He picks up a ball and smirks. “Sara still have you on that cutting diet?”

“Yes,” I grumble.

My agent wants me to lean out before I start interviewing with NBA teams. I’m bigger than the average center, and though it hasn’t been a problem up to this point, I don’t want there to be any question, any slightest of reservations, about drafting me. If dropping weight proves that, so be it.

“How about a little one on one, for old time’s sake?”

“Think you still got it? I just watched a girl with very little athletic ability – no offense to Blair – destroy you at PIG.”

He smirks but doesn’t answer as he moves to the top of the key and checks the ball. Wes and I played together for four years until an injury ended his college career. The boot he had to wear during recovery is newly off, but I’m not about to take it easy on him. Unlike him, I don’t throw competition in the name of love or friendship.

Wes dribbles the ball, a cocky grin on his face. I know his moves as well as my own, so I’m prepared when he pulls a crossover. If I were anyone else, he’d be putting me on skates right now, but I hang with him all the way to the basket. He’s forced to shoot around me but gets lucky with an off-balance jumper.

“Check,” I say after I’ve rebounded the ball and taken it to the three-point line. I narrow my gaze on his and give him my best intimidating smirk. “I think you got slower.”

He shakes his head. “Your smack talk won’t work on me, Z.”

“We’ll see,” is all I say before I crab dribble, backing him up with my large frame. The determination to show me he’s still got it is written all over his face. And he does, but I’m still better. He’s playing me close, chest pressed to my back to keep me from drop stepping low – my favorite move. Favorite, but not only. I go high and use my height and long arms to get a hook shot off and in.

“You’ve gotten even better,” he says as he walks the ball to the three-point line. “Either that or I really have gotten slower. How many shots are you getting in a day?”

I shrug. “Six hundred or so.”

Wes looks at me like I’m nuts, but lots of guys swear by shooting five hundred plus shots a day. Steph Curry and Kobe Bryant are just two in a long line of successful guys doing it. Next level skill and talent are earned with a lot of repetition and focus. It’s the price of success and I’ll pay it every day until I make it.

The next night at eight o’clock on the dot, I head downstairs feeling uneasy. Parties aren’t generally my thing, but it’s not that alone that has me unbuttoning my sleeves and rolling them up to get some air. Something about the plan for the night just doesn’t sit right. A surprise party? A limo? What the hell have I gotten myself into?