Donovan was in bed, after eating and going through his workout alone. It felt kind of empty after last night; Samantha wasn't there, and neither was Jordania.
Donovan then showered, and he had kept his word.
He was on his phone, just doomscrolling, his thumb mindlessly flicking through an endless stream of digital ephemera.
His feed was a chaotic mishmash: but at least now there were countless articles dissecting his upcoming season, speculative pieces about his hamstring injury, and a few particularly venomous comments from online trolls he tried his best to ignore.
He paused on several posts from the official account of his new restaurant, "The Apex Grill," which was opening tomorrow.
The photos showcased sleek interiors, perfectly seared steaks, and artfully arranged cocktails.
He liked every single one, a small surge of pride momentarily eclipsing his weariness.
Then, a picture up Margot in a striking editorial shoot. Her ethereal beauty caught him off guard, and he found himself staring at the image for a beat too long.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind, a mischievous whisper: 'Should I send her an invite to the opening?'
He seriously considered it.
She liked burgers, apparently, they did burgers.
She also liked him. Or she had, for a night.
He opened her profile. Her latest post was a photo of her on a red carpet, looking stunning in a vintage gown.
He sighed as he thought about it, the idea of reaching out to Margot again a thorny path he had traversed two too many times.
His mind replayed the familiar script, the internal debate that always ended with him feeling like an idiot.
Chasing.
The word tasted bitter on his tongue. The last two times he'd allowed himself to truly chase a woman, it had ended in spectacular disappointment, leaving a raw, aching wound.
There was his baby momma, who he thought was the love of his life, who turned out to be nothing more than a polished gold digger, interested only in the shimmer of his wealth and fame.
Then there was the other, equally captivating, whose elusive nature had only fueled his desire, only for him to discover, after investing considerable emotional energy, that she was already deeply ensconced in a committed relationship, leading him on with an almost cruel innocence.
Both experiences had left him feeling foolish, exposed, and deeply cynical about the grand romantic gesture.
He had sworn off the chase, resolving to let things unfold organically, to project an air of effortless indifference, allowing women to come to him, drawn by his gravity rather than his efforts.
It was safer, cleaner, and less heartbreaking.
He could try his normal method. Donovan just liked her most recent photo, giving the nudge.
Donovan waited and waited, and waited, but there was nothing. No notification, no message, not even a new story post.
Just digital silence. Donovan just sighed and put his phone down. Donovan turned over, as he went to bed tired.
"Whatever," Donovan muttered, tossing his phone onto the nightstand.
He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. He was tired. His hamstring throbbed slightly, a reminder of his mortality.
He drifted off.
Creak.
The door handle turned.
Donovan's eyes snapped open.
"Are you awake?" a small voice whispered.
"I am now," Donovan groaned into the pillow.
He rolled over. Jordania was standing by the side of the bed, clutching her teddy bear.
"What now?" Donovan asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Can I sleep here?" she asked.
"No," Donovan said firmly. "We discussed this. My bed. Your couch."
"Please," she whined. "There's not enough space on the couch. Sami kicks."
Donovan paused. He hadn't thought about the logistics of two kids on one sectional.
He knew the couch in the living room was hardly big enough for a grown-up, let alone a growing child and her oversized stuffed animal.
"You won't even know I'm here," she promised.
Donovan sighed. He was too tired to argue. He was too tired to walk her back to the living room.
"Okay, sure," Donovan relented. "Just stay on that side of the bed. The far edge. Do not cross the border"
Jordania tried to climb onto the ridiculously high king-sized bed, her small legs flailing in the air. She struggled, her tiny hands scrabbling at the duvet, making little grunts of effort.
With a weary but resigned sigh, Donovan just picked her up with one arm, a feather-light weight, and placed her on the far side of the bed, a good two feet from his own body, hopefully establishing a clear boundary.
Donovan lay back down, pulling the covers up to his chin, his eyes still closed. He just wanted to get some uninterrupted sleep. Moments later, he felt a small, determined presence nudging into his side, a persistent warmth pressing against him.
