She was breathtaking in a way that didn't seem entirely real, as if she had been airbrushed in real-time. She stood there, radiating an aura that was a potent mix of old Hollywood glamour and effortless, modern cool.
Her hair was the first thing that caught the light—a shoulder-length bob of spun gold, textured with a slight, deliberate wave that framed her face perfectly.
It was that specific shade of blonde that looked expensive, the kind that shimmered under the erratic purple and blue neon lights of the club, creating a halo effect around her.
A few loose strands fell casually over her forehead, softening a face that was geometrically perfect.
And that face.
It was a face he had seen on fifty-foot screens, but seeing it up close, without the filter of a camera lens, was jarring.
Her skin was porcelain, flawless and luminous, glowing with a natural vitality that no amount of highlighter could replicate.
Her cheekbones were high and sculpted, sharp enough to cut glass but softened by the apples of her cheeks when she frowned slightly at the empty bar.
But it was her eyes that truly held him captive.
They were large, expressive, and a shade of blue that was almost startling—electric, piercing, and dancing with a sharp intelligence.
They were the kind of eyes that could shift from terrifyingly intense to incredibly warm in a millisecond.
Right now, they held a spark of amusement mixed with a thirsty impatience.
Framed by long, dark lashes, they looked up at the bartender, then flickered toward Donovan, widening slightly as she took in his immense height.
She was dressed in an outfit that managed to be both understated and devastatingly sexy. It was a sleek, black slip dress, likely silk or satin, that skimmed over her body like water.
It was simple, held up by impossibly thin spaghetti straps that highlighted her sculpted shoulders and the elegant slope of her collarbones.
The neckline dipped just enough to be alluring without giving everything away, a tease that left you wanting more.
The fabric clung to her figure, accentuating a waist that was snatched and hips that curved gently, showcasing an athletic, feminine physique.
It wasn't the overtly tight, bandage-style dresses that half the women in the club were wearing; this was different.
What struck him the most, however, wasn't just the physical beauty—it was the presence.
She stood differently than the other women in the VIP section. There was no desperation in her posture, no anxious checking of her phone to see who was watching.
She stood with a relaxed, confident slouch, one hip cocked to the side, completely comfortable in her own skin.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and he had met plenty.
He wanted to crack that.
"Excuse me," Donovan boomed, his voice dropping into its smoothest register as he finally tore his eyes away from her to address the bartender.
The bartender snapped his head up, saw the MVP, and immediately rushed over, abandoning the three people he was serving.
"The Finals MVP!" the bartender shouted, grabbing a towel. "Mr. Knight! What can I get you, man? It's on the house!"
Donovan looked down at Margot, who was looking up at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement, her head tilted back to accommodate the height difference.
"A Henny," Donovan said smoothly, gesturing vaguely. "And whatever she's having."
Margot blinked, her blue eyes widening as she looked at him. "You don't have to do that."
Donovan shrugged, flashing a charming, boyish grin that he knew usually worked. "It's fine. I want to. Tonight's a celebration."
Margot studied him for a second, a small smirk playing on her lips, revealing a row of perfect, white teeth. She turned to the bartender. "Can I have a Papa Salt and Pepper?"
Donovan raised an eyebrow. "A what?"
Margot turned to him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You put some Papa Salt gin, soda water, orange rind, and a crack of black pepper."
The bartender looked blankly at her. "We have no black pepper. This is a nightclub, ma'am. We have... pretzels?"
Margot sighed, a dramatic exhale that made her shoulders slump playfully. She tapped her manicured finger on the bar. "What about Ink Gin?"
"We don't have that stocked," the bartender admitted, looking embarrassed to be denying a request in front of the NBA champion.
Margot pursed her lips in mock thought, tapping her chin. "How about an Australian Wet Shot?"
The bartender's face lit up with relief. "Yeah, I can do that."
Donovan laughed, a deep rumble in his chest, leaning his hip against the bar to lower himself slightly to her level. "What are these names? You making stuff up just to confuse the man?"
"It's good," Margot insisted, leaning closer to be heard over the music, her arm brushing against his.
"Yeah, I don't buy that. Sounds like colorful water," Donovan teased, looking down at her.
"Try one," she challenged, her chin tilting up defiantly.
"Fine," Donovan conceded, never one to back down. "I'll try one."
