June 9th, 2018
8:15 AM
The Ritz-Carlton, Cleveland.
The light that filtered through the heavy curtains was an intrusion, a sharp, stabbing pain that drilled directly into Margot's temples.
She groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated unpleasantly in her throat, and squeezed her eyes shut tighter, as if that could block out the existence of the morning.
Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool and broken glass—the classic, undeniable signature of too much tequila, too much champagne, and that lethal "competition" she had foolishly initiated.
She shifted, expecting the cool, crisp sheets of her own hotel room. Instead, her hand brushed against something warm, solid, and breathing.
Margot's eyes snapped open. For a second, panic flared in her chest.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the room spinning violently before settling into a dizzying tilt. She looked around.
This wasn't her room. It was a suite, significantly larger than hers, littered with the debris of a celebration.
There were empty water bottles, a discarded tie, and... a plastic basketball hoop mounted on the bathroom door?
She looked down at herself. She was naked, the high-thread-count sheet barely covering her hip.
Her skin felt sticky, a mixture of dried sweat and the remnants of the night's activities. She winced as a memory flashed—being hoisted into the air, legs wrapped around a waist that felt as wide as a tree trunk.
She turned her head slowly, afraid of what she might find, though she already knew.
Beside her lay a mountain of a man. Donovan Knight took up nearly two-thirds of the massive king-sized bed.
He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress, his face buried in the pillow.
Even in sleep, he was intimidatingly large, his back muscles defined and sculpted like a topographic map of a mountain range.
The memories came crashing back in a flood. The club. The shots. The bet. The ride back. The elevator. And then... god, the stamina.
She flushed, a heat rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol. It had been fun. Reckless, wild, and incredibly fun.
He hadn't just been a conquest; he had been an experience.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand—not the one next to her, but the one on the far side of the room where her purse had been discarded.
She groaned again, sliding out of bed. Her legs felt wobbly, her inner thighs aching with a dull soreness that confirmed the intensity of the previous night.
She tiptoed across the room, the plush carpet feeling foreign under her feet, and fished her phone out of her clutch.
8:17 AM.
Her flight to London for a press junket was at 10:00 AM.
"Shit," she hissed, the word sharp in the silent room. "I'm going to be late."
She looked back at the bed. Donovan hadn't moved. A soft snore escaped him, a deep rumble that sounded like distant thunder.
She didn't want to wake him. Honestly, she didn't have the time for the morning-after conversation, the awkward exchange of numbers, or the lingering goodbye.
She rushed into the bathroom.
It was palatial, smelling of expensive cologne and steam. She turned the shower on, not waiting for it to heat up fully before stepping in.
The cold water hit her like a shockwave, gasping as she scrubbed the night off her skin.
She worked quickly, washing her hair with the hotel's generic shampoo, trying to rid herself of the scent of him. It took her less than five minutes, a personal record.
She stepped out, dripping wet, and grabbed a towel. Drying herself vigorously, she walked back into the main room to find her clothes. Her black dress from the night before was in a heap on the floor.
She picked it up but there was no way she could wear that to the airport without looking like she'd just done the walk of shame—which, technically, she was doing.
She looked around for an alternative. On the armchair lay the jumper she had worn last night.
"Sorry, big guy," she whispered.
She pulled the hoodie on. It swallowed her whole, the hem coming down to her mid-thighs, the sleeves extending well past her hands. It smelled like him—cedarwood and something clean.
She pulled on her heels, a ridiculous combination with the hoodie, grabbed her purse, and took one last look at the sleeping giant.
He looked peaceful.
"Checkmate," she murmured softly before she slipped out the door, the lock clicking softly behind her.
12:15 PM
The banging was relentless. It wasn't a knock; it was a rhythmic assault on the wood that vibrated through the doorframe and into Donovan's skull.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Donovan! Open up!" Donovan groaned, rolling over onto his back. He felt heavy, his limbs filled with lead. His mouth tasted like the floor of a distillery, and his eyes felt like they had been sanded down.
