September 25th, 2018
4:00 AM
The alarm didn't beep.
It vibrated against the mahogany nightstand, a subtle hum that was enough to snap Donovan awake instantly.
There was no grogginess, no hitting the snooze button, no bargaining with the universe for five more minutes.
The season was here.
Donovan rolled out of the massive orthopedic bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood floor.
The penthouse was silent, the city of New York still enjoying its few hours of relative quiet before the chaos of the morning commute began.
He walked to the window, looking out at the skyline. The lights of the Empire State Building were white, piercing the darkness.
"Time to work," he whispered to the glass.
He didn't need coffee.
The adrenaline of Day one of Training Camp was a more potent stimulant than caffeine.
He threw on a pair of mesh shorts and a cutoff tee, laced up his beat-up practice Kobes, and headed to the home gym he had installed in the spare wing of the penthouse.
It was a sanctuary.
The floor was authentic NBA hardwood, polished to a mirror shine. The walls were soundproofed so his dribbling wouldn't wake the neighbors three floors down.
He started close. Form shooting. One hand. Swish.
He moved a step back. Swish.
The workout was methodical.
It wasn't about sweating yet; it was about calibration.
He moved around the paint, hitting floaters, bank shots, and short fades.
Then, he drifted to the midrange.
This was his office. He began the drill that he had perfected watching film of the greats.
The one-legged fadeaway.
He drove right, planted his right foot, hoisted the knee, and faded back.
The balance required was immense, a core-shredding stability that made the shot unblockable.
Swish.
He moved to the left block. Same motion. Swish.
Then, the three-point line.
He didn't just shoot; he simulated game fatigue.
He sprinted to the corner, caught a pass from the shooting machine, and fired.
Swish.
He sprinted to the wing.
Swish.
Top of the key.
Swish.
He went around the world, five spots, ten makes each.
Not a single rim graze allowed. If it touched the rim, it didn't count.
Then came the range.
Donovan stepped back to the hash mark.
The modern NBA required gravity.
He launched.
The ball possessed a high arc, dropping through the net with a satisfying snap.
He took a step back.
Another make. He kept moving, step by step, maintaining his form—elbow tucked, follow-through held high—until his heels were hovering over the half-court logo.
He wasn't heaving the ball; he was shooting it.
The power came from the legs, the accuracy from the wrist.
He sprinted after his rebounds now, his breath coming in sharp bursts, turning the shooting drill into a conditioning nightmare.
He chased the ball to the baseline, dribbled full speed to half court, pulled up, and fired.
Swish.
He ran after the ball, his own rebounder. He did this for another hour, sprinting back and forth, turning the shooting drill into a conditioning nightmare.
He had to have the stamina to chase the ball, to fight through screens, to carry the franchise on his back for 48 minutes a night.
By the time he stopped, his lungs were burning, a familiar and welcome pain.
Suddenly, a rhythmic click-click-click echoed on the hardwood.
Donovan looked down.
Waddling onto the court, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the display of athleticism, was Big Dog.
The Corgi let out a sharp bark, his tail vibrating.
"You're up early big dog?" Donovan panted, wiping his forehead with his shirt.
Big Dog barked again and started running in tight circles around Donovan's ankles.
Donovan grinned, the intensity of the workout melting away for a moment.
He started dribbling the ball again, but this time playfully.
He dribbled between his legs, tapping the ball gently. Big Dog chased it, his short legs working overtime, trying to herd the basketball like it was a sheep.
Donovan did a crossover. Big Dog bit on the fake, sliding on the polished floor.
"Ankles!" Donovan shouted, laughing. "I just broke your ankles, Big Dog! You're to heavy footed"
The dog recovered and lunged for the ball, nipping at the leather. Donovan scooped it up and held it high above his head.
Big Dog jumped, getting about three inches of air, yapping in frustration.
Donovan checked the clock on the wall. 6:00 AM.
"Alright, playtime's over," Donovan said, dropping the ball and scooping the dog up into his arms. "Time for breakfast."
He carried the dog to the kitchen, the smell of sweat and success trailing him.
He showered quickly, the cold water shocking his system back to baseline.
He dressed in comfortable sweats and went to the kitchen.
He poured a scoop of premium kibble into Big Dog's bowl.
"Eat up. Big day."
Then, he made his own fuel. The blender whirred to life.
Spinach. Kale. Banana. Protein powder. Raw eggs. A dash of turmeric for inflammation.
It turned a grotesque shade of sludge-grey.
