Donovan, Samantha, and Jordania were situated around the long marble dining table.
"Eating" wasn't an accurate description for the girls. "Staring in horror" was more apt.
Donovan sat at the head of the table, a massive bowl of whole wheat spaghetti with a lean turkey bolognese in front of him.
He was eating with gusto, slurping noodles with a rhythmic efficiency.
In front of Samantha and Jordania were identical bowls. But the portions were colossal. Mountains of pasta that could have fed people three times there size.
"You two better eat before your food gets cold," Donovan said between bites. "Fuel the machine."
"But it's as big as a mountain," Samantha said, poking the pasta with her fork. "I'm going to explode."
"Listen," Donovan said, pointing his fork at her. "If you're going to make the pros, you got to get your appetite up. You need a caloric surplus to build muscle mass. You think I got this big eating like a bird?"
He took a long drink of water from a crystal goblet.
"You got a little something here," Jordania said, pointing to the corner of her own mouth.
"What?" Donovan asked, lowering the glass.
Jordania reached out with her small thumb and wiped a spot of sauce from the corner of Donovan's mouth.
Then, without hesitation, she licked the sauce off her thumb.
Donovan froze.
The sensation of the small, rough thumb against his skin sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with basketball.
He sat there, stumped, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth.
It was such a casually intimate, domestic gesture—something a family member would do without thinking.
It felt alien to him.
He was used to trainers taping his ankles, physios massaging his quads, coaches patting his back.
Functional touch. This was... affectionate. It felt awkwardly domestic, a crack in his armor that he didn't know how to patch.
For a second, the walls of the "King of New York" persona cracked, and he was just a guy sitting at a table with a kid who looked like him.
He looked at Jordania, who was happily twisting a single noodle around her fork, completely unaware that she had just short-circuited an NBA superstar.
He cleared his throat, pushing the feeling down.
"I'm going to go and wash the dishes," Donovan announced abruptly, standing up. "Before I got to workout. You can eat, and finish eating. Clean plate club."
He took his empty bowl to the sink. He washed it by hand, the repetitive motion soothing his nerves.
As he dried his hands, he pulled out his phone and dialed Stella. He put it on speaker as he sat on the bench in the foyer to put on his basketball sneakers.
"I need you to find them a school," Donovan said as soon as she answered.
"No 'Hello, Stella'? No 'How are you, Stella'?" Stella's voice was dry. "Just straight to logistics."
"We don't have time for pleasantries," Donovan said, tying his laces tight. "They can't just sit in my apartment all day bedazzling things. They need structure."
"Public or private?" Stella asked, the sound of typing in the background.
"Go private," Donovan said instantly. "Best in the city. Dalton? Trinity? Whatever the rich kids go to."
"Private's expensive," Stella warned. "Tuition, donations, uniforms..."
"Well, it's not exactly your money they're spending," Donovan countered. "Put it on my tab. Write it off as... charitable donation."
"Signing them up to a school is a big step, Donovan," Stella said, her voice softening. "It implies permanence. It means you're probably going to keep them for a while."
Donovan paused, his hand hovering over his laces.
Keep them? He thought about the empty apartment before they arrived.
The silence.
Then he thought about the chaos. The broken crystal shoe. The cinnamon cookies.
It was domestic and in a way, it filled the void.
But he wasn't what they needed.
They needed a mother.
They needed warmth.
They needed someone who didn't view dinner as a caloric calculation.
Growing up, all he had wanted was stability and money.
He had the money now, but stability?
He was a nomad of the league.
They needed their mother. They needed a home, not a penthouse.
"I never said that," Donovan said firmly. "It's temporary. Until we find her."
"Good," Stella said. "Because if we're being honest, you're not equipped to take care of them. You can barely take care of a dog."
"Have you got any closer on figuring a way to send them back?" Donovan asked, deflecting.
"Unless you pay her the money," Stella said bluntly. "She wants five million now."
"So she can spend it again?" Donovan scowled. "What was the last thing? A jumpsuit line? I had to pay for the liquidation of that. I ain't doing it. If I give her money, the kids ain't going to see a cent of it. You know her."