He squinted at the ceiling, the bright midday sun slicing through the gap in the curtains where Margot had left them open.
Margot.
He reached out his hand to the other side of the bed. Empty. The sheets were cool.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"You in there?" Steph Curry's voice was muffled but unmistakable.
Donovan dragged himself into a sitting position, rubbing his face with his massive hands. "Man, give me a minute," he croaked, his voice two octaves lower than usual.
"Nah, we got a flight to catch," Steph yelled back, sounding annoyingly chipper. "Get yo ass up. Bus leaves in thirty."
"I'm up, I'm up," Donovan grumbled.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. His back cracked in three places—a satisfying pop, pop, pop. He looked around the room. It was a disaster zone.
He smirked, last night had been perfect. No strings, no "what are we," no awkward breakfast. Just high-level performance and an Irish exit.
He wanted easy, and he got easy.
He walked into the bathroom, stepping over a wet towel. He turned on the shower, letting the water run scorching hot.
He stood under the spray for ten minutes, letting the heat loosen up his muscles.
The soreness in his legs wasn't from the game against LeBron; it was from the cardio session against Margot Robbie
He stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and brushed his teeth aggressively, staring at himself in the mirror.
His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked like a champion.
Because he was one.
He walked back into the bedroom to get dressed. He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt. He looked around for his favourite black hoodie—the one he usually wore for travel days.
He checked the chair. Nothing.
He checked the floor. Nothing.
He checked under the bed. Nothing.
"Ain't no way," Donovan muttered, checking the closet. It was gone. "Girl took my jumper," he sighed, shaking his head. That was an expensive piece. "Can't have shit in Cleveland."
Bang. Bang.
"Come on, boarding is in an hour, I ain't missing another flight because of your tardy ass!" Steph shouted again.
"Stop bitching, man, I'll be out in a minute!" Donovan bellowed back.
He moved with more urgency now. He grabbed his PlayStation 4—the most important item in his luggage—and carefully placed it into his reinforced backpack, coiling the cords neatly.
He gathered the rest of his clothes, shoving them haphazardly into his Louis Vuitton suitcase.
He grabbed his wallet, pulling out three hundred-dollar bills and leaving it on the nightstand for the maid.
She was going to need it.
He grabbed his varsity jacket, threw his backpack over one shoulder, and wheeled his suitcase to the door.
He opened it to find Steph Curry leaning against the opposite wall, scrolling on his phone. Steph looked fresh, annoyingly so, wearing a crisp Under Armour tracksuit.
"What took you so long?" Steph asked, pushing off the wall.
"Bro, I was out," Donovan said, rubbing his eyes.
They started walking down the long hallway toward the elevators. The hotel was quiet, most of the other guests having already checked out or knowing better than to disturb the team floor.
"What about that girl you were with?" Steph asked, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "The blonde? I saw the Iso signal."
"She was fun," Donovan said simply, pressing the elevator call button.
"Fun? That's it?" Steph pressed, following him into the elevator. "Give me some details."
"Why you want details about my sex life?" Donovan asked, leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator car.
"Listen, I'm a married man," Steph said, holding his hands up defensively. "I love Ayesha, but I need to live vicariously through you. Just give me a couple of details. Did she have an accent?"
"No," Donovan deadpanned.
Steph rolled his eyes. "Just give me like... eleven details."
"Eleven details?" Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Why eleven?"
"When you're married as long as me, you would understand the significance of specific numbers," Steph said cryptically. "Come on."
Donovan sighed. "She's blonde. It was rough. And it was wild."
Steph nodded appreciatively. "If it ain't wild, it ain't right."
"We got hammered," Donovan admitted, staring at the floor numbers ticking down. "It was sloppy in a good way. It was more tiring than any game this season. I feel like I played a double overtime."
Steph laughed. "You got protection?"
"Bro, be for real," Donovan scoffed. "Always."
"Like an NDA," Steph clarified.