Donovan poured it into a shaker cup and sat on the couch in the media room. He turned on the massive TV and booted up his PS4. He needed to decompress for thirty minutes before the real work began.
He loaded up NBA 2K19. He selected the Knicks. He checked the roster. His rating was a 98 overall.
"Should be a 99," he muttered, taking a swig of the grey sludge.
He played a quick game against the computer, dropping 60 points with his virtual self. It was meditative. A way to visualize dominance before he had to execute it.
By 7:00 AM, the smoothie was gone, the game was won, and his mind was clear.
He grabbed his duffel bag, gave Big Dog a final scratch behind the ears, and headed for the private elevator.
"Hold the fort down," Donovan commanded.
8:00 AM
Knicks Training Facility, Tarrytown.
The Porsche 918 Spyder pulled into the players' lot. It was the only car there.
Donovan stepped out, inhaling the crisp morning air.
The facility was state-of-the-art, a glass and steel temple to basketball.
But for years, it had been a place of losing. A place where careers went to die.
"Not anymore," Donovan said, slamming the car door.
He swiped his key card and entered. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. He walked straight to the main court.
He wasn't surprised to see someone else already there.
Mike Brown stood near the scorer's table, reviewing a stack of papers. The new Head Coach of the New York Knicks looked up, a wide grin spreading across his face.
Donovan knew exactly what he was doing when he told management to hire Brown.
They had history. Brown had been the associate head coach during Donovan's run in Golden State.
He had been the one holding the clipboard during the 16-0 playoff run in 2017 while Kerr was out with back issues.
Mike Brown understood Donovan's game—he understood that you didn't stifle a generational talent, you empowered him.
"I knew I'd see you before 8," Mike said, walking over to dap him up.
"You know how I operate, Coach," Donovan said, embracing him. "Early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese."
"You ready for this?" Mike asked, gesturing to the empty gym. "New York media is going to be a circus today. They're already camped out at the gate."
"I thrive in the circus," Donovan shrugged. "How's the rotation looking?"
"We're running the offense through you," Mike said simply. "But we need to figure out who fits around you. We gotta see if the puzzle pieces fit."
"They'll fit," Donovan said confidently. "I'll make them fit."
"Good," Mike nodded. "Because the East isn't as weak as people think. Toronto looks scary with Kawhi. Boston is healthy. Bucks got something brewing. Philly is big."
"We'll be fine," Donovan said, unlacing his street shoes and putting on his playing kicks. "Let's get to work."
The rest of the team began to trickle in around 8:45.
DeAndre Jordan walked in, loud as always, booming laughter echoing off the walls. Rondo came in silent, eyes scanning the floor like a shark.
The young guys—Knox, Robinson, Ntilikina—looked nervous, stealing glances at Donovan as if he were a mythical creature that had suddenly appeared in their habitat.
Donovan didn't smile.
He was already in game mode. He stood under the hoop, rebounding for himself, making his presence felt.
Mike Brown blew the whistle at 9:00 AM sharp.
"Bring it in!"
The team huddled at center court.
"Welcome to Day 1," Mike barked. "Forget last year. Forget the record. The standard has changed. If you can't keep up, there's the door."
They started with simple drills. Shooting lines. Defensive slides.
Donovan went through them at 100% intensity. When Dennis Smith Jr. jogged through a close-out drill, Donovan stopped the entire practice.
"Hey!" Donovan yelled, pointing at the baseline. "If you close out like that in a game, Kyrie is going to cook you! Sprint! Get your hand up!"
Smith Jr. looked shocked but nodded, sprinting back to the line.
After an hour of drills, the energy in the gym was palpable. The players were sweating, the squeak of sneakers was constant.
Mike Brown blew the whistle again. "Alright! Scrimmage time! First to 11. Threes are worth two, everything else is one. Make it take it. No free throws, check up top."
He looked at his clipboard. "Donovan, you want to pick your five?"
"Yeah," Donovan said. He looked at the roster. "I'll take Frank," Donovan pointed at the French guard, his voice cutting through the silence. He didn't look at Frank; he looked at the vets, daring them to challenge the pick. "I'll take Knox. Give me DSJ. And Mitch."
The veterans exchanged looks, a mix of amusement and mild insult.
Rajon Rondo, standing with his hands on his hips, smirked, chewing his gum with an obnoxious, rhythmic pop. "Going with the daycare center, huh?"
"Young legs eat," Donovan replied smoothly, tightening the laces on his sneakers. He stood up, stomping his heels to lock his feet in.
