Donovan sat on the custom Italian leather sofa that cost more than most people's college tuition. His posture, usually relaxed and commanding, was rigid.
Across from him, sitting on the matching ottoman like they owned the place, were Samantha and Jordan.
Or Sami and Jordania.
His two supposed daughters.
Donovan looked at the younger one, Jordania.
She was small, a lighter skin shade than Donovan and Sami, and was currently focused on tying a pink ribbon around Big Dog's ear.
She looked like a Disney Princess that had come to life, completely out of place in his brutalist bachelor pad.
"Who's baby is that?" Donovan asked, pointing a confused finger at the child.
Samantha, who was currently spinning Donovan's game ball from his 68-point performance on her finger with alarming dexterity, didn't look up. "She's yours."
"Okay," Donovan said, rubbing his temples where a headache was blooming like a mushroom cloud. "You might be Samantha. I'm not totally sure, but just because you're named Samantha doesn't mean you're my Samantha. It's a common name. There was a show called Samantha Who? for a reason."
He looked back at Jordania, who was now feeding Big Dog an imaginary tea cake. "But I'm not sure about her," Donovan continued, his voice tight. "We don't share the same... palette."
He looked at Samantha again. The jawline. The attitude. The way she held the ball with a natural grip. It was unnerving. "You... maybe I see it," Donovan admitted grudgingly. "But your mother was a..."
He paused. The words bubbled up in his throat like bile.
He wanted to say gold digger.
He wanted to say whore.
He wanted to say bitch.
He wanted to call her a hoe.
He wanted to say he should have left her in the streets where she belonged.
He looked at Jordania's innocent face, framed by black pigtails. "Very promiscuous figure," Donovan finished diplomatically. "A woman of the night. A professional enthusiast."
"You have the same dog as before," Samantha noted, finally stopping the ball and tucking it under her arm. "I remember him from the pictures. I did tell you Mum was going to be weird. It's not my fault you didn't read the messages."
"Message?" Donovan frowned, rubbing his temples harder. "What message? I blocked your mother's number like four years ago. It's blocked on everything. Carrier pigeon, smoke signals, everything. I even blocked her on LinkedIn."
"On the PlayStation," Samantha said, as if it were obvious. "I messaged you. Like I always do. My gamertag is Sam_I_Am_Baller."
Donovan felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his spine. He pulled out his phone, logging into the PlayStation app with trembling fingers. He went to his messages.
He scrolled past a few verification codes and saw the chat thread.
He clicked the thread. The history went back months.
June 8th: gg on the chip. 3-1 as a Final's Record is kinda crazy. It was kind of an easy ring tho. Cavs are trash.
June 12th: The parade looks cool. You look bored on the bus tho. Why u so moody?
June 20th: Are you really going to New York? The Knicks are trash. Don't do it.
Then, the tone shifted.
September 1st, 2018: She's really mad now. She says the 'lump sum' ran out. I don't know what that means. But she threw a vase.
September 20th, 2018: She's packing bags. She says we're going on a 'business trip' to see you. Prepare for impact.
Donovan stared at the screen. The timestamps mocked him. He had been so busy chasing skirts and chasing clout that he had ignored the blinking red light in his own digital living room. He had cleared the notifications without reading them, thinking it was spam from NBA 2K.
He scrolled up further. He stopped on a message from April, right before the playoffs had started.
You should sign with New Orleans in the summer.
Donovan frowned. He looked at the girl. "Why did you want me to go to the Pelicans?" Donovan asked, genuinely baffled. "Nobody goes to New Orleans unless they like humidity and gumbo. It's a small market."
Samantha leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her expression dead serious.
"I wanted to see you and AD play together," she stated simply.
Donovan blinked. "Anthony Davis?"
"Yeah," Samantha said, her hands moving as she explained. "Think about it. AD is a generational big. He can pop, he can roll, and he protects the rim. If you played with him, you could roam on defense because he cleans up the paint. And on offense? The pick and roll would be unguardable. You drive, he rolls. Lob threat or layup. Pick your poison. The spacing would be immaculate."
Donovan stared at her. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. That was... an analytically sound take. That was a better take than half the analysts on ESPN.
It was better than Stephen A. Smith's entire career.