"She's not the type to fuck and tell," Donovan said confidently. "No penetration without representation."
"You don't want another baby momma?" Steph teased.
"Hey, low blow, man," Donovan warned, though there was no real heat in it.
Steph started humming a tune, bobbing his head. "I'm just saying... She was supposed to buy your shorty Tyco with your money. She went to the doctor, got lipo with your money. She walkin' 'round lookin' like Michael with your money. Shoulda got that insured, Geico for your money."
"You singing Kanye to me about this?" Donovan asked incredulously as the elevator doors dinged open on the lobby floor.
"I'm just saying, man," Steph shrugged, grinning. "Beware the gold diggers. It wouldn't be the first time you get caught."
"She's not a gold digger," Donovan said, walking past the few awestruck fans in the lobby toward the waiting bus. "She's rich. Like, rich rich. She probably has more money in her purse than I have in my wallet right now."
"So what does she want with you?" Steph asked, feigning confusion.
Donovan stopped at the bus door and looked back at his point guard. "Real funny."
The bus ride to the airfield and the subsequent plane ride back to the Bay Area was surprisingly subdued.
The euphoria of the championship had given way to the biological reality of the hangover.
Donovan sat in his usual seat, reclining it as far back as it would go. He pulled out his phone. He hadn't checked it since he tossed it onto the sofa at the club last night.
The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications. 482 unread texts. 105 missed calls. Instagram was a solid block of red. Even PlayStation Network had sent a notification about a password change.
He scrolled through them lazily. Congratulations from rappers, actors, old teammates, family members asking for money, and random numbers he didn't recognize.
He cleared them all. He didn't have the mental bandwidth to deal with this now.
Eventually, the wheels touched down on the tarmac in Oakland. The jolt woke him up. He looked out the window to see a crowd of fans gathered at the private terminal fence, waving blue and yellow flags.
He stood up, grabbing his bag, still annoyed about the missing jumper. It was chilly in the Bay.
Steve Kerr stood at the front of the plane, clapping his hands to get their attention. "Alright guys, great work. Go home, rest up. Parade is on the twelfth. That's Tuesday. Be ready by 9 AM. Enjoy this, you earned it."
Donovan nodded, threw his backpack over his shoulder, and descended the stairs. He signed a few autographs for the fans on the tarmac, kept his sunglasses on to hide his tired eyes, and made a beeline for his car.
His Porsche 918 Spyder was waiting for him, parked in the VIP lot. It was a beautiful machine, silver with acid green calipers.
He threw his bag in the passenger seat, slid into the low bucket seat, and fired up the engine. The roar of the V8 was the first thing that truly woke him up all day.
He drove out of the airport, merging onto the highway.
The drive to Atherton took about forty minutes. He drove on autopilot, his mind drifting between the championship and the emptiness of the off-season that lay ahead.
He pulled up to the massive iron gates of his estate. They swung open slowly, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with palm trees.
His house was a modern fortress—glass, concrete, and steel, nestled in the most expensive zip code in America.
He parked in the garage, next to his G-Wagon and his Ferrari. He grabbed his bag and walked into the house.
The silence of the house was broken immediately by the sound of rapid, rhythmic clicking on marble. It sounded like a tap dancer in a hurry.
"Big Dog!" Donovan called out, his voice warming instantly.
Rounding the corner wasn't a guard dog, or a pitbull, or a German Shepherd.
It was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi.
The dog, with its oversized ears and stubby legs, drifted around the corner on the slick floor, struggling for traction before righting itself and wiggling furiously toward Donovan.
Donovan had always viewed Corgis as the ultimate status symbol. Growing up in East Harlem, the "rich" dogs were the ones he saw on TV in castles.
The Queen had Corgis.
Therefore, when Donovan signed his first rookie contract, he didn't buy a chain; he bought a Corgi.
To him, this little loaf of bread was the height of luxury.
"Haven't seen you all week," Donovan cooed, dropping his bag and crouching down.
