September 26th, 2018
7:00 PM
The penthouse was quiet, a stark contrast to the earlier chaos of the unexpected family reunion.
Donovan sat on the custom Italian leather sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The television was on, tuned to ESPN, but the volume was low.
Across from him, the invasion continued. Jordania was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a small army of toys she had pulled from her backpack.
She was meticulously bedazzling a plastic tiara with adhesive gems, humming a tune that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme remix.
Samantha was sitting in the armchair, her legs thrown over the side, scrolling through Donovan's tablet phone with a look of intense concentration.
Media day had gone well. Or, at least, as well as it could go for a man who famously treated the media with the same enthusiasm one reserves for a root canal.
Donovan had managed to get an EpiPen from the team doctor, stabbing it into his thigh in the locker room like a scene from Pulp Fiction.
The swelling in his tongue had gone down just in time for the cameras. He had spoken clearly, confidently, and with only a hint of the residual cinnamon rage.
He was watching ESPN, First Take specifically. He was on the screen again. The loop of sports media never ended; it just recycled itself.
On the screen, the camera zoomed in on a reporter in the back of the scrum, a nervous-looking man holding a microphone with a trembling hand.
"Donovan," the reporter stammered on the recording. "Looking at the roster changes and the chemistry... do you truly believe the Knicks have enough to make it to the NBA Finals this year?"
In the living room, the real Donovan scoffed, leaning back.
On the screen, Video Donovan leaned into the microphone, his expression deadpan, eyes boring a hole through the camera lens. "What sort of question is that? Do you think I'm just going to say, 'Nah, we're trash, we're going to get bounced in the first round'?"
There was a pause in the room as the current and past Donovan whispered in perfect sync with the TV "Yes, we're going to make the Finals, I'm still on this team, right?"
Donovan smirked at the TV. He loved hearing himself talk. It was like poetry.
It was a good line. Confident. Arrogant. Exactly what New York wanted.
"I don't think you can even lead this roster to the playoffs, let alone the Finals," Samantha said. She didn't look up from her tablet. Her tone was casual, matter-of-fact, like she was commenting on the weather rather than insulting a generational talent.
Donovan turned his head slowly, his neck cracking. "What do you know?"
"I know ball," Samantha countered, finally looking at him. "You've played over 35,000 minutes in regular and postseasons combined. That's a lot of mileage on those knees. It's why you take it easy in the regular season." She paused, raising an eyebrow. "'Playoff Knight' is a real thing, sure, but you can't coast this season. You have no Steph or Klay to take over the scoring load when you want to rest on defense. You have to be Superman every night."
Donovan stared at her. The analysis was frighteningly accurate. It was the kind of thing an analyst would say, not a child.
Donovan snapped, his ego bristling. "I'm a two-time MVP for a reason." Donovan narrowed his eyes. "I guarantee you I make the playoffs. I could drag a team of milkmen to the Eastern Conference Finals."
"We'll see," she muttered, going back to her screen.
On the television, the graphic swooshed, changing from the orange and blue of the Knicks to the royal blue and gold of the Golden State Warriors. The Golden Gate Bridge appeared in the background.
Steph Curry was at the podium. He looked older, Donovan thought. Or maybe just tired.
"Not having Donovan... it hasn't really sunk in," Steph said, looking down at the microphone, fiddling with the label. "Just 'cause you've been doing it for nine years together. Coach made a joke that sometimes you can't really find Donovan in the offseasons, and you don't really hear from him as much. He just shows up at training camp ready to go. I still kind of had that idea... that he was going to show up."
Samantha looked at Donovan, her eyebrows raised. "Did you ever tell him you were leaving?"
Donovan kept his eyes on the screen. "No."
"That was a jerk move," she said. "He was your friend. You guys were like peanut butter and jelly."
"Oh please," Donovan waved a hand dismissively. "You don't even understand. The hardest decision you ever made was probably what to have for breakfast this morning. Lucky Charms or Cocoa Puffs? That's pressure for you. This is business."
"It's kind of sunk in now," Steph continued on the TV, offering a wry, slightly sad smile. "But winning is hard in this league. And the fact we've been able to do it this long is amazing. And obviously, Donovan is the first person to not be a Warrior from that core. I always want to win, plain and simple. There's no contentment on my side."
Donovan felt a sudden, sharp pang in the center of his chest. It wasn't the allergic reaction returning; it was something heavier, colder. For nine years, that man had been his brother in arms.