"Be for real," Donovan scoffed, leaning back and trying to mask his impressiveness with skepticism. "You just like their jerseys or something. You like the Pelican mascot. It's the bird, isn't it? Pierre the Pelican?"
"No," Samantha insisted, looking offended. "The mascot is creepy. It looks like it eats children. I like the spacing. Mitch and DJ are okay, but he has no bag. He just dunks and blocks. AD has a bag. He can shoot the mid-range. It opens up the floor for you to operate in the high post."
Donovan let out a short, incredulous laugh. "No, nope, no, no," Donovan stammered, standing up and pacing. "You two still shouldn't be here. This is insane."
"She wrote you a note," Samantha said calmly. "Well, she dictated it to me while she was packing her bag."
Jordania reached into her pink backpack and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. She walked over and handed it to him.
"Here," she squeaked.
Donovan took it. It felt heavy. He ripped it open.
Donovan,
I know what you're going to say. 'We had a deal.' Yes, four years ago, when you were just a rising star and not a mogul, you wired me three million dollars. You had your lawyer draft that ironclad NDA and the 'Total Release of Financial Responsibility.' You thought you were so smart, buying your freedom for a lump sum so you wouldn't owe me a dime for eighteen years. It was a good deal for you. You bought your bachelorhood cheap.
But here's the thing about inflation, Donovan: lifestyle costs go up. And here's the thing about two growing girls: they get expensive. The three million is gone. Bad investments. Life. Whatever.
You're signing for $150 million in New York. The deal we made? It's void in my eyes. Since you paid to not be a father, I figure you owe them some time. They are yours until I get back. Consider it a renegotiation of the contract.
Don't try to send them back. I sublet the house. There's nowhere for them to go.
- C.
Donovan stared at the paper, his knuckles turning white. He remembered that day in the lawyer's office. He had just signed his first big extension.
He wanted no strings attached.
He paid the three million—a huge chunk of his net worth at the time—to ensure he never had to deal with monthly checks or custody battles.
He wanted to be a ghost.
And now, the ghost was haunting him.
"Okay," Donovan breathed, folding the letter. "That sounds like your mother. She blew the bag. Unbelievable."
Donovan looked to Samantha. "Okay, that explains you," Donovan muttered, ignoring her critique of his decor. "I'm not sure even the younger one is mine. We went through the divorce before she was even born. The timeline is... murky. The math ain't mathing."
"I have our birth certificates," Samantha said, reaching into her own denim bag.
"Birth certificate?" Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Who carries their birth certificate? What are you, Jason Bourne?"
"Mum made us pack them," Samantha shrugged. "She said we might need ID."
She passed him a manila envelope.
"Your name is on it," Jordan piped up from the floor.
"My name is not on this," Donovan said confidently. He opened Jordania's envelope first. He pulled out the document. He scanned down to the 'Father' section.
Father: Donovan Knight
Donovan stared at the ink. It looked official. It looked legal. It had the seal and everything.
"Donovan Knight," he read aloud, his voice hollow.
He put the envelope down on the coffee table. He really did have two daughters.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the only person who could fix this.
"We got a situation," Donovan said as soon as the line connected.
"It's the second day of training camp," Stella's voice crackled. "You better not be in Vegas."
"This ain't basketball," Donovan hissed. "This is a her situation."
"Her?" Stella paused before realizing. "Oh god. I'll be on my way," Stella said instantly. The line went dead.
Donovan put the phone down. He sat back on the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
He felt a small weight settle on his knee. He looked up. Jordania had climbed onto his lap.
"What are you doing?" Donovan asked, stiffening.
"I want to talk," she said seriously, clutching her teddy bear.
"I'm not Santa," Donovan said, trying to gently lift her off.
"Silly, I know you're not Santa," she giggled. "Santa's white."
"What you on about?" Donovan asked, confused. "Santa is a concept."
"He has a big white beard," she explained. "You have no beard."
"Well, if this keeps going on, I'm probably going to have a grey beard by noon," Donovan muttered.
"You're funny," she smiled, patting his cheek.
Donovan placed Jordan down on the sofa next to him.
He stood up again, resuming his pacing.
He massaged his temples, trying to calculate the PR damage, the financial damage, and the schedule damage.
"Where has your mother gone?" Donovan asked Samantha.
"She put us in a taxi," Samantha said, picking at a loose thread on her jeans.