The Corgi stood on its hind legs, barely reaching Donovan's shin, yapping happily.
"Do you know who the Greatest Basketball Player of all time is?" Donovan asked seriously, scratching the dog behind its large, fox-like ears.
The Corgi let out a sharp, high-pitched bark.
"Just checking," Donovan grinned, standing up and towering over the animal. "Let's run the play."
He walked through the house, the Corgi trotting dutifully at his heels, its butt wiggling with every step. The interior was a museum to his own greatness, but also a shrine to his journey.
He passed the trophy case. It was illuminated by spotlights, a blinding display of gold and crystal.
Front and center was the beginning: The 2009 Rookie of the Year trophy. That was the warning shot.
Next to it were the twin pillars of his dominance: The 2013 Defensive Player of the Year and the 2015 Defensive Player of the Year. He prided himself on those.
Two-way player.
Then, the big ones. The 2014 NBA MVP trophy and the 2015 NBA MVP.
And finally, the holy grail. The O'Brien trophies. 2015. 2017. And now, he reached into his bag and pulled out the 2018 Finals MVP trophy, placing it carefully on the velvet shelf next to the other two Finals MVPs.
"Three of 'em," Donovan muttered, admiring the reflection. "We running out of space, Big Dog."
He walked into the kitchen, a sleek expanse of white marble and stainless steel. He walked over to a ceramic jar shaped like a basketball labeled "COOKIES." He reached in and pulled out a small bone-shaped biscuit.
"Run the play, Big Dog," Donovan commanded, holding the biscuit up.
The Corgi immediately ran to the other side of the kitchen island, drifting slightly on the turns, before facing Donovan, his body low to the ground, ears perked up like radar dishes.
"Donovan catches it from the inbound," Donovan narrated in his announcer voice, dribbling an imaginary ball. "He drives in, he draws another defender, he lobs the ball!"
He threw the biscuit high into the air.
Big Dog didn't have a 40-inch vertical, but he had heart.
He launched himself into the air, all four paws leaving the ground by a solid six inches. He snapped the biscuit out of the air with the precision of a shark and landed with a soft thud.
"And Big Dog throws it down!" Donovan shouted. "And the crowd goes wild! And they win!"
Big Dog crunched happily on his prize.
Donovan leaned against the counter, the silence of the house returning. It was huge, it was beautiful, and it was empty. Just him and the short-legged dog.
He pulled out his phone, checking Instagram.
He saw a message thread from Kendall. She had texted him three times since last night. He opened it.
Kendall: Seriously is that it?
Donovan typed back quickly.
Donovan: Yeah, I'm not going to beg you to stay, you'll just be back by the end of the week.
Kendall: I'm serious, I got a man now.
Donovan: Okay, acting like that changes anything.
Kendall: It does we're in a serious relationship.
Donovan scoffed.
Donovan: You said that last time, and still ended up in my bed by the end of week.
Kendall: This time it's different.
Donovan: Sure. Text me when you're coming by.
He locked the phone and tossed it onto his chest. He wasn't worried. He never lost sleep over women.
Big Dog finished his biscuit and came back, staring up at him with expectant eyes.
"What do you want to do, Big Dawg?" Donovan asked, looking down. "What do you want to do today?"
The dog tilted his head.
"You want to play Basketball? You want to go for a walk?"
The dog didn't move.
"I know what you want to do," Donovan said, pointing a finger at him. "You want to see the new ESPN special profile on Donovan Knight?"
Big Dog let out a soft woof.
"Attaboy."
Donovan walked into the living room, collapsing onto the massive leather sectional. He grabbed the remote and turned on the 85-inch TV. It was already tuned to ESPN. First Take was on. Stephen A. Smith and Skip Bayless were sitting across from each other, looking intense.
The banner at the bottom read: Donovan: DYNASTY OR DEPARTURE?
Skip Bayless was mid-rant, leaning over the table, pen in hand.
