June 8th 2018
After the Final Buzzer.
Game 4 Cleveland Cavaliers vs Golden State Warriors 85-120
The Golden State Warriors had secured their third championship in four years.
They had marched through the Western Conference like a storm and swept the East's champion into the dustbin of history.
It was a sweep. Four games to zero. In Back to Back Years.
The Warriors were simply too good, too talented, and too ruthless for any other team in the league to construct a viable answer.
Amidst the confetti that began to rain down from the rafters—yellow and blue streamers tangling with the dejected sorrow of the Cleveland crowd—one figure stood at the epicenter of the chaos.
"The Back-to-Back NBA Finals MVP, Donovan Knight!" the announcer's voice boomed over the public address system, reverberating off the steel girders of the arena.
Donovan stepped forward, his jersey soaked in sweat, his chest heaving not from exhaustion, but from the adrenaline of the moment. Adam Silver, the commissioner, handed him the Bill Russell NBA Finals MVP trophy.
Donovan gripped the cold gold, feeling its weight, a weight he had become intimately familiar with.
He hoisted it up high, his muscles tensing as he screamed his triumph at the ceiling. It was another one to add to his collection. His third.
His journey had been long, a grind that started years ago. The first ring in 2015 had been a revelation, a proof of concept. Then came the heartbreak of 2016, the only blemish on his legacy, where a 3-1 lead evaporated into the ether of history. But
he had bounced back. 2017.
And now, 2018.
Four finals appearances. Three rings. Three Finals MVPs.
It was a resume that was rapidly approaching mythological status.
Doris Burke, microphone in hand, navigated the swarm of bodies to find him. She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the professional admiration of someone witnessing greatness.
"Knight," she shouted over the roar of the celebrating Warriors bench. "Back-to-back Finals MVP honors. You've cemented this dynasty. How does it feel to be at the top of the mountain again?"
Donovan looked directly into the camera, a smirk playing on his lips that bordered on arrogance but settled comfortably in earned confidence.
He adjusted his hat, the "2018 CHAMPIONS" stitching bright gold against the black fabric.
"You know who I am," Donovan stated loudly, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "Y'all know who I am. I do this."
Before he could elaborate, a torrent of cold liquid splashed against the back of his neck. He turned to see Draymond Green dousing him with oversized bottles of Moët.
The sting of the alcohol hit his eyes, but he only laughed, shaking his head as the sticky liquid ran down his jersey.
"I got to go celebrate," Donovan shouted to Doris, dismissing the interview with a wave of his hand.
He turned and vanished into the mob of his teammates, ready to take the party from the court to the locker room, and from the locker room to the city.
The celebration had migrated from the champagne-soaked carpets of the visitor's locker room to an exclusive club in downtown Cleveland.
It wasn't Las Vegas, and it certainly wasn't the Bay Area, but Donovan knew how to make the best of any situation.
If there was music, alcohol, and his team, it was going to be a night to remember.
The club was dimly lit, pulsating with a heavy bass that vibrated in the chest of everyone inside.
The Warriors had essentially rented out the VIP section, a raised platform that overlooked the dance floor where the citizens of Cleveland were trying to drink away the pain of a sweep.
Donovan, never one to sit idly by on a couch, had commandeered the DJ booth.
He had experience here; music was a second love, a rhythm that made sense to him just as much as the dribble of a ball. He wore headphones over one ear, his large hands deftly manipulating the mixer, blending tracks with a surprising amount of skill.
Below him, in the VIP section, Steph Curry, Klay Thompson, and Draymond Green sat around a table littered with bottles. They watched their Finals MVP spin records, but the conversation had shifted from the game to the elephant in the room: the summer.
Klay Thompson leaned back, a beer in hand, looking up at the DJ booth with a contemplative expression. "So," he began, shouting slightly to be heard over the beat. "You know if he's staying?"
Draymond Green, ever the heart of the team's internal politics, shook his head vigorously. "Hasn't talked to me about it," Draymond replied gruffly. He looked at Steph. "What about you? You're the golden boy. He tell you anything?"
Steph Curry, holding a glass of water—always the responsible one—shrugged his shoulders. "Haven't heard a damn thing," Steph admitted, his eyes narrowing as he watched Donovan drop the beat. "Where you think he's going to go?"
"Everybody is going to offer a supermax for him," Klay said matter-of-factly, taking a swig of his drink. "Would be dumb not to. He's the best player in the world right now."
"As long as it's not the Rockets," Draymond muttered darkly. "We'll be fine. But if he goes there... that's a problem."
Steph laughed, a short, sharp sound. "He ain't going to play with Harden. That's too much ball dominance. He might go to Denver. That guy with the horses, Jokic? He talks to him a lot."