"No, how did she know how to come here?" Donovan pressed. "This is a secure building. Nobody knows I live here yet. It's unlisted."
"I don't know," Samantha shrugged. "She asked a friend. She has lots of friends."
"It must have been that stupid party," Donovan realized. "One of those influencers probably geotagged the bathroom. I knew I should have confiscated phones."
"Stupid is a bad word," Jordan admonished him.
"No, it's not," Donovan snapped, then softened. "Stop being silly."
He looked at Samantha, who was bouncing the ball again. Thump. Thump.
"Stop dribbling the ball, please," Donovan pleaded. "That's a special ball. It's not a toy."
"How is it special?" Jordan asked, eyes wide.
"Because he dropped 68 points with it," Samantha answered for him, not missing a beat. "Against the Lakes. Career high."
"Exactly," Donovan pointed at her. "So if you know that, why are you playing with it?"
"I don't know," Samantha shrugged. "It bounces good."
Jordan wandered over to a side table where a crystal sculpture of a basketball shoe sat. She reached out a tiny hand.
"Okay, ground rules till we get this sorted," Donovan announced. "No playing ball in the living room. No touching. Just stay very still. We don't want any aci—"
Crash.
The crystal shoe tipped over, shattering on the hardwood floor.
"—dents," Donovan finished weakly.
"I'm sorry," Jordan whispered, her lip trembling.
Donovan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's fine. It was... ugly anyway. Both of you just seat on the chairs. Don't move."
They both scrambled onto the sofa, sitting with their hands folded in their laps.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Donovan rushed to open it. Stella swept in like a hurricane in Prada.
"Fix it," Donovan demanded.
Stella stopped in the middle of the room. She looked at the shattered glass. She looked at the two girls sitting on the expensive leather. "Woah," Stella exhaled.
"What are they doing here?" she whispered.
"Well, it's simple," Donovan said, gesturing wildly. "They showed up."
"What do you mean they showed up?" Stella hissed.
"They showed up at my front door. Like an Amazon package I didn't order. No return label."
Stella walked over to them, adjusting her glasses. "Samantha, yeah, we know that one," Stella nodded at the older girl. "Who's this?"
"Jordania," Jordan squeaked.
"Jordania?" Stella repeated, looking at Donovan with an eyebrow raised.
"Yes," Jordan nodded vigorously.
"Don't you think you should have told me about this?" Stella asked Donovan, her tone accusatory.
"Well, the second one was kind of an accident," Donovan defended himself.
"The first one was an accident," Stella corrected. "The second one is a pattern."
"Hey, we can hear you, you know?" Samantha piped up.
"Sorry," Stella said, not sounding sorry at all. She pulled Donovan into the kitchen, out of earshot. "Is there a remote possibility that Jordania is yours? Think hard," Stella demanded. "I need dates."
"Maybe," Donovan sighed, leaning against the counter. "She got pregnant before she wanted the separation... and we didn't know, remember? The timeline works."
"Jordania, how old are you?" Stella called out.
"Four!" Jordan shouted back.
"Congratulations, you have two kids," Stella said dryly. "Mazel tov."
"This isn't happening to me," Donovan groaned. "We don't even look alike."
He walked back into the living room and stood behind the sofa, leaning down between their heads. He flashed his trademark media smile. "See, look," Donovan said to Stella.
The girls looked up and copied his grin exactly. The resemblance was undeniable.
"Oh, not at all," Stella said sarcastically. "Triplets."
Donovan's phone beeped loudly. It was a text from Mike Brown.
Brown: Come on, it's nine o'clock. Get your ass to practice, wait a couple more sessions before you can skip practice.
"I've got to go," Donovan said, checking his watch. "Practice."
"Can I come?" Samantha asked, jumping up.
"Yeah, me too," Jordan added, sliding off the sofa.
"No, you're staying here," Donovan said firmly. "Till we send you back to your mother."
He looked at Stella. "Stella, can you watch them?"
"As much as I would like to spend some time with these Gremlins," Stella began, smoothing her skirt. Donovan knew Stella was lying. She hated kids. She famously referred to them as "sticky liabilities." "I got other clients," she finished.
"Seriously?" Donovan asked.
"Yes," Stella said, checking her watch. "You may be the number one, but I do have other numbers."
