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Driven

Susanne Beck and TNovan

These characters and the story surrounding them are owned by the authors and may not be reproduced without their express written consent. There are

bits of naughty language scattered here and there, as well as several tasteful, yet graphic, scenes of love between two consenting human beings of the

same gender. Those offended by any of the above are welcomed to click the little red “X” at the top of their viewscreen and shut themselves of this story

forever.

DRIVEN

Richard “Mac” MacKenzie liked to think of himself as a lucky man. And so he would tell you, if ever you were unfortunate enough to be pinned in the

corner with him at a cocktail party.

And if there had ever been a sub-species of the genus Homo Sapiens, he might even have been correct in his assessment. Born to a poor, but loving family

in the steel town of Gary, Indiana, Mac had one thing that made him stand out from the rest of the steelworkers’ sons he called friends.

The genes of a six foot six inch father ran through his veins, awaiting adolescence’s beckoning call.

Though topping out at an inch shorter than his father’s not inconsiderable height, Richard parlayed his genetic gift into a “full ride” scholarship to Indiana

University, where he took his lumps, both literal and figurative. Drafted in the later rounds by his hometown team, the Indiana Pacers, he had himself a

decent NBA career, in longevity, if nothing else. The classic story of small town boy makes good.

Where others would have been content to rest on their laurels after their playing days were over, lending their names to fast food restaurants or strings of

car dealerships, and telling their glory stories in local watering holes for an Old Milwaukee, Mac knew that sometimes lucky men made their own fortune.

So he took his years of basketball experience, combined it with his IU business degree, and jumped in on the sub-basement level of a business venture that

had the mark of three-day old road kill writ large all over it.

And that venture was known, to the few who cared, as the Women’s Basketball League, though its initials were more often translated to form such

witticisms as the “What Basketball? League” or the “Wobbling Boobs League” to mention two of the more repeatable ones.

To say what the WBL was on its last legs when Mac climbed aboard would have been a bit of an understatement. Caught between the rock of dyke drama,

the hard place of “Family Values”, and the black hole of fan ennui, the Women’s Basketball League was an elderly matron with one foot in the grave, and

the other on a banana peel.

But, as Mac was quick to tell everyone within hearing distance, lucky men jumped head first into shit heaps and came up smelling like roses.

Mac’s particular shit heap bore the title “General Manager of the WBL Louisiana Lightning. ”

His rose was Pallas Dylan Lambert. Also known as “the Goddess”, a play on both her name and on her skills.

A basketball phenom since her elementary school days, Dylan graduated from UCLA holding over one hundred school records, as well as national