"Well, it's going to take longer to fight it legally," Stella explained. "She's legally obligated to take care of those kids."
"Then what am I supposed to do in the meantime?" Donovan asked, frustrated. "Drag them wherever I go? Take them to away games?"
"Just hire a tutor to homeschool them," Stella suggested. "Till we manage to send them back. It's flexible."
"Fair enough," Donovan agreed. "Can you get a tutor for tomorrow?"
"Where am I supposed to find a tutor at 9 o'clock at night?" Stella asked incredulously.
"I don't know, that's why I asked you to do it," Donovan said. "You're Stella Peck. You make miracles happen."
"Goodbye, Donovan," Stella hung up.
Donovan sighed, plugging his headphones in.
He needed to shoot.
He needed to lose himself in the repetition. Life was constantly throwing screens at him, and he needed to navigate the pick and roll and gets his clear lane to the basket.
Donovan stepped onto the court, the familiar squeak of his sneakers on the varnish acting as a trigger for his brain to switch modes.
He began his warm-up, a ritual he had perfected over a decade.
High knees, dynamic stretching, foam rolling. He moved with a fluidity that belied his size.
He picked up a ball. The texture of the leather against his fingertips was the only thing that made sense today. He started close to the rim.
Swish.
One step back.
Swish.
He focused on the mechanics: elbow in, knees bent, follow through. The rhythm took over.
Dribble, dribble, rise, release.
The sound of the net snapping was hypnotic. He was sweating now, the toxins of the day leaving his body.
For twenty minutes, he wasn't a father, or a trade asset, or a villain or someone who betrayed his friends.
He was just someone playing basketball.
A pure machine designed to put a sphere through a cylinder. He moved around the arc, counting the makes. 48. 49. 50.
"You have a court here?"
The voice broke his trance.
He spun around. Samantha was standing in the doorway, wearing her oversized pajamas
"Yeah," Donovan said, wiping his forehead with his jersey. "It's my court."
"Can I play?" she asked, stepping onto the wood.
"No," Donovan said automatically as he turned his attention back to the basket.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm going through a workout," Donovan explained. "This is work. Not play."
"Why can't I join?" she pressed. "I can rebound."
Donovan considered it. A rebounder would actually speed up the drill. Donovan sighed. "Fine, join. But just rebound. Don't talk. Just pass."
Donovan went back to his spot. He shot, the ball arcing perfectly.
Swish.
Samantha grabbed the ball out of the net and threw a chest pass back to him with surprising zip.
"Did you eat your dinner?" Donovan asked, catching the ball.
"Yeah," she lied.
He knew she hadn't finished the mountain.
"You wash your plate?" Donovan asked, catching and shooting in one motion.
"Yeah," she lied again.
Donovan shot.
Swish.
Samantha rebounded it.
"Where's the little princess?" Donovan asked, setting his feet.
"She's behind you," Samantha said casually.
Donovan bricked the shot. It hit the side of the backboard with a loud thud.
He spun around.
Sitting in the exact center of the court, right inside the center circle logo, was Jordania. She had Big Dog with her.
They were having a full-blown picnic. She had laid out a small blanket, plastic teacups, and the bedazzled tiara.
The basketball rolled right past her; she didn't even flinch.
"What's the matter with you?" Donovan asked, exasperated. "I could have stepped on you!"
"I didn't do anything," Jordan said innocently, pouring invisible tea for the dog.
"You got to talk next time," Donovan admonished. "Say 'Door!' or something."
"Okay. Daddy," she chirped.
Donovan flinched. The word hit him like a flagrant foul.
Daddy.
He felt his face heat up. It sounded wrong coming out of her mouth, directed at him.
It felt heavy. Unearned. Terrifying.
"Pass me the ball," Donovan deflected, turning back to the hoop.
Jordania ran and picked up the ball. She tried to throw it to him, but her little arms couldn't generate the force. It rolled to his feet.
Donovan kicked the ball up into his hand with a soccer-style flick. He turned to shoot, focused on the rim.
Thwack.
A ball hit him square in the face.
Donovan stumbled back, clutching his nose. His eyes watered instantly.
