She’s almost used to being anonymous, to people looking right through her, to their gazes sliding over her face, to saying her name and knowing that they can’t hear her. It’s hard to swallow, but she’s doing it. That doesn’t mean her pride isn’t stung every time. Some days, she’d sell her soul for just one connection, just one person who can look her in the eye, recognize her face, and go, “Oh my God, you’re Katie Douglas!”

She’s so desperate for that kind of connection that she’s sitting in a sports bar in Indianapolis with a surprising number of people, watching the Sun play the Sky in Connecticut and working on her second boilermaker, just in case she hasn’t hit people upside the head with her identity enough yet. The TVs are all on mute, which gives her ample opportunity to provide her own commentary, most of it acidic and biting, especially whenever they show the tall blonde in the white #32 jersey and call her Katie Douglas. Absolutely ridiculous, and she finishes the drink hard and orders another. She might hate herself in the morning, but tonight she needs to blind herself to the hell on the screen.

Her chair rocks with a slight shove, and she pulls herself towards the table to let the person, a punk-looking chick with a Kool-Aid red fauxhawk and several tattoos on her pale skin, get to the bar. She catches the punk’s head tilting towards the nearest TV, and the disdainful snort that doesn’t seem to match the pretty mouth. She also catches the punk flirting with the bartender, telling him quietly, “Call me Katie.”

And this is really beyond the pale and she’s had a little too much, so she’s up out of her chair before she can think. Her stride isn’t all that even, but her stance is more or less upright and very aggressive as she says, almost cheerily, “Oh, what a coincidence! My name’s Katie too! Katie Douglas.”

The punk takes off her sunglasses to reveal a pierced eyebrow, a nose stud, and a surprisingly pretty face. She stares at Katie, stares at her instead of past her, through her, around her, or away from her, and says, “KT? But you’re- but her- but they- oh my God, you’re still you after all!”

A burden falls from her shoulders, a fist releases her heart, a weight comes off her chest; there’s still someone out there who hasn’t bought the hype, someone who recognizes her for who she is. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to say that?” she says, only half aware that she’s spoken out loud. The punk grins at her mischievously, and as soon as Katie sees that, she can look beyond the piercings and the weird hair. Deliberately, she looks up at the screen, where a blonde in a pale blue #21 jersey is ready to take some hard-earned free throws. "The hell. Brooke?!"

"Thank God for airport security," Brooke says, the smile gone from her face. "I got in so late they thought I was already there and I'd already been done. Stacey never was that smart."

"I've got a studio," Katie says hesitantly. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about this in public."

"If you've got an internet connection, Sacramento's hosting San Antonio tonight. Rebecca and Kara should be on top of their game for that.” Brooke snorts again. “Barbed and dipped in acid is an understatement for Rebecca’s reactions to that team.”

“And we have so much to catch up on,” Katie replies, her eyes roving, taking in all of the changes, all of the half-familiar markings that leave Brooke only half-familiar to her. And she wonders how willing Brooke is to tell all of her stories. Katie knows she’s left a lot unsaid and will always leave it unsaid; is Brooke the same way?

Brooke grins at her, and that’s the best answer she’s going to get.