Team Donovan:
PG: Frank Ntilikina
SG: Dennis Smith Jr
SF: Donovan Knight
PF: Kevin Knox
C: Mitchell Robinson
Team Vets:
PG: Rajon Rondo
SG: Seth Curry
SF: Harrison Barnes
PF: Julius Randle
C: DeAndre Jordan
The two teams lined up. The tension was palpable. This wasn't just a scrimmage; it was a hierarchy check.
The coaching staff, led by Mike Brown, stepped back to the sidelines, clipboards in hand.
They weren't going to whistle the small stuff. They wanted to see who would survive.
The Scrimmage
Format: 1s and 2s (Inside the arc = 1 point, Outside the arc = 2 points). Game to 11.
Score: 0-0
Mitchell Robinson and DeAndre Jordan stepped into the center circle. Two giants. The whistle blew.
Both men leapt into the air like salmon out of water but Mitch Robinson won the tip, his superior vertical allowing him to tap it back to Frank before DJ even reached his apex.
Frank Ntilikina brought the ball up.
The moment he crossed half-court, the atmosphere shifted. Donovan saw the hesitation in Frank's eyes as Rondo pressed up on him.
Rondo wasn't playing soft; he was crowd-surfing Frank, invading his personal space, swiping at the ball.
Rondo was a shark; he smelled blood. He knew Frank didn't have the handle to navigate tight spaces yet.
"Relax, Frank!" Donovan barked, clapping his hands to snap the guard out of his panic. "Use the length. Turn your back if you have to."
Frank pivoted, turning his back to Rondo to shield the ball. It was ugly, but effective.
He looked for a pass, panic rising.
Donovan sprinted off a down-screen set by Knox on the left wing. Harrison Barnes chased, his heavy footsteps thudding, but Donovan was too fast.
He curled tight around Knox's shoulder, creating a foot of separation.
Frank floated a pass. Donovan caught the ball on the wing transitioning to a Triple threat position immediately.
Barnes slapped the floor hard with both palms. "Come on then! Show me something."
Donovan didn't waste time. He held the ball high, then ripped it low—a quick jab step right.
Barnes shifted his weight, just an inch. That was enough. Donovan executed a violent crossover to the left, the ball snapping with a loud crack against the floor. He drove into the teeth of the defense.
DeAndre Jordan stepped up, a massive wall of humanity, hands vertical. Donovan saw Mitch in the dunker's spot, lurking for a lob.
But his peripheral vision caught movement. Seth Curry, guarding DSJ in the weak-side corner, had sunk down to "tag" the roller (Mitch), terrified of the alley-oop.
That left DSJ open in the corner.
Donovan left his feet, looking like he was challenging DJ, then whipped a cross-court pass, laser-like, right past DJ's ear and into DSJ's shooting pocket.
"Shoot it!" Donovan yelled before the ball even arrived.
Bang. Dennis Smith Jr. drained the corner three. The net snapped loudly.
Score: 2-0, Team Donovan.
"Good vision!" Brown shouted from the sideline.
"That's how we move!" Donovan high-fived DSJ as they jogged back. "Be ready to shoot every time. If they help, you punish them."
The Vets took the ball. Rondo walked it up, unbothered by the deficit. He held up two fingers, then tapped his head. "Horns! Horns!"
Randle and DJ came to the elbows. The floor spacing tightened. Rondo passed to Randle at the high post. Julius faced up against Kevin Knox. Donovan grimaced.
This was the mismatch Rondo wanted. Randle was a bowling ball; Knox was a pin.
Randle jabbed, then lowered his shoulder, driving right.
He bullied Knox backward, the younger player's sneakers skidding on the varnish.
"Hold your ground, Kev!" Donovan shouted, abandoning his man to dig at the ball. He knew he had to gamble.
Randle spun back toward the middle, expecting single coverage to finish with his left hand. He didn't see Donovan coming. Donovan's hand shot in like a cobra.
He raked across the ball stripping it.
"Gimme that," Donovan muttered, grabbing the loose ball.
He ignited the break immediately. "Run! Mitch, run!"
Mitchell Robinson took off like a gazelle, his long strides eating up the court.
The Vets were jogging back, expecting a reset. Donovan crossed half-court, saw Mitch pointing to the sky, and lofted the ball.
It was a bad pass—too high, drifting toward the backboard.
It looked like a turnover.
But Mitch, with his freakish catch radius, went up to the rafters. He caught it with one hand way behind his head, cocked it back, and slammed it home. The rim shuddered violently.