"I've said it before," Bayless declared, his voice raspy and emphatic. "He's the best player in the World, it means nothing to me to say that anymore because it is just a fact."
Donovan smirked. "Tell 'em, Skip."
"It doesn't mean anything to me," Bayless continued. "He's the most talented player I've ever seen. He's a two-way player who can average a triple-double every night. I've never seen anything like it before. Michael didn't do this. LeBron doesn't do this."
"I'm pretty sure he's seven feet tall," Bayless added, squinting at the camera. "I don't know why they list him at 6'8. I've stood next to him. He's seven feet tall and he has the length of an eight-footer. And you're not blocking that shot," Bayless said, chopping his hand for emphasis. "And you take that kind of talent with the handle..."
"See, look at that glaze," Donovan laughed, gesturing to the Corgi who was licking his paw. "Best in the World. He knows."
"And he's better than his peers," Bayless argued. "LeBron can't guard him. Kevin Durant can't defend at the level Donovan can while Donovan can score at a higher level than KD can because Donovan is stronger than Kevin Durant is."
"And he's chasing Michael Jordan," Bayless concluded. "But I still don't think this championship has much of an effect on if Donovan Knight stays this summer because I think winning matters to him, but legacy matters more."
"What the hell is he on about?" Donovan muttered, his brow furrowing.
He pressed the fast-forward button on the remote, mocking Bayless's voice. "How does that sound? How does that sound?"
He stopped when the topic shifted.
"The clock is ticking," Bayless said ominously. "Where does he go? Knicks? 76ers? Houston? LA? Nets?"
Donovan clicked the TV off. The screen went black.
"Blah. Blah. Blah," Donovan said to the empty room. "You talk to me when you're worth hundreds of millions of dollars. You talk to me when you're in the gym at 4 AM."
He tossed the remote onto the cushion. The silence was back.
He needed a distraction.
Donovan unlocked his phone again, the screen illuminating the dim living room. He opened Instagram, his thumb hovering over the glass as the Explore page loaded. It was a digital buffet, curated specifically for the id of a twenty-something multi-millionaire athlete.
He started scrolling.
The first post was from House of Highlights. It was a clip from Game 4, a slow-motion replay of Donovan catching the ball in the high post, pivoting, and putting Kevin Love in a blender before rising up for a fadeaway.
The caption read: Is Donovan the most unguardable player since Jordan?
"Since?" Donovan scoffed, tapping the like button anyway. "Disrespectful. I'm efficient. He was volume."
He scrolled down. Next was a carousel from Hypebeast. A preview of the new Off-White Jordan 1s in a University Blue colorway. They looked clean, deconstructed, industrial.
"Already got 'em," Donovan muttered. Virgil had sent him a pair three weeks ago.
He scrolled again. A video from a car page he followed. It was a Bugatti Chiron doing a pull on a highway in Dubai. The engine sounded like a jet turbine sucking in the atmosphere. The speedometer blurred past 300 km/h effortlessly.
Donovan paused, watching the loop. He respected the engineering, but the Chiron was too bulky.
It was a tank. He preferred the razor-sharp precision of his Porsche.
"Too heavy," he critiqued, flicking his thumb upward. "Can't corner in that."
He scrolled past the news about his free agency. "Sources" were saying he was favoring Philadelphia.
"Philly?" Donovan laughed out loud. "Hell no."
The nightlife sucked. It was cold. The only four he was actually considering were the Lakers (LA lifestyle), the Warriors (loyalty/winning), the Knicks (home), or Houston (no state tax).
Next was a meme page posting a picture of Tyronn Lue looking confused on the sideline.
Donovan chuckled, a genuine sound. "Man, leave T-Lue alone," he said, though he liked the post. It was funny because it was true.
Then came the algorithm shift. The feed transitioned from sports and luxury to skin.
First, a brunette 'fitness model' doing squats in leggings that looked painted on. Her form was terrible, knees caving in, back arched dangerously.
"Tear an ACL like that," Donovan judged, swiping past without a second thought.