He looked down. Samantha was standing there, another ball in her hands, looking guilty but also... amused. She had thrown a chest pass while he wasn't looking.
Donovan looked up to the ceiling, his nostrils flaring as he tried to compose himself.
He took a deep breath.
Donovan looked up at the skylight, his nostrils flaring.
He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself.
He was angry.
In his lifetime of playing basketball—from the asphalt courts of his youth to the gleaming arenas of the NBA—nobody, nobody, had ever thrown a ball at his face.
It was the ultimate disrespect.
But... there was a humor in the situation.
A ridiculous, slapstick humor.
And he really didn't want to laugh, because he didn't want to encourage this anarchy.
He looked at Sami's face. She was biting her lip, trying desperately not to giggle.
Donovan cracked. A snort escaped him. Then a chuckle.
Samantha cracked. She burst out laughing.
Jordania looked between them, concerned. "Are you okay?"
"You'll get it when you're older," Donovan wheezed, rubbing his nose.
He picked up the ball to shoot, but his rhythm was gone. He was still chuckling.
"You shoot it," Donovan said, passing the ball to Samantha.
"Really?" she asked, eyes lighting up.
"Yeah," Donovan nodded. "I want to see what you got. Since you got such accurate aim with my face."
Samantha walked to the three-point line. She set her feet. She mimicked his form.
She shot.
It fell three feet short. Airball.
Donovan caught it. "Step closer. Woman's arc is closer than the men's. This is NBA regulation size."
"I can make it," Samantha insisted, backing up.
She shot again. Airball.
"Just take a step closer," Donovan advised. "Mechanics first, range second."
"I can make it from here, I'm just missing," she argued stubbornly.
"Fine, I'll wait," Donovan crossed his arms.
"Wait for what? Pass me the ball," she demanded.
"You have to run down and touch the other side for airballing," Donovan said, enforcing the rules of the court. "That's the law."
"I'm not doing that," Samantha scoffed. "It's basketball, I'm going to do it again."
"Yeah, because you suck," Donovan teased.
"Fine play me ones," she challenged.
Donovan blinked. She challenged him? To 1v1?
"Are you deadass?" Donovan asked.
"Yeah," she said, bouncing the ball. "You overrated."
"I ain't playing ones against a nine-year-old," Donovan laughed. "I'm a real basketball player. I'm the Best in the World."
"Sounds like someone is a chicken," Samantha clucked.
"I'm the best one-on-one basketballer in the world," Donovan stated. "Like, be for real. You know who I am."
"Yeah, you a chicken," she repeated.
"Fine," Donovan snapped. "Check up. I'm going to show you the levels."
"Let me start," she demanded.
"Shoot for the ball," Donovan countered.
Samantha shot. It hit the rim, bounced up, and fell in.
"Don't matter," Donovan muttered.
He dried his hands on the bottom of his shoes—a habit.
Then he kissed his index, middle, and ring finger.
The superstition.
He passed the ball to Samantha. She passed it back.
Donovan rolled his eyes. "Check means you start." He bounced it back to her.
She gave it back again.
Donovan sighed, annoyed. "Do it again, I'm not checking again. Keep the ball."
Samantha grinned. She started dribbling. She was surprisingly coordinated. She went low, crossing over left to right.
Donovan slid his feet, staying in front of her effortlessly. But he watched her footwork.
She stayed on the balls of her feet. She kept her head up. She's actually been coached, he realized.
She has potential.
He had to admit, her handle wasn't bad for her age.
She had a low center of gravity. She tried to zip past his hip.
Donovan pivoted, staying in front of her like a wall.
She spun, losing the ball for a second, recovered, and drove to the hoop. She went for a lay-up.
Donovan took one step, leaped effortlessly, and pinned the ball against the backboard with one hand.
Thud.
"Goaltend!" Samantha yelled.
"Ain't no goaltend," Donovan said, grabbing the ball. "That's a block. Get that weak stuff out of here."
He took the ball out to the three-point line. Samantha ran out to guard him, waving her arms.
Donovan didn't even jump. He just shot over her head.
Swish.
"That's cheating," she complained. "How am I supposed to guard that? You're a giant!"