Score: 3-0, Team Donovan.
"Too slow!" Donovan yelled at the vets, pointing at their retreating backs. "We're running you out of the gym! Get your wind up!"
Rondo looked annoyed. He gathered the vets near the baseline. "Slow it down. Use the weight. Pound them inside. Stop running with them."
Rondo walked the ball up excruciatingly slowly, bleeding the imaginary shot clock. He called for a pick from DJ. Frank tried to fight over the screen, but DJ was a brick wall. Frank got clipped.
Rondo turned the corner, forcing Mitch to switch onto him.
Rondo danced with the ball, faking a drive, then faking a behind-the-back pass. The ball fakes froze the rookie defenders.
Mitch bit on a pump fake, allowing him to threaded a bounce pass to Julius Randle, who had sealed Knox deep in the paint, right under the basket.
"Front him! Front him!" Donovan screamed at Knox, but it was too late. Randle caught it, drop-stepped, put his shoulder into Knox's chest to dislodge him, and laid it in off the glass.
Score: 3-1, Team Donovan.
"Weight room, baby," Randle taunted Knox, flexing his bicep as he ran back.
Donovan slapped Knox on the chest. "Don't let him catch it that deep. Do your work early. Push him out to the free-throw line before he gets the ball."
Frank brought the ball up again. His confidence was slightly higher now.
He called for a screen from Knox. Knox jogged over and set a "brush" screen—soft contact, barely slowing Rondo down.
Rondo slid through it easily and poked the ball away from Frank. Frank recovered it, but the rhythm was broken. He panicked and threw a hot potato pass to DSJ with the shot clock winding down.
DSJ caught it, isolated against Seth Curry. DSJ tried to use his athleticism, driving hard right. But DeAndre Jordan was waiting in the paint. "Kick it!" Donovan yelled from the wing.
DSJ had tunnel vision.
He tried to rise up over DJ but DJ blocked the shot with disdain, keeping the ball in play. He grabbed it out of the air with one hand.
"Get that weak stuff out of here," DJ grunted.
"Simple!" Donovan shouted at DSJ as they scrambled back on defense. "Make the read! You're 6'2, he's 7 feet!"
The Vets moved with purpose now. Rondo signaled "Floppy."
Seth Curry started under the basket. He ran off a double screen set by DJ and Randle.
Frank was chasing Seth.
He got hung up on DJ's massive frame again. He tried to fight over the top of the screens to stay attached.
It took too long.
Seth curled to the wing, caught the pass from Rondo, squared his shoulders in mid-air, and fired.
Pure. The net barely moved.
Score: 3-3. (
Donovan clapped his hands sharply. "Time out. Reset."
The gym went quiet as Donovan huddled his young team near the key. He looked Frank in the eye.
"Frank, you're dying on the screen because you're trying to go over it too late. If DJ sets it that high, go under. Seth can shoot, but he's not pulling from the logo in a scrimmage. Go under and meet him on the other side. Do not let him curl."
He turned to Mitch. "And Mitch, call the screen out louder! I need to hear you in the Bronx! If Frank doesn't know it's coming, he's dead."
"Got it," Mitch nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Play resumed. Donovan took the ball himself this time. He wanted to test Harrison Barnes.
Donovan dribbled slowly at the top of the key, sizing Barnes up.
Barnes was sitting low in a defensive stance, eyes on Donovan's waist.
Donovan signaled for a flat screen from Knox. Knox set it better this time. Donovan came off the screen. Barnes fought over it.
The "correct" basketball play was to hit Knox on the roll or swing it to Frank.
But Donovan wanted to assert dominance. He used the screen to create a sliver of daylight and pulled up from thirty feet.
Clang.
It hit the back iron hard. Long rebound.
"Short," Donovan critiqued himself instantly, grimacing. "Stupid motherfucker."
Randle grabbed the long rebound. He pushed it himself, a freight train in transition.
"Stop ball! Wall up!" Donovan commanded, sprinting back.
Randle went straight at Mitch. Mitch jumped straight up—verticality rule. He absorbed the contact in the air. Randle bounced off him, the ball spilling loose.
"Great D, Mitch! Don't foul!" Donovan screamed.
DSJ grabbed the board. He looked for Donovan, but Donovan pointed forward. "Go! Attack! Numbers!"
It was a 3-on-2 fast break. DSJ turned on the jets. He blew past Rondo at half court.
He got to the rim. Rondo was trailing, and Barnes was coming from the side. DSJ could have laid it in with his left. Instead, he spun in the air—a 360 layup attempt to show off.