Then, a mirror selfie of a girl he had met at All-Star weekend in LA. She was wearing a dress made of what looked like diamonds and dental floss. She was cute, but she talked too much about her 'brand' and her essential oils.
"Pass," Donovan murmured. "Too much work."
He scrolled again, and his thumb froze.
The image filled the screen. It was a woman standing on a balcony, the white railing framing a backdrop of the Miami skyline bathed in the orange glow of a sunset. But Donovan wasn't looking at the architecture.
She was blonde, her hair cascading down her back in perfectly styled, heavy waves. She was wearing a white bikini that was fighting a losing battle against physics. The top was strained, the bottoms high-cut to accentuate hips that curved out aggressively. Her skin was tanned to a golden bronze, glistening with oil. Her face was painted for the gods—heavy lashes, contoured cheekbones, lips that were full and glossy.
His mind instantly, almost involuntarily, flashed back to the Ritz-Carlton. To Margot.
Margot was effortless. She wore a hoodie and looked like a goddess. Her beauty was sharp, intelligent, and commanding.
Comparing them, it wasn't even close. Margot had a class, a natural aura that this girl on the screen couldn't buy at a surgeon's office. Margot was a vintage Rolls Royce; this girl was a leased Lamborghini with a body kit.
Margot had her beat in every metric that mattered to the world.
But Donovan looked closer at the screen. The girl's eyes were bedroom-ready. Her pose was inviting, not challenging. She didn't look like she would ask him about his favorite Peter Rabbit movie. She didn't look like she would challenge him to a drinking contest or make him work for it.
Margot was a Game 7. This girl looked like a preseason exhibition against a Division II team.
He wanted easy. And she looked incredibly, wonderfully easy.
He looked at the name above the picture.
Nicole Aniston.
"Damn," Donovan whispered, the comparison fading as the primal urge took over. "She bad."
He double-tapped the photo. The little white heart appeared over her stomach. He knew the play.
He got up and walked to the kitchen to make a shake. He grabbed a blender. In went a handful of spinach, a can of tuna, three raw eggs, a banana, and a scoop of unflavored whey. He blended it on high.
The result was a thick, grey sludge that looked like wet cement.
"That's the one," Donovan said, pouring it into a pitcher.
He drank it straight from the pitcher, chugging the vile mixture without grimacing. Fuel was fuel.
As he set the pitcher down, his phone buzzed. An Instagram DM.
He wiped his mouth and checked it.
Nicole Aniston: I see you lurking 👀
Donovan smirked. She was waiting for it, he thought. Good sign. No warm-up needed.
Donovan: Hard not to look when the view is that good.
Nicole: Charmer. Congrats on the ring by the way.
Donovan nodded to himself. She knows the resume. She knows who the big dog is.
Donovan: Thanks. Just another day at the office.
Nicole: Must be a nice office.
Donovan: It has its perks. You ever been to Atherton?
Move the pawn, Donovan thought. Don't waste time talking about the weather.
Nicole: No, I haven't. Is it good?
Donovan: I'll fly you out. How does that sound?
Nicole: Okay.
Donovan chuckled. Too easy. Just like a layup line.
Donovan: Tuesday?
Nicole: Sure. What class?
Donovan: First.
Nicole: So... the higher the class, the more you have to give up?
Donovan raised an eyebrow. She wants to play a little game? Alright.
Donovan: Come on be for real, kind of expected no?
Nicole: Just messing with you. First class gets you everything.
Donovan grinned. That's what I wanted to hear. No riddles. No Peter Rabbit.
Donovan: What does economy get me?
Nicole: Nothing. Maybe a handshake.
Donovan: I'm just playing. Tuesday. I'll have my assistant send the details.
He locked his phone and slid it into his pocket.
He turned to his Corgi, who was now resting his head on his paws, looking like a discarded loaf of bread.
"Told you," Donovan said, walking toward the massive glass doors that led to the pool. "It's too easy."