"Ain't nobody guarding it, that's my point," Donovan smirked. "Height is a skill that can't be taught."
They checked again.
Samantha tried to back Donovan down in the post. It was like a fly trying to move a boulder.
Donovan didn't budge.
He gently pushed her away, and she stumbled out near the three-point line.
"That's why you eat your dinner," Donovan taunted. "Need more mass."
Samantha tried again.
She ran full speed at him.
Donovan held his ground as she was just running against him.
"This is getting embarrassing," Donovan said, looking at his imaginary watch.
She tried a pump fake. He stared at her. She went right, then left. Donovan yawned. She tried to shoot a floater.
Donovan caught the ball out of the air with one hand before it even reached the apex, then turned and dunked it with a thunderous crash.
Check again.
"You ready for this? You ain't ready for this," Samantha trash-talked, breathless.
She shot it. Airball.
"Foul?" she asked hopefully.
"Ain't no foul," Donovan said. "Wind don't count as a foul."
"You hit me?"
"No."
"Shoot for it."
"No chance, you missed by a mile." Donovan took the ball. He dribbled lazily, switching hands. Samantha swiped at it slapping his arms repeatedly, her ponytail flying.
"Sami, I'm being honest with you," Donovan said, backing her down. "This is just like getting guarded by a point guard in the league. All I got to do is this."
He held the ball high above his head with one hand, like the Statue of Liberty. Samantha jumped, swiping at his armpit.
"Too small!" Donovan shouted. He threw the ball off the backboard, caught it, and dunked it.
Check again.
Samantha looked desperate. She looked over to the sideline.
"Jordania, tag in!" she yelled. "I need some help! Double team!"
Donovan looked to Jordania. She was busy putting a tutu on Big Dog. She didn't even look up.
"No, I'm good," Jordania replied. "We're having tea."
Donovan shook his head.
He was worried about that child's competitive spirit.
Samantha, he knew, was his, competitive, prideful, annoying.
The trash talk, the delusion, the drive. But Jordania...
She was so soft. He couldn't raise that.
She needed... well, she needed a mother.
He turned back to Samantha.
But she wasn't waiting.
While he was distracted, she had shot the ball.
Donovan watched as it sailed over his head.
It had a high arc—a lucky arc.
It hit the top of the backboard, bounced high, hit the front of the rim, bounced against the backboard again, rattled around the inside of the rim...
And dropped through.
Donovan's jaw dropped.
Samantha started jumping around, screaming. "Oh! Oh! I scored on the Franchise! Did you see that?! Did you let me score?!"
Donovan kissed his teeth, annoyed. "No!"
"Yes! You suck!" she cheered. "How did you let a nine-year-old girl score on you?" Donovan glared at her. "You've got to admit, that was a good shot," she beamed. "I just made you my bi—"
"Check up," Donovan interrupted loudly. "We're not done."
"I'm going to bed," Samantha declared, walking off the court. "I can't top that. I scored on the Best Player in the World. Does that make me the Best Player in the World? Yes. Yes it does."
"Damn it," Donovan muttered.
He turned, took one step, and slam-dunked the ball so hard the entire stanchion shook. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"Somebody's upset," Samantha sang, skipping toward the door.
Donovan threw the ball into the rack. He was fuming. But beneath the anger, there was respect. She had seized the moment. "Come on, time for bed."
"But I'm not tired," Jordania protested, picking up the dog.
"I am," Donovan said. "And if I'm tired, everybody's tired."
He herded them back to the living room. Samantha tried to veer off into the hallway.
"Where are you going?" Donovan asked.
"Exploring," she said, reaching for a door handle.
"That's my bedroom," Donovan said, steering her away by the shoulders. "Don't ever go in there. Unless there's an emergency."
"What kind of emergency?" Samantha asked.
"The apartment is burning down," Donovan said.
"Don't you have a spare bedroom?" Jordania asked.
"Well, I do," Donovan admitted. "But they're not made up. They're full of boxes."
"Why aren't they made up?" Samantha critiqued. "Rich people usually have guest rooms."
"Because I don't like guests," Donovan said. "So you got to sleep on the couch. It costs more than a car, so be grateful."