He looked at Steph's face on the screen. He remembered the plane rides. The locker room jokes. The feeling of knowing that if he missed, Steph would be there to clean it up.
They had fought together, celebrated together, and changed the geometry of the sport together.
Seeing Steph there, talking about him in the past tense, made the luxury apartment in New York feel suddenly very large and very empty.
A wave of nostalgia hit him—memories of the locker room champagne showers, the unspoken telepathy on the court, the feeling of invincibility.
For a fleeting second, he regretted leaving.
He regretted the ego that demanded his own team.
He regretted trading the brotherhood for the crown. The loneliness of the King's throne felt acute in that moment.
Then, Draymond Green's face appeared.
The broadcast shifted again. The chyron read: Draymond Green on the breakup.
Draymond sat there, looking pensive, his demeanor unusually calm.
"When I found out Donovan was going to leave," Draymond started, "I thought it was a mistake. Because I know him."
Draymond leaned into the mic, intense as always. "The number one thing in his life—and that's not the case for most people—Basketball is one hundred and one percent the most important thing in his life."
Donovan nodded involuntarily. That was true.
"It's the thing that he cares about more than anything in the world," Draymond continued. "I felt he made a mistake because when he was here, all he was allowed to do, was to simply go play Basketball. Which is what he loves to do."
The reporter asked the inevitable question. "Is it the incident?"
The screen cut to grainy footage from the previous season. The infamous game against the Rockets.
Donovan was hot, scorching the net, demanding the ball to close out the game. Draymond grabbed the rebound, ignored Donovan's clapping hands, and drove into traffic, turning it over.
The argument on the bench was legendary.
The lip-readers had a field day. We don't need you. We can win without you.
Donovan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, wanting to know what Draymond would say now.
He wanted to hear the apology. He wanted to hear the admission of guilt.
"What's for dinner?" Jordania asked loudly, holding up her bedazzled dinosaur.
"Give me a minute," Donovan hissed, holding up a finger without looking at her.
"Bob and Steve told me I needed to apologise to Donovan before I got suspended," Draymond said on the screen. "And I said no. I'm not apologising because you told me to apologise."
Donovan scoffed. Typical.
"And I didn't," Draymond went on. "And I never apologised until I came to grips with myself. Not because of some games or the team ain't flowing right. But I kind of see in my brother's face that I haven't seen... he's hurt."
Draymond looked directly into the camera. "It's why I'm kind of happy he's gone. I didn't see that joy last year. We all say Donovan lived in his own world, but then you know for a guy to live his life that way, then all of a sudden it's not... then something is wrong. So as a brother, I want to see him with that joy back."
"What a load of bullshit," Donovan spat, standing up. "Pure PR spin. He's trying to save face."
"That's a bad word," Jordania piped up, pointing a gem-encrusted finger at him.
"It's a bad lie," Donovan corrected, pacing the room. "He's responsible for blowing up the franchise."
"Isn't he the heartbeat of the team?" Samantha asked, clearly enjoying poking the bear. "That's what the comments say."
"More like the heartburn of the team," Donovan grumbled. "Guy will shoot you in the foot more times than not."
Donovan snatched the remote and killed the TV. The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening.
He couldn't listen to the revisionist history anymore.
He headed for the kitchen, he needed to clear his head. He needed to make his dinner.
"I'm hungry," Samantha announced, following him.
She tried to open the massive stainless steel fridge, but Donovan's hand shot out, slamming the door shut before she could get a grip.
"Please don't touch anything," Donovan warned. "Stand right here. Do not cross the line. Season's nearly starting," Donovan explained, opening the fridge himself and blocking her view. "We're going to go carbo load. Proper nutrition."
"Do you have any Jell-O?" Samantha asked, trying to peek under his arm.
Donovan blocked her out with a hip check that he usually reserved for power forward, but she got around the screen and reached for the handle again. Donovan blocked it like he was protecting the rim in Game 7.
"Like I said, don't touch," Donovan said sternly. "I don't like fingerprints on the steel. Stand here. Don't touch anything. I'm not giving you 28 grams of empty carbohydrates. We don't do simple sugars in this house. No Red Dye 40. No high fructose corn syrup."
"Is that why you never smile?" Samantha asked, deadpan. "Because you have no sugar in your blood?"
Donovan kissed his teeth, a sharp sound of irritation, and turned to the stove.