As her flight begins the long circling approach to Reagan National, giving her gorgeous views of various memorials, Candace considers the city that lies below. For the second year in a row, the team with the worst odds has thumbed its nose at probability and claimed the first overall pick- but Washington has Tamara James, not Cappie Pondexter; Monique Currie, not Penny Taylor. It might be easier to keep a core together here- if they can even build one.

Something about this town makes her nervous, though she'll never admit it. The Mystics have a history of losing. Candace doesn't do that. More than that, this team has a history of taking, making, and breaking the legends of Tennessee. She's not Nikki and she's not Mique, but if Pat couldn't help this team get its act together, what chance does she have?

If she thinks about it that way, though, it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, so she doesn't think about it that way. Candace isn't big on doubts. They get in the way. She can't be having with that. Enough people try to throw enough shit her way that she's not going to add to the pile herself. Sure, it makes a better story, but she's a big enough story as it is without adding any more fuel to a fire that's already out of control. Everyone's got this idea about her that she wants to be bigger than she already is, and they just don't get that she'll be as big as she needs to be and no more.

She's been around the players, though, and not just the ones on the court in the baggy shorts and jerseys. She knows more about power and leverage than most people twice her age: what it is, how to get it, how to use it, when to use it, who to use it on. She had it last year, and if she hadn't heard from… people in the know… that Phoenix was going to deal the pick, she might be preparing for another ring ceremony. She had it this year, and she thought long and hard about going to Washington; but she'll have time for her Master's later, if she even needs it, and there's too much uncertainty in this season for her to play the lottery game one more time; besides, she's bored with college ball, bored with beating up on people who can't compete, bored with seeing her closest competition move on to the big leagues.

In Washington, she has new levers to pull. The power dynamic is different. She doesn't understand it yet, but she will. She's no fool. The nation's capital thrums with power and politicking; it seems that everyone has an agenda and a connection. Candace is almost as good at this game as she is at the one on the court, even if it isn't as much fun. She understands the power of words and images to get into people's minds and make decisions for them, so Sheila doesn't even have to ask her to talk to DeLisha. She has to do it twice, once with DeLisha's overprotective husband hovering around and talking up a game that DeLisha couldn't have matched in her best days, and then again with DeLisha alone, where they can be more reasonable. Sheila's a billionaire; the cost of mothballing whatever of DeLisha's old jerseys didn't sell is nothing to her, not compared to what she'll make once the Parker #3s hit the shelves.

There are other adjustments to make, too. Candace has a lot of pull in the front office, but she's not top dog here. She's tough and she's smart and she's the Next Big Thing, but Alana's the alpha in this group, and she lets no one forget it. Candace didn't see a lot of Alana when Alana was at Duke, but she always got the impression that Alana was the sweet one, the polar opposite of Diana. That was the premise the whole "rivalry" was built on: two things, one so completely unlike the other that they had the same effect, kind of like UConn and Tennessee. But this Alana is different. She seems harder, angrier; maybe this is what Washington does to lonely superstars, and Candace is relieved for Alana and worried for herself, because she knows what Washington does to superstar tandems.

More than that, Alana carries herself like she knows she's the top dog and she's going to take advantage of it at every opportunity. Something in the way she holds her head, in the set of her shoulders, the calculating distance of her gaze, makes it perfectly clear that she's in charge of this team and its players. Probably helps her cause that Monique follows her around like a shadow, doing her best impression of a mean old guard dog, even if some of the girls think there's maybe another reason why Monique follows her around so devotedly. Not that Candace engages in the guessing. It's none of her business unless it starts to affect things on the court, in which case that might start off the whole cycle again, and the whole point of Candace deciding to come out this year was to break that cycle.

Alana doesn't ignore her- that would be stupid, and Duke women aren't stupid. She just makes it as clear as possible that she has no real interest in dealing with Candace, and Candace respects that. No need to start anything, at least not until she knows she's got the upper hand. Besides, if she gives Alana some space, maybe Alana will get that chip off her shoulder and help Candace change what it means to be a Washington Mystic.

This lasts until their first road trip and an endless array of solidly middle-class hotels that are so bland that Coco seems vibrant in them. This lasts until one bland night in a hotel room indistinguishable from any of the others. This lasts until Candace wakes up with a lump in the mattress digging into her back- which is enough of an issue, since she doesn't usually sleep on her back- and discovers that not only is she on her back, and not only is one wrist is secured to the headboard by a very inappropriate use of physiotape, but also that Alana is in bed with her. "What the hell is going on here?!" she shrieks.

Ohhh. Now that she thinks about it, it's not so much that Alana's in bed with her as it is that Alana is on top of her, draped over her like discarded warm-ups, except that warm-ups don’t squirm while doing even more inappropriate things with physiotape and hotel headboards. Somehow, Candace thinks, knowing more about this situation doesn't make it any better. She reaches out with her free hand- good thing it's her right hand, her strong hand- and grabs Alana's wrist. "Get off me! Get this tape off me! What the- what's wrong with you?"

Alana shrugs, which jabs Candace hard in the chest, as if Candace hadn't been having enough trouble breathing with Alana on top of her. "I woulda gotten you up," Alana says, because clearly playing bondage games with teammates is perfectly normal and healthy as long as you promise to wake them up at some point. Looks like Washington has already gotten into Alana's head and messed it up pretty good. Candace shivers. What will she become if she stays here? What kind of crazy will she be?