"Guess you two are coming with me," Donovan sighed. He herded them toward the door. "Let's go. Don't touch anything on the way out."
They got to the elevator. Donovan pressed the button. "Come on, little legs," Donovan said to Jordan, who was lagging behind.
"My legs aren't huge like yours," she complained.
Donovan bent down and scooped her up. She weighed nothing. She wrapped her arms around his neck instantly.
They got down to the ground floor. Larry the doorman was beaming.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Larry," Donovan said sarcastically.
"Hey, I told you they were cute," Larry winked. "I've had the valet bring in a more suitable car for your predicament. The Porsche only has two seats. I brought the tank."
"Thanks," Donovan grumbled.
They walked outside. Donovan's matte black Mercedes G-Wagon was waiting at the curb. He hadn't driven it in years. It was a relic from his "family man" phase.
He opened the back door. Samantha climbed in effortlessly. Jordan stood on the sidewalk, looking up.
"Come on, junior," Donovan said. "Today, we got things to do."
"There's no kid seat," Samantha pointed out. "She needs a kid seat."
"Oh come on," Donovan groaned. "I don't have time for the legal ramifications lesson. Please. She can pass for over 4 foot."
"It's the law," Samantha insisted, crossing her arms. "Safety first."
Donovan marched to the trunk. Buried under a pile of gym bags and old sneakers was a dusty booster seat. "It's still here," Donovan asked himself, stunned he had still kept it.
He wrestled with the seatbelt mechanism. It was like solving a Rubik's cube. "It's not in properly," Samantha critiqued from the other side.
"I got it!" Donovan snapped, sweating. He jammed the buckle in. Click. "There. Now. In." He hoisted Jordan into the seat. "There," Donovan panted.
"My seatbelt," Jordan reminded him.
Donovan buckled her in. He got into the driver's seat and started the engine. The V8 roared to life.
The matte black G-Wagon roared through the morning traffic of the West Side Highway. Donovan gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his other hand rubbing his temples. The car, usually a symbol of his masculine independence, now felt like a minivan.
Samantha sat in the back, looking out the window. Jordania was strapped into the booster seat, her legs kicking rhythmically. "I'm going to be so late," Donovan muttered.
"Jordania wants to ask you a question," Samantha announced from the back.
"What?" Donovan asked, checking his mirrors aggressively.
Jordania pulled out a small, glittery notebook from her backpack. She licked a pencil. "I've got questions," she said seriously. "Like an interview."
"Make it quick, short stack," Donovan sighed.
"Question one," Jordania announced. "What is your favorite color?"
"Blue," Donovan said automatically. "Knicks blue."
"Mine is pink," she noted, writing a scribble.
"What a surprise," Donovan muttered sarcastically.
"What's your favorite food?" Jordania asked.
"Steak."
"Mine is pizza." Jordania offered before she continued, "What's your favorite movie?"
"Wolf of Wall Street," Donovan said. Then he caught Jordan's eye in the mirror. "And Peter Rabbit."
"I like Peter Rabbit too!" Jordan beamed. "Do you like the part where he eats the carrots?"
"Yeah, riveting cinema," Donovan deadpanned.
"Question four," she continued, undeterred. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No," Donovan responded automatically.
"Why not? Are you ugly up close?"
Donovan looked in the rearview mirror, offended. "I am a solid 10, thank you very much. I am single by choice. I am married to the game."
"Sami says it's because you have commitment issues," Jordan read from her notebook.
Donovan glared at Samantha in the mirror. She just smirked and looked out the window. "I don't have commitment issues I'm just... waiting for someone." The words slipped out before he could check them.
"Our mum?" Samantha asked a hint of hope—or maybe horror—in her voice.
Donovan snorted so hard he almost swerved into the next lane. "Not a chance. That ship didn't just sail, it sank. It's at the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic."
"Question five: Why are you so tall? Did you eat magic beans?" Jordan continued.
"No, I drank my milk and listened to my parents," Donovan lied.
"Question six," she pressed on. "Do you like the dog more than people?"
"Yes," Donovan answered instantly. "Big Dog doesn't ask me for five million dollars."
"That's mean," she giggled. "Question seven: Are you nice?"
Donovan gripped the wheel. "I'm... fair. I'm a winner. Nice guys finish last."