"You're going to love it," she said confidently, turning her body fully toward him now. "It's a bit of Vodka, peach schnapps, a little cranberry juice, and a squeeze of lime. It's delicious."
Donovan grimaced. "That sounds like juice." Donovan wrinkled his nose playfully. "I think I'll stick with the Henny."
"Come on, just one," she pressed, touching his forearm lightly. "Be adventurous"
Her touch was electric.
"Fine," Donovan conceded, unable to say no to those eyes. "But you got to try the Henny."
"The Henny?" she asked, feigning ignorance, her eyebrows knitting together.
"Hennessy," Donovan corrected. "But nobody calls it that."
"I saw an advertisement for that the other day, actually," Margot said, her face deadpan, though her eyes gave away the joke. "It had one of those basketball players in it. Tall guy. Looked a bit like you, but better looking."
Donovan stared at her, trying to keep a straight face. "Yeah, it was me. You know, sponsored by them."
"Really?" Her eyes went wide, innocent. "I never would have guessed."
"Come on, you playing with me," Donovan chuckled, shaking his head.
"Well, I didn't want to assume," she laughed, the sound bright, infectious, and raspy in the best way possible.
Just then the bartender arrived, carrying a tray with a glass of rich amber liquid and two colorful, pinkish shots. "Your drinks."
"Just put it on my tab," Donovan commanded, waving his hand dismissively.
"I can get my own drinks," Margot protested, reaching for a small clutch purse she had tucked under her arm.
"I'm just being nice," Donovan said, sliding the shot toward her. "Let the champion buy you a drink."
"Really?" she asked skeptically, pausing with her hand in her purse.
"Yeah," Donovan replied. "Is that so hard to believe?"
"I think you're just trying to sleep with me," she said bluntly, looking him dead in the eye with a terrifying amount of confidence.
Donovan didn't flinch. He respected the directness. It was refreshing. "Maybe," he grinned, leaning in. "But can you blame me for trying to talk up the hottest girl in here? I'd be crazy not to."
"Smooth," she replied, rolling her eyes but smiling, a genuine flush rising to her cheeks.
"I try," Donovan laughed. "As soon as I saw you here, I knew I had to make a move."
"You recognized me?" she asked, seeming genuinely curious, as if she could blend into a crowd in Cleveland.
"Course," Donovan said. "I've been a fan for years."
"What's your favorite film?" she quizzed him.
"Wolf of Wall Street," Donovan answered instantly.
Margot groaned, throwing her head back. "That's the one everyone says." Margot rolled her eyes good naturedly. "Well every guy, at least."
"And Peter Rabbit," Donovan added without missing a beat.
Margot froze, her drink halfway to her mouth.
She burst out laughing, a genuine, hearty laugh that made people turn and look. "I haven't heard that one before! Why did you watch Peter Rabbit?"
"It was a long flight," Donovan defended himself, laughing with her. "They ran out of action movies. I got invested in the rabbits." Donovan looked around eyeing the men who were subtly glancing at her but staying away "Surprised nobody else had to attempt to make the move first,"
"You're actually the first person to recognize me in here," she admitted as she looked around.
"Seriously?" Donovan asked, surprised.
"Yeah, I think most are here for your celebration. Congratulations by the way."
"It's just another one," Donovan said coolly, though he appreciated it coming from her.
He looked around the room. He saw Steph and Klay in the distance, standing on the couches, popping bottles. They spotted Donovan at the bar talking to the blonde bombshell. Klay pointed, his mouth hanging open slightly.
Donovan made a specific hand signal—he tapped his chest and waved his hand in a clear 'clear out' motion. The sign for an Isolation play. An Iso.
Margot watched the exchange, her eyes darting between him and his teammates. "What was that?"
"Just telling them not to wait up," Donovan explained, turning his full attention back to her.
"Why?" she asked coyly.
"I think you know why," Donovan lowered his voice, leaning in closer so she could smell his cologne. "And I think you know why no one made a move on you. Most people probably are too afraid to make a move. You're... a lot. In a good way."
"And you're not afraid?" she challenged, tilting her chin up, looking him up and down.
Donovan always shot the ball.
It was practically his way of life. From the logo, from the corner, contested, open. He didn't fear the miss.
"You miss all the shots you never take," Donovan quoted, a glint in his eye.