Or maybe, as aware as she is of Alana's weight against her, of the warmth of Alana's breath against her skin, of Alana's need and want and desire, maybe she's already started going crazy. Maybe her learning curve is quicker than everyone else's in everything, not just basketball. That's got to be the reason. That's got to be the way her head is working. That's why she can't breathe: Alana is on top of her, suffocating her. That's why she's having so much trouble thinking: this situation is completely fucked up. That's why her stomach is curling in on itself, fluttering like a swarm of butterflies has taken up residence there: she's scared for her sanity and Alana's sanity and scared because she has no idea what the hell is going on here. That's why she's sweating, why she feels uncomfortable wetness when she tries to move her leg: she's caught a case of nerves, anxiety for what Alana might do next. That's why her mouth is open: she's about ready to give Alana a piece of her mind, just as soon as she can figure out what she wants to say to her teammate. That's why her eyes are closed: she doesn't want to see this, because if she opens her eyes again and sees it again, that means it's real and not just some really weird nightmare that pizza too late at night tends to bring.

She doesn't let go of Alana's wrist, grips it tighter than a loose ball in a tie game, and Alana's not fighting it the way she was just a minute ago, which doesn't make sense. So Candace opens her eyes, even if she thinks it might be a bad idea, and looks directly at Alana, hard and intense. Alana's lips are parted and she's breathing short and fast, watching Candace. Her gaze doesn't move. Just for a moment, her face betrays her need, and then she closes up again, jutting her chin out defiantly, but she's revealed enough.

So this is how they decide dominance on this team. It's certainly different. And she won't admit it, but it's even kind of exciting, the drumming of her heartbeat echoed by Alana's pounding heart, the desire- yes, she'll admit to that, for all that it's not something she usually feels about her teammates- that twists inside her and shows clear on Alana's face, the heat that spreads through her, spread only partially by Alana's fever-hot skin bare against hers. If that's how they play the game in Washington, then Candace will have to play along, at least until she can change it. She tells herself that it's not so different from the game on the court, this bumping of bodies, fighting for position, striving for advantage, defending one's space, denying the entry pass. And she's a post player, a pure forward, while Alana's just a guard- a stubborn guard, a tough guard, a guard with a strong build and hard muscle under her soft skin, but a guard nonetheless. And everyone knows the SEC is a tougher, meaner, harder conference than the ACC, for all that the ACC beats itself up more than the SEC does.

She strains, breath hissing out between her teeth, and frees her other hand from the tape that holds it against the headboard. She still hasn't let go of Alana's wrist, but now her thumb is moving along the vein there, where the skin is thin over blood and bone, and she smiles lazily when she feels Alana's pulse speed up. It's enough that she can take Alana by surprise and use her off hand as enough of a support to shift her weight, throwing Alana to the side of the double bed even as she finally releases her grip on Alana's wrist. Now they're equals, face to face, watching each other, and maybe if this were anywhere but Washington, that would be enough.

But the struggle continues, and Alana's ignited the competitive fire that drives Candace day in and day out. Big mistake on Alana's part. Big miscalculation. Candace wouldn't be a Lady Vol with a ring on her finger if she weren't driven to be the best, the most, the top. Before Alana can react to try and get back, Candace has her pinned to the mattress, keeping her in place with hips and hands. Candace can only imagine what's going through Alana's head right now, but Candace has a very good imagination. Alana must be confused that her little plan didn't work, and a little scared now that she's on the bottom, and if Candace has anything to say about it, aroused and getting even more so. Candace's hands are wandering, never staying in one place for very long, lingering just long enough to draw a reaction from Alana and trying something new as soon as Alana starts gasping for more.

For all that Alana's doing this whole tough and butch thing, she still moisturizes regularly, because her skin is smooth and soft under Candace's fingertips, almost velvety in places. She's ticklish along her sides, or so Candace guesses from the half-smile that crosses Alana's face for a moment. The shoulder is still sensitive, too, but Candace understands all about injuries that linger; when Alana winces, so does Candace, and she finds ways to make up for it, to make Alana forget the shoulder. She leans in closer, her mouth against Alana's neck, tickling Alana's ear with her breath, listening as Alana sighs, almost moans. She can almost taste the sweat beading up on Alana's skin. Almost. She moves her hands down, running them over Alana's breasts, and Alana makes louder, more interesting noises.

There's a scent in the air that Candace can't put her finger on, something that she's smelled before but never so strong, never so powerful that it threatens to take over her mind and make her do things she'd never dreamed of doing before. Alana twists under her, hips bucking, fingernails digging into Candace's back, begging with and without words for what she needs. Candace reaches up and pulls Alana's hands off her back and slides down the bed, towards the space created by Alana's open and waiting legs.

And she keeps sliding, working her way off the bed by the foot, dusting herself off and straightening herself out, cool as a cucumber. "Night, 'Lana," she says cheerily. "Sleep tight." With that she curls up in the empty bed, blankets pulled up almost to her chin, and lets the sound of Alana's swearing, moaning, cursing, and heavy breathing lull her to sleep.

This is a game she could get used to.