"Mommy says you're a... 'narc-iss-ist'," she sounded out the word carefully. "Is that a kind of flower?"
"No," Donovan grumbled. "It means I'm a winner."
"Is there anyone who can beat you one on one?" Samantha asked suddenly, leaning forward.
Jordania frowned. "That's not on the list!"
Donovan looked at Samantha in the mirror. "No."
"What about in the past?" Samantha pressed.
"Maybe Jordan," Donovan conceded.
"Me?" Jordania squeaked, pointing to herself.
"No, Michael Jordan," Samantha corrected.
"Who's that?" Jordania asked.
"Somebody important," Donovan said reverently.
Jordania wrote that down before reading off the final question. "What's the best thing that ever happened to you?" she asked suddenly.
Donovan paused. He thought about the three championship. The MVP trophy. The feeling of signing that first rookie contract.
"No," Donovan deflected. "I answered a lot of your questions. You answer one of mine. Why didn't your mother bring you here herself?"
Jordania and Samantha looked at each other in the rearview mirror. A silent communication passed between them.
"Want a cookie?" Jordan offered, holding up a plastic baggie.
"No, stop trying to change the subject," Donovan said.
"You said you were hungry," Jordan persisted.
"We made them special for you," Samantha added. "Family recipe."
Donovan sighed. His stomach did growl. He hadn't eaten his post-workout meal. He had even skipped the workout.
"Fine," Donovan relented. "Give one here."
Samantha passed a cookie up to the front. Donovan took a bite. It was... dry. Crumbly. But sweet.
"About your mum?" Donovan asked with his mouth full.
"It was last minute," Samantha said vaguely.
"Your mother was always a gold digger," Donovan muttered, chewing. "But I don't think she would dump a kid and just blackmail me."
Suddenly, Donovan's mouth felt dry. Dryer than the cookie. His tongue felt... thick. Swollen.
"I know what happened," Donovan tried to say, but it came out raspy. He coughed. His throat felt tight. "She's gained a lot," Donovan wheezed. "What's she pushing now? 180? Deuce?"
He looked into the rearview mirror. His eyes were watering. "What did you two put in this?" Donovan choked out.
"Don't you like them?" Jordan asked, her voice trembling.
"No," Donovan gasped.
"Are you okay?" Samantha asked, leaning forward, concern finally cracking her cool facade.
"Do I sound okay?" Donovan rasped, his voice sounding like he had swallowed gravel and bees. "What did you put in them cookies?"
"Milk, flour, eggs, and cinnamon," Samantha listed innocently.
Donovan gripped the steering wheel.
Cinnamon.
It was his kryptonite.
His allergy was mild—it wouldn't kill him—but it made his tongue swell and his throat congest. It turned his voice into a comedic slur. And today was Media Day.
"I'm allergic to cinnamon!" Donovan shouted, though it sounded like "I'm allerlig to simmanon!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jordan whispered.
"I sound like this, and you're sorry," Donovan groaned. "Got to be kidding me."
He didn't have an EpiPen nearby. This was ridiculous.
He pulled up to the training facility in Tarrytown. He parked the G-Wagon crookedly. He unbuckled the girls, grabbed his bag, and marched toward the entrance. The girls trotted behind him like ducklings.
As soon as he walked through the glass doors, the Knicks' media correspondent latched onto his arm. "Donovan! Don't forget, Media Day! You have to be there this time. We have the photographers waiting."
"I'll be on time," Donovan said, his voice thick and slurred. "I be oh time."
"Are you okay?" the correspondent asked, alarmed.
"What do you think, I'm stupid or something?" Donovan slurred angrily. "I'll be there." He shook the arm off. "Stop touching me."
He walked onto the practice courts. The team was separating into teams for scrimmages.
Mike Brown blew his whistle and marched over. "Donovan, you're late," Brown barked. "That's a 500 dollar fine."
"Start a tab," Donovan mumbled, but it only came out as "Star a ta."
He walked up to the group: Rondo, Ntilikina, Seth, Randle, and Robinson.
"Kings here," Donovan announced, sounding like he had a mouthful of marbles. "Baguette man, you're out."
Frank Ntilikina looked confused. "What?"