Jordania, true to her nature, was not adhering to the "stay on that side" rule. Her small body, surprisingly bony, burrowed closer, her head resting just below his armpit.
He tried to subtly shift away, creating a small chasm of space between them, but she simply followed, a tiny human limpet seeking warmth and proximity.
He felt her small hand tentatively reaching out, her fingers brushing against his arm, then gripping a fold of his t-shirt. It was a completely unconscious, innocent gesture, yet it sent a strange jolt through him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years.
It was a blend of irritation at the invasion of his personal space and a surprising, unfamiliar tenderness. He wanted to push her back, reiterate the boundaries, but something held him back. The sheer vulnerability of her small form, the innocent trust in her touch, disarmed him.
"That's not your side of the bed," Donovan whispered. It didn't matter. She was already asleep, her breathing deep and even.
"This is ridiculous," Donovan muttered to the ceiling.
The night was torture.
He couldn't sleep.
Every time he drifted off, a small foot would find its way to his ribs, or a sharp elbow would jab him squarely in the back.
At one point, she mumbled something about "unicorns" and slapped him across the face.
He felt like he was sleeping next to an octopus, its small limbs constantly flailing, seeking new territory. He'd adjust, pull away, only for another limb to encroach, a knee digging into his thigh, a head rolling onto his pillow.
It was worse than the treatment he got in the playoffs, where opposing players were at least predictable in their aggression.
He looked at the clock. 3:45 AM.
Donovan just unplugged the clock, plunging the room into deeper darkness, and gave up on the idea of sleep. He swung his legs out of bed, a grimace on his face, before getting up.
He spared a look at his bed, now a landscape of rumpled duvets and displaced pillows.
Jordania, still fast asleep, had sprawled diagonally across the entire expanse, her small body taking up an impossible amount of space, her arm thrown carelessly over the substantial bulk of Big Dog.
"You comfortable?" Donovan asked the dog. "Traitor." He got up, grabbing his shorts. He walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. "This is ridiculous," he said again.
He went to the gym.
"Damn, I was tired last night," he muttered, seeing the door was left open.
Donovan began his workout with a focused intensity, Diamonds are Forever providing a meditative backdrop to the rhythmic squeak of his shoes on the court.
He started with a series of dribbling drills, the ball a seamless extension of his hand, a blur of motion as he crossed over, behind the back, between his legs, the leather thudding softly against the floor.
Then came the circus shots, the flamboyant, improbable attempts that often drew gasps from the crowd but required immense skill and body control.
He'd drive to the basket, toss the ball over his shoulder with his back to the hoop, watch it swish through the net with a satisfying whisper.
He practiced fadeaways, pivoting sharply, creating separation from an imaginary defender, elevating smoothly, the ball arching gracefully before dropping through the hoop.
Then came the step-backs, a fluid dance of motion – dribble, plant, step back, rise, shoot, the net barely moving.
He worked on contested layups, contorting his body in mid-air, using the rim as a shield, finishing with soft touches off the glass.
He practiced his mid-range jumpers, his three-point attempts from various spots on the arc, his post-up moves, spin moves, pump fakes, anything and everything he could think of, relentlessly drilling each one until it felt like an extension of his will.
The soft glow of the early morning sun began to creep through the panoramic windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but Donovan remained in his own world, lost in the rhythm of the game, the only sound the ball, the net, and his own focused breathing.
Later on, Jordania joined him. She stood shyly at the edge of the court, her eyes wide as she watched him shoot.
"Great, Sleeping Beauty is awake?" Donovan asked without looking, spinning the ball on his finger. "What happened to, 'you won't even know I'm here'?"
She shrugged.
Donovan went back to his workout. He dribbled to the top of the key, ready to launch a three.
Suddenly, the music cut out. A second later, the speakers blared a high-pitched, orchestral violin concerto.
Donovan flinched, dropping the ball. "No! Change it back! You're messing up my vibes!"
"I have to practice," Jordania said, starting to twirl in the doorway.
"Practice?" Donovan scoffed. "I have a game in three weeks. The biggest game of my entire career. Opening night at the Garden. A game I've dreamed about since I was your age. Do you know what that means?"