Klay scrunched up his face in disgust. "He ain't going to Denver, let's be real," Klay argued dismissively. "There's no nightlife over there. Donovan needs the lights. He needs the action."
"Well," Steph sighed, leaning forward. "He's just going to do what's best for him, we all know that. We just gotta hope 'best for him' means staying in the Bay."
Just then, the music cut out abruptly. The sudden silence was jarring, causing heads to turn throughout the club.
Donovan grabbed the microphone in the DJ booth, his silhouette framed by the flashing strobes.
"Stop the music!" Donovan commanded, his voice booming over the speakers, slightly slurred but commanding.
He looked out over the crowd—mostly Cleveland locals who were simultaneously awestruck and annoyed by the presence of their conquerors.
"Hey, we're the Warriors!" Donovan announced, pacing the small booth. "We come to your city. We take y'all bitches. We beat your team. We gangbang!"
The crowd gasped, a mixture of shock and confusion rippling through the room.
"And we sell drugs!" Donovan added with a wild cackle, dropping the mic onto the console.
Down at the table, Steph, Klay, and Draymond simultaneously face-palmed.
"He is drunk," Draymond groaned, hiding his face in his hands.
"Very drunk," Steph agreed, laughing nervously.
Back in the booth, Donovan ignored the awkward tension he had just created and spun the platter, launching back into a heavy hip-hop track. He played the DJ role for another twenty minutes, scratching the vinyl and hyping up a crowd that didn't want to be hyped.
To his right, mounted on the wall of the booth as a decorative piece, was a plastic mini-hoop. Someone had thrown a plastic basketball up to the booth earlier.
Donovan picked it up. It was small, orange, and cheap.
He spun the ball on his finger, looking at the hoop. It was maybe ten feet away, blocked partially by a hanging speaker.
"Kobe!" Donovan yelled, though no one could hear him over the music.
He flicked his wrist. It was pure muscle memory. Despite the alcohol coursing through his system, his mechanics were flawless.
The elbow tucked, the follow-through high. The plastic ball sailed through the air, arching perfectly over the obstruction.
Swish.
It snapped through the nylon net with a satisfying sound that only he could hear.
Donovan nodded to himself. Still got it.
He continued to play the set for a while longer, but the heat of the booth and the exertion of the game were catching up to him. He was parched. He signaled to the actual DJ to take over, handing back the headphones.
"All yours, man," Donovan said, clapping the guy on the shoulder.
He stepped out of the booth and descended the stairs, heading toward the main bar.
The crowd practically parted for him like the Red Sea. He was a giant among mortals, standing 6'10" in his shoes, radiating the aura of a champion.
Men patted him on the back, offering congratulations that tasted like ash in their mouths, while women looked at him with hungry eyes.
Donovan walked with a lazy swagger, his eyes scanning the room as he moved. He wasn't just looking for a drink; he was looking for company. He was a single man in a city he had just conquered.
He scanned the VIP area.
First, his eyes landed on a stunning woman in a green sequined dress. She was a ginger, her hair a cascade of fiery red waves that tumbled down her back like molten lava.
Her skin was pale, dusted with freckles that looked like constellations across her shoulders. She caught his eye and smiled, a predatory, inviting curve of her lips. She shifted her weight, highlighting her figure, clearly signaling interest. She was beautiful, undeniably so, with eyes that promised a wild night.
He nodded politely but kept moving, his gaze drifting further.
Next, he saw a breathtaking black woman standing near the edge of the dance floor.
She was statuesque, wearing a silver dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her skin glowed under the club lights, a rich, deep complexion that looked impossibly soft. She was laughing at something her friend said, but as Donovan passed, her eyes locked onto his.
They were dark, intelligent, and piercing. She didn't smile immediately; she just held his gaze, a challenge in her posture.
It was the kind of confidence Donovan usually found irresistible.
He was going to make a move on one of them, maybe even circle back to both if the night went that way, but first, the thirst was undeniable.
He needed liquid courage, or perhaps just hydration, though he doubted he'd choose water.
Donovan reached the bar, leaning his massive frame against the polished wood.
He was about to bark an order at the overwhelmed bartender when a soft voice interrupted his train of thought.
"Excuse me?" The voice was accented, melodic, and polite. "Can I get a drink, please?"
Donovan looked down. Way down. Standing next to him, practically dwarfed by his shadow, was a woman trying to get the bartender's attention. He felt a pang of guilt; his massive presence usually made everyone else invisible to service staff.
He turned fully to look at where the voice was coming from.
And then he stopped.
If the other women in the club were stars, this woman was a supernova.
If the redhead he had seen earlier was fire, and the woman with the braids was royalty, this woman was something else entirely.
She was a celestial event.
It was Margot Robbie.