"Go get me a Gatorade," Donovan ordered Frank. "And an EpiPen. Ep-i-pen." Frank ran off, looking terrified. "Alright," Donovan clapped his hands. "Give me the ball and get the fuck out of the way."
Julius Randle stared at him. "Suffering succotash, Sylvester? Something seems to be wrong with your mouth."
His teammates laughed, but Donovan was in no laughing mood.
"Square up, let's go," Donovan challenged.
"My bad," Randle laughed, backing off.
Seth Curry looked past Donovan. "Donovan," Seth said, pointing. "Looks like you got some rogue fans."
Donovan turned around. Samantha and Jordania were standing at center court, watching the practice with wide eyes. "I'm not a fan," Jordania piped up loudly. "I'm his daughter."
The gym went silent. Rondo raised an eyebrow. Harrison Barnes stopped shooting.
Donovan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's take your daughter to work day."
He walked over, scooped them both up—one under each arm—and deposited them on the sidelines bench. "Stay here," Donovan commanded. "Don't move. Don't breathe too loud."
"Yes sir," Samantha said purposefully, mimicking his slurred speech perfectly.
Donovan turned back to the court, pissed off. He wasn't in the mood for practice. He wasn't in the mood for jokes. He was in the mood to destroy something.
"Scrimmage," Donovan barked. "Run it."
Team One: Donovan, Rondo, Seth Curry, Julius Randle, Mitchell Robinson.
Team Two: Dennis Smith Jr., Harrison Barnes, DeAndre Jordan, Wesley Matthews, Kevin Knox.
Mike Brown blew the whistle.
They tipped off. Mitchell Robinson out-jumped DeAndre Jordan, tapping the ball to Rondo.
Rondo collected the ball, calm and collected. He dribbled up the court. Donovan, fueled by rage and cinnamon, set a bone-crushing screen on Dennis Smith Jr.
Rondo drove off the screen, penetrating the paint. Wesley Matthews rotated to help. Rondo, with eyes in the back of his head, kicked the ball out to a wide-open Seth Curry on the wing.
"Shoot it!" Donovan yelled (slurred). "Shoo i!"
Matthews scrambled to recover. Seth pump-faked, drove into the paint. DeAndre Jordan stepped up to help, a massive wall of muscle. Seth had to change his shot mid-air to a high-arcing floater.
The ball hit the rim, bounced twice, and rimmed out.
Mitchell Robinson battled for the rebound, tapping it out. He looked around frantically.
"Mitch! Hand!" Donovan screamed from the corner.
Robinson threw a bullet pass. Donovan caught it on the perimeter.
Kevin Knox rotated to guard him, but Donovan was looking past him as he looked at the court.
He held up his hand and made the sign for the Iso. He tapped his head.
Everyone got the message. They cleared out to the weak side.
"Seth, stay in the corner!" Donovan directed, pointing. "He move, catch and shoot!" Seth sprinted to the corner. Matthews followed him, terrified of the three.
"Rondo!" Donovan barked. "If he flinch, you cut right behind him!" Donovan saw Randle standing near the block, guarded by Harrison Barnes.
"Randle, cut!" Donovan ordered. "Take him with you!"
Randle cut hard to the rim, dragging Barnes with him, clearing the lane.
Now it was just Donovan and Kevin Knox. And Dennis Smith Jr. was shading over.
"Mitch," Donovan whispered. "If he helps, you run to the rim."
Donovan jab-stepped right. Knox flinched, biting on the fake. Donovan got an inch of separation. That was all he needed.
He brought the ball up for a shot. Knox leaped, trying to block it.
But it was a set-up. Donovan pump-faked. Knox flew by, grasping at air.
Donovan put the ball on the floor, exploding down the baseline. DeAndre Jordan saw it happening. He rotated over, leaving Mitch, rising up to block the lane.
Donovan didn't stop. He gathered his feet. He went up. DJ went up with him, hands high, a wall of denial.
Donovan clutched the ball mid-air, bringing it down to his chest to avoid the block, ducking under DeAndre's outstretched arm.
He hung in the air, defying gravity, before double-clutching and bringing the ball back up on the other side of the rim and dunked it with a reverse finish that shook the backboard.
He landed on his feet, cat-like.
He ran back up the court, staring down Kevin Knox.
"Come on, man," Donovan slurred, pounding his chest. "That's too easy."