"My guess is that it means you're old," she said, stopping mid-twirl.
"No," Donovan corrected. "It means I have an important job. That is responsible for providing for you. For the roof over your head. For the glue you wasted."
"It's just a game," she said dismissively.
Donovan walked over to her, looming large. "It ain't a game. It's my entire life. It's my legacy." He looked around the gym. "My dog. My bed. My kitchen. My table. My car. My speaker. Is nothing sacred? Do you own everything now?"
Jordania shrugged again. She reached out and tried to grab the towel hanging around his neck.
Donovan snatched it away. "My towel! My towel! Get your own!" He dried his face aggressively, trying to get his point across "This is all mine!" Donovan shouted, gesturing to the apartment walls. "It's all me! I built this! I earned this!"
Jordania just looked at him, unimpressed.
Donovan sighed, defeated. "Fine. You want to dance? Dance. I'm going to make breakfast. A real breakfast. Since I can't sleep."
He left the court and went to the kitchen.
He opened the fridge. He decided to cook. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. A feast.
Samantha woke up to the a strange smell. It wasn't tuna sludge. It was an unusual and welcome scent in their often chaotic mornings.
She blinked, stretching luxuriously on the surprisingly comfortable couch. She saw a bunch of food on the kitchen counter, a spread that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel: fluffy pancakes, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of orange juice.
Jordania was already at the counter, a plate piled high, munching happily on a pancake.
She walked into the kitchen.
There, laid out on the island, was a buffet. Stacks of pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Fruit.
"Dad made us breakfast and lunch," Jordania announced, sitting on a stool, swinging her legs. She was already eating a pancake.
"What time is it?" Samantha asked, looking around, her voice still thick with sleep, a strange lightness in her chest at the unexpected bounty.
"I don't know, I can't tell the time," Jordania said with a mouthful of syrup.
Samantha looked at the oven clock. 1:45 PM.
"Whoa," Samantha whispered. She looked around. "Where is he?"
"Sleeping," Jordania said. "He said if we wake him up, he's selling us to the circus."
Samantha grabbed a piece of pancake. It was cold but still tasted decent.
She felt a surge of annoyance. She had stayed up late last night, waiting.
After Donovan had gone to the gym, she had snuck into the hallway, hoping to talk to him. Hoping to maybe shoot around with him again.
But when she peeked into the bedroom later, she saw Jordania sleeping there.
The traitor.
She didn't know how she felt about him. He was arrogant. He was selfish. He was an ass.
But he was also... cool. He was Donovan Knight. The guy on the posters in her room back home.
She liked Donovan, the basketball player.
She hated Donovan, the father.
"Where were you last night?" Samantha asked accusingly.
"I slept in Dad's bed," Jordania said happily. "His bed is so fluffy. It's like a cloud. And Big Dog slept with us."
"And you left me," Samantha said, hurt.
"No, you left first," Jordania countered. "You went to go the court."
"I thought we agreed we were a team," Samantha said, crossing her arms. "Us against him."
"I want to stay here," Jordania said quietly. "He's better than her. He makes pancakes."
"He's an ass!" Samantha snapped as the words burst out, a raw expression of her frustration.
"That's a rude word!" Jordania gasped.
"Because he is an ass," Samantha insisted.
"No, he's not," Jordania defended him.
"He doesn't care about anything except himself," Samantha argued. "And his stats."
"He cares about us," Jordania said firmly. "He unglued my hand."
"Then why did he leave?" Samantha shouted. "If he cared, why weren't we here the whole time?"
Jordania didn't have an answer. She looked down at her plate.
"He doesn't even consider you his kid," Samantha said cruelly, lashing out. "He thinks you're some random baby. He only thinks I might be his because I can hoop."
"He does!" Jordania cried, tears welling up.
"Doesn't."
"Does!" She jumped off the stool.
"He's just waiting to send us back," Samantha said, her voice shaking. "Then we'll never see him again."
"You're wrong!" Jordania screamed.
Jordania's eyes welled up, her lower lip trembling. Then, with a sudden, unexpected burst of defiance, Jordania shoved Samantha.
