the restaurant, fortunate to find parking just down the block. He offered his arm, and she took it with a smile. Together, they entered the restaurant. The maitre'd, who would have looked down his nose at her if she had come in wearing her usual street clothes with her tattoos showing, was exquisitely polite as he seated the couple. Maurice reached into his pocket. "And this is for my lovely, elegant, incredibly talented and versatile wife." He handed her a wrapped box.

"Small boxes are always promising," Tamika laughed, opening it. "Oh, Maurice, it's stunning!" She held the amber and onyx bracelet to the light, watching the shine off the orange and black stones. "School colors, awww."

"I thought you'd like that. Happy anniversary, baby. I love you."

"Love you too." Tamika smiled as she leaned across the table to kiss her husband, because she couldn't help but think that almost everyone who thought they knew her would never have imagined her like this: dressed to the nines, eating at a ritzy restaurant, and in the company of her wonderful husband.