Margot smiled, and it was illuminating. It lit up the dimly lit bar corner more than the neon sign above them. "That's good," she said softly. "I've never heard that one before."
"Stick around, you might hear some more things," Donovan flirted.
"Okay, I'm interested," she decided, grabbing her shot glass. "But first, we drink."
"Fine by me." Donovan took one of the colorful shots.
Margot did the same. "Bottoms up," she toasted, clinking her tiny glass against his.
"Bottoms up," Donovan echoed.
They both threw the shots back. Donovan braced himself for the sweetness, but it was actually... decent. Fruity, but with a kick.
"It's so tiny in your hand," Margot observed, looking at the empty shot glass engulfed by his massive fingers. "Like, how tall are you?"
"Like 6'7, 6'8," Donovan lied effortlessly.
"Is that all?" Margot asked skeptically. "I thought you would be taller."
"Normally, it's the other way," Donovan laughed. "People usually think we're not that tall because we're surrounded by people our own size on TV."
"Even then, you're huge," she said. She moved closer, standing on her tiptoes. "I barely get up to your shoulder."
Margot used her hand to measure, flattening her palm atop her head and moving it to his arm. She barely reached his deltoid.
"You got to be bigger than that?" she insisted.
"Technically," Donovan conceded, grinning. "I'm being 6'9 pushing 6'10."
"So why do you say 6'8?" she asked, confused.
"I like to mess with people," Donovan admitted. "Plus, in the league, height is a weird thing."
"It certainly worked on me," she said.
"And once you reach a certain height it gets to a point, you have to play center," Donovan explained. "And that's not going to happen. I'm a Small Forward. Any bigger, I'm put in center conversations. I don't want to bang in the post all night."
"What's the difference?" Margot asked. "Between the positions?"
"The whole team really, it's hard to explain," Donovan said.
"I got time," she said softly.
"There are different responsibilities that come with the positions," Donovan began, using his hands to illustrate. "Say if I were a centre, I wouldn't be given the ball as much to create. I'd be setting screens, getting rebounds. Obviously, for my team to win, I got to have the ball in my hands. I'm a playmaker."
"Okay," Margot nodded slowly. "I get it. It's like weight."
"What you mean?" Donovan asked.
"Some actresses, not me," she clarified quickly, "lie about their weight. To get roles or fit a type."
"We got that same problem," Donovan laughed. "But normally we add a few pounds. Nobody wants a skinny Small Forward."
"Nice to know we're on the same spectrum of professional lying," Margot joked. She looked at the empty glasses. "You want another shot? I can't drink all of these alone."
"Yeah, it's kind of nice," Donovan admitted.
"Told you, you would like it," she teased.
"Yeah, it's not that bad," Donovan shrugged.
They ordered another round. The bartender, now attentive, brought them over quickly.
"This one," Margot said, eyeing the glass. "Let's do it with no hands."
"Oh, I like the way you think," Donovan grinned.
He watched, fascinated, as Margot leaned over the bar. She didn't use her hands. Instead, she lowered her head, her blonde hair falling forward like a curtain.
She extended her neck, her lips parting slightly. With a dexterity that made Donovan's breath hitch, she lowered her mouth over the shot glass.
Her lips wrapped around the rim, creating a seal.
She tilted her head back, lifting the glass with nothing but her mouth, draining the liquid in one smooth, practiced motion before depositing the empty glass back onto the bar top with a soft clink.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at him, eyes challenging.
"Damn," Donovan exhaled, genuinely impressed and incredibly turned on. "I wish I were that shot glass."
Margot sputtered, laughing so hard she nearly choked on the aftertaste of the schnapps. She had to catch the glass she was toying with to stop it from falling.
"That's cheating," she accused, breathless from laughter.
"I didn't know we were competing," Donovan countered, raising his hands in defense.
"Okay, you want to compete?" Margot said, her competitiveness flaring up. "Let's compete."
"You can't outdrink me," Donovan scoffed. "You're like 5'3. I'm probably three times your weight."
"5'7," she corrected sharply. "And I'm Australian. I'm not getting outdrunk by anyone. We invented drinking."
Donovan was competitive. It was the reason he had three rings. He couldn't turn down a challenge, even one he should probably avoid.
"Fine," Donovan accepted. "Let's compete."