Samantha stumbled back, completely stunned. Jordania had never done that before in her entire life. She was stunned that her usually timid, clingy sister had actually stood up for herself, had actually initiated a physical confrontation.
"Don't shove me", she warned, her own anger flaring.
Jordania, her eyes blazing with unshed tears and a newfound resolve, shoved her again. This time, Samantha shoved back, a frantic, desperate push that sent Jordania reeling.
It started to devolve, a flurry of shoves and indignant shouts, two small bodies colliding in the opulent kitchen.
Just then, Donovan appeared from seemingly nowhere, his large hands reaching out.
He pulled them apart with surprising ease, holding them up by their collars, their feet dangling uselessly in the air, their flailing limbs looking comically small against his broad frame.
Donovan held them apart, looking like a referee breaking up a fight between two very small, very angry point guards.
Donovan was surprised Jordania actually shoved her. He had genuinely thought she was soft, a delicate flower easily crushed.
Turns out, she had that "dawg" in her.
It was a small dawg, like a chihuahua, yapping furiously, but it wasn't about the size of the dog in a fight, it was the size of the fight in the dog.
"What's the matter with you two?" Donovan demanded, his voice groggy but commanding.
He already knew, of course.
He'd heard them arguing, the hushed, then increasingly loud, accusations floating through the apartment walls.
He wanted to tell them the truth, the messy, complicated truth about their mother, about why they were here, but it didn't matter.
They probably wanted to go back home to their mother, and the truth would just ruin that. But it seemed none of them wanted to tell him either.
"Put me down!" Samantha yelled.
Donovan set them down on opposite sides of the kitchen island.
"Both of y'all need to chill out," Donovan said, rubbing his face. "Too much energy for a rest day."
He pointed at Samantha. "You go to the court. Do whatever. Shoot. Dribble. Just don't break anything."
Samantha stormed off toward the gym.
Donovan turned to Jordania, who was sniffling. "You can do whatever over here," Donovan said gently. He walked to the living room and sat on the couch. He turned on the TV.
"Can I watch the TV?" Jordania asked, following him.
"Fine," Donovan sighed. "We can split screen it. Picture-in-picture."
He put ESPN on the main screen and found a channel playing Tom and Jerry for the small box in the corner.
He found himself surprised she understood slapstick humor, when she couldn't get the humor of getting hit in the face with a ball.
Maybe she was just trying to learn it.
He watched the sports news ticker.
BREAKING: Donovan L/N TO MISS PRESEASON WITH HAMSTRING STRAIN.
He sighed. The narrative was already starting.
He felt a weight on his side. Jordania had climbed onto the couch and leaned into him, resting her head on his ribcage as she watched the cat hit the mouse with a frying pan.
Donovan wanted to tell her to move over. He wanted his personal space.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
They stayed like that for hours, in a comfortable, bizarre silence.
Eventually, Donovan checked the time. 5:30 PM.
"I got to go," Donovan said, gently shifting her off him.
He got up and headed to his room. Jordania followed him like a shadow.
He went into his walk-in closet. She followed.
"What are you doing?" Donovan asked, looking through his suits.
"I want to come," she said.
"You can't," Donovan said, pulling out a charcoal grey suit.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because," Donovan stalled.
She probably could come. It was just a restaurant opening. A steakhouse. It was family-friendly-ish.
But he was thinking about how long he was going to be there. And who might be there. And what he might want to do after.
Bringing a child kind of ruined his chances of post-game activities. "Because you should be here," Donovan said finally.
"Why?" She questioned.
"Because I won't be back till late," Donovan explained. "Stella got you two a babysitter."
"She's going to sit on us?!" Jordania gasped, horrified.
"What? No," Donovan laughed. "She's just going to watch you guys till I get back. Make sure you don't glue yourselves to the ceiling."
"How long are you going to be?"
"I don't know," Donovan shrugged. "I'll be back after you're asleep."
"Then what's for dinner?" she asked practically.
"I don't know," Donovan said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. "Order pizza. Use the emergency cash in the jar. And no fighting your sister?"
"Okay," she nodded.