The ball rolled off his fingertips... and rolled off the rim. A groan went through the gym.
The game tightened up.
The Vets used their experience. Rondo brought the ball up, staring at the ceiling, looking bored.
Frank stayed in front, giving him space. Suddenly, Rondo whipped a bounce pass through Frank's open legs.
It was humiliating.
The ball zipped perfectly to DeAndre Jordan, who had sealed Mitch under the rim. DJ caught it and dunked it with two hands, hanging on the rim for emphasis.
Score: 3-4, Team Vets.
Rondo laughed, pointing at Frank. "Open for business!"
Frank looked down, his ears burning red. Donovan felt the shift.
The rookies were getting discouraged. Their energy was dipping. It was time to take over. No more coaching. Time to kill.
"Give me the rock," Donovan said calmly to Frank on the inbound.
Frank passed it. Donovan waved everyone away. "Clear out. 1-4 flat."
Donovan isolated on the right wing against Barnes. The gym fell silent. Donovan hit him with a hesitation dribble, raising his shoulders like he was about to shoot. Barnes flinched upward.
Donovan dropped low, hang dribble, then drove hard right. Barnes recovered well, sliding his feet.
Donovan slammed on the brakes, spun back towards the baseline, fading away on one leg, the release was high, unblockable as Donovan knew it was good as soon as it left his fingers.
Score: 4-4.
"Too easy," Donovan whispered as he ran back.
Rondo brought the ball up, trying to set up another Horns play. He was dribbling high, a little too casual, disrespecting Donovan's range.
Donovan was guarding Barnes on the wing, but he was watching Rondo's eyes.
Rondo looked left to pass to Seth. Donovan shot the gap. He lunged into the passing lane before the ball even left Rondo's hand.
He picked Rondo's pocket clean at half-court. There was no one in front of him.
Donovan took one dribble, gathered, and flushed it with a one-handed tomahawk.
Score: 5-4, Team Donovan.
The Vets were annoyed now.
Rondo dumped the ball into Randle in the post again.
"Double! Red! Red!" Donovan called out the coverage. As Randle put the ball on the floor, Donovan doubled from the blind side. Randle picked up his dribble, trapped. He threw a skip pass to the opposite corner to Barnes.
"X-out! Knox, get there!" Donovan directed traffic while scrambling. Knox sprinted to the corner, closing out with high hands. Barnes pumped faked. Knox stayed down—a rare moment of discipline.
Barnes had to put it on the floor and drive baseline.
"Help, Mitch!" Mitchell Robinson rotated over, blocking the path. Barnes threw up a wild floater over the outstretched arms of the 7-footer as he airballed, as Donovan gathered the ball.
Donovan started orchestrating. He called for a pick-and-roll with Knox.
"Kevin, screen!"
Knox set a solid screen on Barnes. The defense switched. Now Donovan had Randle on him at the top of the key. A mismatch for Donovan.
"Iso!" Donovan waved everyone clear. "Spread the floor!"
Randle slapped the floor, eyes intense.
"Let's see what you got."
Donovan sized him up.
Crossover left. Randle slid his feet well for a big man.
Crossover right. Randle slid again.
Behind the back, into a step back.
Randle lunged forward to contest the shot.
Donovan didn't shoot. It was bait.
He drove right past the lunging Randle.
DeAndre Jordan stepped up to help, leaving the paint to stop the layup.
Donovan jumped, wrapped the ball around DJ's waist in mid-air—a dazzling wrap-around pass to a cutting Knox. Knox caught it in stride and finished strong with a two-handed flush.
"That's it! Cut with purpose! If DJ steps, you dive!"
Score: 6-4, Team Donovan
The Vets were reeling. They couldn't keep up with the pace Donovan was pushing. Every time the Vets missed, Team Donovan was gone.
Seth Curry missed a contested three (good contest by Frank, who went under the screen and met him).
Mitch grabbed the rebound and outletted to Donovan.
Donovan pushed the ball. 3-on-3 transition.
The Vets retreated to the paint, protecting the rim.
Donovan recognized the sag. He stopped on a dime at the three-point line.
The defender, Barnes, kept backpedaling, expecting the drive.
Donovan rose up in rhythm. "Short memory," he muttered.
Swish.
Score: 8-4, Team Donovan.
"Match point soon," Donovan taunted, backpedaling. "Keep pushing"
Rondo tried to slow it down again. He called the same play for Seth—the double screen.
"Watch the under! Watch the under!" Rondo warned Seth.