He grabbed some blankets from the closet and tossed them onto the massive sectional.
"Aren't you going to tell me a bedtime story?" Jordania asked, curling up under a cashmere throw.
Donovan froze. Bedtime stories?
He never had bedtime stories.
His childhood bedtime routine was listening to his neighbors argue or the sound of sirens.
He didn't even have a bedtime growing up.
"Bedtime story..." Donovan muttered, clearing his throat. He tried to remember what normal people told kids.
"Yeah," Donovan sat down on the edge of the coffee table. "The big bad wolf... blew down the Grammy's house," Donovan improvised. "And ate the three little pigs. Then he fought the three bears in a steel cage match. And something about Goldilocks being adopted or going to jail."
He stood up immediately. "Good night."
"That was terrible," Jordania frowned. "A bedtime story is supposed to make you tired. Not confused."
"Let me show you," she said, patting the spot next to her on the couch.
"Fine," Donovan sighed, sitting back down. "I'm going to listen to this one time, then you can both go to bed. Do you understand me?"
Jordania nodded.
"Once upon a time," she began in a soft, lulling voice, "there was a princess. And she had a lot of beautiful dresses. She had a pink dress. A red dress. A blue dress. A green dress..."
Donovan rolled his eyes. This was going to take forever.
"A purple dress," she continued. "An orange dress. A yellow dress..."
"I get it," Donovan interrupted. "I get it. A lot of dresses, a lot of colors. So what? Get to the plot."
"So each dress had a secret power," she whispered. "The pink dress, which had pink sparkles all over it, could make her fly. And the blue dress, which had blue sparkles all over it, could make her tiny."
Her voice was monotonous and rhythmic, the monotony of her voice, the listing of colors, the sheer boredom of the narrative... it was like a lullaby
"And the green dress," she droned on, "which had green sparkles all over it, could make her sleep..."
Donovan's eyes started to feel heavy.
The adrenaline from the game had faded.
The exhaustion of the last 48 hours—the media, the Rihanna incident, the cookies, the practice—crashed over him like a wave.
His head nodded. His eyes closed.
"I can't believe that worked," Samantha whispered.
"He fell asleep in the middle of my story," Jordania said, sounding disappointed. "He didn't even hear about the rainbow dress."
"Come on," Samantha whispered, standing up. "We can take his bed."
"Won't he be cold?" Jordania asked.
Donovan snored.
"Wow, it's so loud," Jordania giggled. "He's like a giant."
"Come on," Samantha grabbed her sister's arm.
They crept down the hallway, past the forbidden door. They pushed it open.
They entered the master suite. It was huge.
Donovan's bedroom was massive. It was a temple of minimalism. Blackout curtains, a king-sized bed that looked like a cloud, and a scent of expensive cologne and sandalwood.
They walked in, looking around in awe.
"Look at this," Samantha whispered, opening a door to the side.
It was the walk-in closet.
It was larger than their old apartment.
Rows of sneakers—hundreds of them—lined the walls, color-coordinated and pristine. Jordans, Kobes, his own signature line.
On the other side, suits hung in garment bags. A glass island in the center held watches.
"Wow," Samantha breathed. It was like a store.
"We shouldn't," Jordania whispered. "He's going to be mad."
"He's always mad," Samantha shrugged. "Let's see if he has any cool stuff in the bathroom."
"We shouldn't," Jordania said, eyeing the sneakers. "He's going to be mad."
"He's always mad," Samantha shrugged. "Might as well enjoy it."
She walked into the bathroom. It was all marble. There was a bathtub that looked like a swimming pool.
"I'm going to tell," Jordania warned.
"Fine, let's just go bed," Samantha conceded.
They climbed onto the massive orthopedic mattress. The sheets were crisp and warm."He's going to be so mad when he wakes up," Jordania whispered into the dark.
"I scored on him," Samantha said, staring at the ceiling. "I actually scored." Samantha whispered into the dark. "I'm going to tell everyone on my AAU team. They're never going to believe me."
"You got lucky," Jordania murmured, yawning.
"Skill," Samantha corrected.
They drifted off to sleep in the King's bed, leaving the King sleeping on the couch.