Tina intended to stick to her guns. Even after she was treated to a nice hot bath and a new set of clothes when the flower petal infused spa-level relaxation was done and even with her devil’s advocate still making her wonder what it must feel like to throw balls of fire at her opponents rather than balls of rubber and leather.

When she was called to dinner with Devon, she kept her mind on the time and place she needed to be returned to, but it was getting harder. The little devil on her shoulder, so much like in those cartoons she watched as a kid on the oldies channel was pretty persuasive. She usually was, although her devil's realm had used to be restricted to only boyfriends.

Finally, after a good hour of sampling the food, which she had to admit was quite a tasty example of Greek cuisine – the lamb kebabs were mouthwatering – Tina had enough of Devon’s questions, including what she thought about her chosen sport and if she did think she was championship materials was all about and posed a question of her own.

“Look, Devon,” she started. “If you can afford all this, apartments in this palace, all of this food, pouched so coin, then why can’t you just buy the hammer if you want it so bad. Why did you need to hunt through all of space and time to find someone good at throwing things at people?”

He looked at her while he chewed on a fig, at least she hoped it was a fig. The pile also looked distinctly like a pile of shriveled cockroaches, which was the only plate on the table between them that she hadn’t dared take a sample from.

He finished and took a drink of wine from the goblet an ever-present young slave boy was there to fill after just about every single sip. That was his eighth and he didn’t even seem buzzed.

Was there anything she could do about his predicament? What she recognized between them was sympathy. Neither of them could be where they were of their own accord.

“It’s not simply a tool to make pieces of furniture or something to drive nails into boards as you imagine,” he told her, tone deadly serious. “The hammer I seek is an object of power. Such items can never be bought and sold like common hardware. They need to be fought for, they need to be won.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Tina raised her eyebrows at him, brushing away another slave’s attempts to refill her own goblet. Getting drunk tonight on this rather potent stuff was not a good idea, as it made her little voice all the more persuasive.

“Seriously?” Tina wanted to know, maybe already feeling a bit of a buzz. “Where do you come up with statements like that?”

“I thought that as an athlete, you’d understand what that feels like,” Devon needled “After all, couldn’t the richest players or team owners simply buy the matches if they chose? Wouldn’t that be easier than playing for a victory that’s not certain? Couldn’t you just do that back in Toronto, and then have all your wins easily, be adored for the least possible effort?”

“That’s not the same,” Tina protested. “It’s not like that at all. Sports are supposed to be hard. You don’t get to be the best if you don’t work hard, and don’t have opponents pushing themselves to the liming to push you to be the best. That’s what a game is. And besides, I’m not a professional athlete. None of us are. We play because we like to.”

“Not a professional athlete,” he repeated. “Not someone who plays for money...”

“That’s right,” she told him. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be working in an office, or supposed to be working in an office. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Of course I have,” he told her. “After all, professional athletes are in it for whatever money they can get, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Then you understand,” he said. “Some things must be won. For the pure desire of winning them, and pushing as hard as you possibly can to achieve just that.”

“Won – or get killed trying?” she wanted to know.

“No one in Toronto was fast enough to hit you with a regulation dodgeball,” her voice whispered in her ear. “Those fireballs, they are knuckleballs, floaters. You know how to spin a floater.

Yes, yes she did. She was the best at it. Everyone said so.

“Depends,” the dwarf was saying. “You need to remember how brilliant a murderball player you are. We wouldn’t be here if you were likely to lose. The hammer wants you to win it from that fat wannabe Roman.”

Tina let out a laugh, took a few moments to recover.

“Does it now?” she finally replied. “It sounds pretty confident.”

The dwarf nodded in response.

“It is. It’s Lola, the hammer of power,” he told her. “And what Lola wants, Lola gets. It’s been the way of things since she was forged.

Tina started giggling, again having trouble stopping. That had to be some kind of a joke. Wasn’t that line from some kind of musical comedy?

“You’re hammer’s a she? And her name is Lola?” she chuckled.

“Why not?” Devon replied with complete seriousness.