"Finish your shot first," Margot instructed. "So we can get something else."
"Okay, same rules," Donovan said, eyeing his glass. "No hands."
"Go ahead," she gestured.
Donovan leaned down. It was awkward for him; he had to bend his knees significantly to get level with the bar. He wrapped his lips around the glass, mimicking her motion. He tilted his head back, lifting the glass.
"Careful," Margot whispered near his ear, her voice sultry and teasing. "Don't choke on it, big guy."
The comment caught him off guard.
Donovan sputtered, losing the vacuum seal on the glass.
The liquid went down the wrong pipe, and the glass clattered against his teeth before falling out of his mouth onto the bar, spilling the last few drops.
Donovan coughed, hacking loudly as he tried to clear his airway.
"Oh shit," Margot exclaimed, her hand flying to his back. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Donovan wheezed, straightening up and wiping his mouth. "Just... caught me off guard."
"I'm so sorry," she said, looking mortified.
"It's fine, seriously," Donovan laughed, regaining his composure. "That was a good move."
"I don't know what came over me, to say that," she admitted, blushing slightly. "I never normally talk like that."
"No, I like it," Donovan assured her, leaning in close. "Maybe I take you up on it."
"Maybe," she whispered.
She turned to the bartender. "Another round!"
"You might want to be careful with your liquor," Donovan warned playfully.
"I can hold my own just fine," she insisted.
"A lot of people say that," Donovan said knowingly. "But they end up vomiting on the sidewalk with a nasty hangover the next morning. I've seen rookies wash out of the league that way."
"Let's make a bet," Margot proposed.
"I can't bet," Donovan said automatically. "It's a whole thing. League rules."
"Okay, let's call it a wager," she corrected. "If I can outdrink you, you admit I'm better at holding my liquor."
For Donovan, admitting defeat was a cardinal sin.
"What do I get if I win?" Donovan asked, raising an eyebrow.
Margot looked him up and down, a slow, deliberate gaze. "I'll sleep with you."
Donovan choked on air again. He cleared his throat. "Fine. I'll play along. The safe word is Salt and Pepper."
The competition began. It was a blur of neon shots, laughter, and escalating dares. They ordered Tequila.
They ordered whiskey.
They ordered something blue that tasted like mouthwash.
Donovan watched her amazement. For a woman of her size, she put the alcohol away like a sailor. She didn't stumble, she didn't slur. Her eyes just got brighter, her laugh louder.
They talked about everything and nothing. He told her about the locker room dynamics; she told him about the freezing sets in London. They were both hammered, but they were holding it together through sheer force of will.
Finally, Margot slammed her hand on the bar. "Beers. Two beers."
"I don't normally do beers," Donovan groaned.
"Why don't you?" she asked, grabbing the bottle the bartender slid over. "They're amazing."
"Just never interested me," Donovan said. "How are they amazing if you prefer cocktails?"
"Well, it's not my go-to," she admitted. "But I like to relax with a bath beer."
"You bathe in beer?" Donovan asked, scrunching his nose.
"No!" she laughed, hitting his arm. "I like to drink a beer in the bath. It's relaxing. Hot water, cold beer."
"Oh," Donovan realized. "That makes so much sense. I have an ice bath, but I don't drink in it."
"So are you going to tap out?" she taunted.
"I'm barely feeling anything," Donovan lied. The room was definitely spinning.
"So what's the rule for this?" Donovan asked, gripping the bottle.
"First one to finish it," Margot declared.
"Okay," Donovan nodded.
"Ready?"
"Yeah."
"Go!"
They both tilted their heads back. Donovan unhinged his throat, it was a techinique he learnt in college.
The beer vanished in seconds, practically inhaled. He slammed the empty bottle down on the bar with a triumphant thud.
Margot was only halfway through. She stopped, lowering the bottle.
"Well, that wasn't fair," she pouted. "You have a giant throat."
"Yeah, I think you threw the game on purpose," Donovan teased, wiping foam from his lip.
"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," she murmured, giving him a look that made his knees weak.
"You want to bounce?" Donovan asked. The club was getting too loud, too crowded. He wanted her alone.
"Yeah, I would like that," she said softly. "Your hotel or mine?"
"Mine's a couple minutes from here," Donovan said. "The Ritz."
"Okay, let's go yours," she agreed.