The sound of bricks hitting the rim was deafening in Donovan's head.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The team was at the free-throw line. Mike Brown had instituted a rule: the team couldn't leave until they made 50 free throws in a row as a collective. If one person missed, they started over.
They were at 48.
Donovan stepped up to the line. He bounced the ball three times. He spun it in his hands. He bent his knees.
He released.
It felt wrong instantly. Too much wrist.
Clang.
It hit the back iron and bounced out.
"Start over!" Mike Brown yelled.
The team groaned collectively. Rondo threw his hands up. Seth shook his head.
Donovan slammed the ball into the floor so hard it bounced up to the rafters.
He caught it on the way down and headbutted it in frustration.
He had been in this trap the whole practice. He couldn't focus. Every time he looked at the rim, he saw a tiny Samantha laughing at him.
He saw her lucky shot banking in. He saw a nine-year-old girl scoring on the Finals MVP.
It was eating him alive.
He shot again. Rim out.
"I'm going to punt this fucking ball," Donovan growled.
"You won't," Julius Randle challenged, tired and sweaty.
Donovan stepped back and punted the ball with perfect form. It sailed high into the air, getting stuck in the girders of the ceiling.
"Donovan, what are you doing?" Brown shouted. "Go get that ball."
Donovan kissed his teeth, frustrated. He walked over to the equipment closet, grabbed a long pole, and spent five minutes poking at the ball until it fell.
He grabbed it and went to sit on the base of the hoop stanchion, pouting like a child.
He couldn't hit a free throw. He couldn't defend a child.
How was he supposed to guard Kawhi Leonard?
How was he supposed to carry this franchise if his own daughter had a better shooting percentage than him?
It was a recipe for disaster. He had to be the best player in the NBA.
There was no room for error anymore.
There was no Steph Curry to bail him out with a 30-foot bomb.
There was no Klay Thompson to guard the best player.
It was just him.
And right now, "him" was broken.
He watched his teammates packing up. They were done. They wanted to go home.
Donovan stood up.
"Get back on the court!" Donovan barked. "We running scrimmages for two more hours."
"Man, come on," Knox complained. "We been here since 9."
"I said run it!" Donovan shouted. "Nobody leaves until we get it right! Come on!"
They ran scrimmages for two more hours.
It was ugly.
It was brutal.
Donovan dominated, playing with a manic intensity, fouling hard, dunking on his own teammates.
By the time Mike Brown's whistle—echoed through the gym, signaling the end of the marathon scrimmage.
The team was collapsed on the benches, gasping for air. Donovan stood at center court, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his nose onto the hardwood.
He felt good. He had dominated. He had reasserted his place at the top of the food chain.
But as he straightened up to walk toward the locker room, he felt it.
A sharp, stinging twinge in his right hamstring.
It wasn't a pop, but it was a warning. A tightness that grabbed him and didn't let go.
He tried to walk it off smoothly, masking the limp, but Mike Brown had been watching him like a hawk.
"Donovan," Brown called out, pointing to the medical room. "Trainers. Now."
"I'm good, Coach," Donovan waved him off. "Just a cramp."
"Now," Brown ordered. "I'm not risking the franchise because you want to be a tough guy in September."
Donovan kissed his teeth, annoyed, but trudged toward the medical suite.
Ten minutes later, Donovan was lying on a treatment table.
The room smelled of antiseptic and icy-hot. The Head Athletic Trainer, Roger, was running an ultrasound probe over the back of Donovan's thigh.
Donovan lay on his stomach, chin resting on his arms, scrolling through his phone with his free hand to distract himself from the cold gel.
"Well?" Donovan grunted, not looking up.
"There's definitely some inflammation," Roger said, studying the monitor. "Grade 1 strain. Very minor, but it's there. Your body is telling you to slow down. You've played into June four years in a row, Donovan. That's a lot of mileage."
Donovan scrolled past a highlight of himself from the scrimmage. "So? Ice it, wrap it, I'll be ready for the preseason opener on Monday."
Roger wiped the gel off Donovan's leg. "No. We're shutting you down."
Donovan froze. He turned his head to look at the trainer. "What?"
"You're sitting out the preseason games," Roger stated firmly. "Maybe all of them. Definitely the first three."
"Seriously?" Donovan snapped, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "I need the reps. I need to build chemistry with these guys. They don't know where to be yet."
"Just a precaution," Roger said calmly, handing Donovan a towel. "We don't want you getting injured before the season even starts. If you tear this now, you miss the first two months. If you rest now, you're 100% for Opening Night against the Celtics. It's asset management, Donovan. You're the asset."
Donovan glared at him, but he knew Roger was right.
If he popped a hamstring now, the media would eat him alive.
"Injury Prone," "Damaged Goods," "Knicks Cursed." He couldn't deal with that narrative.
"Fine," Donovan huffed, swinging his legs off the table. "But I'm still practicing."
"Light shooting only," Roger countered. "No contact for a week."
Donovan groaned, flopping back down on the table while Roger went to get an ice pack.
"Great," Donovan muttered to the ceiling. "Now I got even more free time. Just what I needed."
He picked up his phone again, needing an escape from the reality of his fragile hamstring and his intruder-filled penthouse.
He opened Instagram.
His feed was the usual mix of noise.
He scrolled past a post from Emma Watson. Something about a book club.
Too smart, he thought. Too much talking.
He scrolled past a photo of Margot Robbie at a premiere in London.
She was wearing a white dress, looking radiant and chaotic and perfect. His thumb hovered over the like button.
He remembered the smell of her perfume, the way she bit her lip when she was focusing on a shot glass.
He shook his head. Don't chase, he reminded himself. Kings don't chase.
He kept scrolling.
He stopped on a post from Lana Rhoades.
She was in New York. The geotag said "SoHo Grand Hotel."
She looked... well, she looked like exactly what Donovan needed right now. Simple. Transactional. No kids. No blenders exploding. No emotions.
He immediately thought of sex. Just the mechanics of it. The release.
He opened his DMs.
Donovan: You in the city?
He waited. Three dots appeared instantly.
Lana: Just got in for a shoot. Heard you're the King of NY now.
Donovan smiled. "Still got that motion," he whispered.
Donovan: You heard right. What you doing later?
Lana: Free after 8. Nicole told me you were... hospitable.
Donovan chuckled. Word traveled fast in the industry.
Donovan: I aim to please. Come through?
Lana: I can't fly you out, but I can pay you more than your shoot, Donovan typed, feeling generous.
Lana: I don't need money. How about just a booking at your restaurant?
Donovan paused. He had completely forgotten about the restaurant. It was one of Stella's brilliant branding ideas—"The King's Steakhouse."
It was high-end, exclusive, and impossible to get into.
Donovan owned it, but he had only agreed because he liked free ribeyes.
Donovan: It's pretty exclusive. High end. Dress code. I can cover your meals, but I might not be able to get you a table tonight. It's booked months out.
Lana: You get me in, and we can do whatever you want. Anything.
Donovan raised an eyebrow. That was a compelling offer.
Donovan: Okay, I'll see what I can do. You still on for now?
Lana: Yeah. Hotel?
Donovan: Yours. Mine is... under renovation. (Which was code for: "My house is full of children and a tutor named Blondie.")
He got up. "Yo, scrimmage is over, I got to bounce. See y'all tomorrow. Don't be late."
He showered as fast as he could, scrubbing the sweat of desperation off his body. He changed into his street clothes—designer jeans and a fresh hoodie—and drove to the SoHo Grand.