But this time, Frank was locked in. He went under the screen lightning fast. When Seth caught the ball, Frank was already inside his jersey.
Seth panicked and tried to force a pass inside to DJ. Mitch Robinson's long arm shot out as he managed to deflect the ball, before gathering it up, getting the steal before he handed it to Donovan immediately.
Donovan walked it up. He looked at Mike Brown on the sideline. Brown was smiling, arms crossed. He was enjoying the show.
Donovan pointed at the floor, near the elbow. "Horns set. Frank, set the screen."
Frank set a screen for Donovan. The Vets botched the communication. Rondo tried to switch onto Donovan to save Barnes from fighting through.
That was barbeque chicken.
Donovan instantly sealed Rondo on the block.
"Mouse in the house!" Donovan yelled.
He backed Rondo down. Bump. Rondo tried to flop, but Donovan stayed balanced. Bump.
Donovan was too big, too strong.
He turned toward the baseline, gave a quick shoulder shimmy to freeze Rondo, and hit the turnaround jumper over the outstretched hand of the veteran point guard.
Soft touch.
Score: 9-4, Team Donovan.
"One more bucket," Donovan announced, holding up one finger.
The Vets were desperate. A loss here would be talked about in the locker room for weeks. Rondo threw the ball to Barnes. Barnes pump-faked Donovan. Donovan stayed down.
Barnes drove, kicked it to Seth. Frank closed out perfectly. Seth swung it to Randle. Randle put his head down and charged at the rim.
Donovan rotated from the weak side, standing firm outside the restricted area. He took the contact squarely in the ches as he hit the deck.
"Charge!" Mike Brown yelled from the sideline. "Offensive foul! Going the other way!"
Randle threw the ball against the stanchion in frustration. Donovan hopped up, adrenaline masking the bruise forming on his chest. "Let's go home!"
Donovan grabbed the ball. He dribbled up to the three-point line. The entire gym was watching.
He looked at Harrison Barnes, who was crouching, slapping the floor, trying to salvage his pride.
"Game time," Donovan said, voice void of emotion.
He hit Barnes with a double crossover—left, right, hard. The ball blurred. He hesitated, standing almost straight up, lulling Barnes to sleep.
Then, a violent step-back behind the arc. He created three feet of separation. Barnes lunged, but he was dead in the water.
Donovan released the ball.
He didn't watch it. He turned around to look at the bench—at Barnes—before it even went in.
Swish.
Final Score: 11-4.
"That's game!" Donovan yelled, clapping his hands.
The gym erupted. The young guys were hyping each other up. DSJ came flying in for a chest bump that nearly knocked Donovan over. Mitch was screaming incoherently.
Donovan walked over to Frank and Knox, pushing through the celebration to get back to business. He was breathless, sweat dripping from his chin, but his eyes were composed.
"Good work," Donovan said. "But Kevin, you hesitated twice on the corner catch in the beginning. I saw it. If you hesitate, you're benched. Shoot it or drive it. No holding. You're a scorer, act like it."
"Got it," Knox nodded, eyes wide with respect. He wasn't offended; he was learning.
"And Frank," Donovan put a heavy hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Your length is a weapon. Stop letting Rondo bully you just because he has a ring. You're bigger than him. You're younger than him. Play like it. You locked up Seth on those last three possessions. That's your standard now."
Frank looked at Donovan, then at Rondo, who was walking off the court shaking his head. Frank stood a little taller. "Oui. I got it."
Donovan turned to Rondo "I told you!" Donovan yelled at the vets. "Y'all are old, can't play like that in the league!"
Rondo shook his head, smiling. "You got lucky with that last one"
"Luck is for leprechauns, Rondo," Donovan smirked. "This is skill."
The team dispersed to the locker room. Donovan stayed back. He wasn't done. The scrimmage was just the appetizer.
He walked over to the weight room. He spent another hour lifting. Deadlifts. Squats. Core work. He worked until his muscles were trembling, ensuring his body could take the punishment of a full 82-game season as the primary option.
By the time he was finished, the facility was nearly empty.
He showered, dressed, and headed for the exit. On his way out, he walked past the nutrition station. There were stacks of Gatorade cases—Cool Blue, his favorite.
He looked around. No one was watching.
He grabbed two full cases of Gatorade, stacking them on top of each other.
"Perks of the job," Donovan muttered. "Save me forty bucks at the store."
He walked out to his Porsche, struggling slightly with the heavy cases, loaded them in, and drove off toward the city.