Tuesday, June 12th, 2018
The sun beat down on Oakland with a relentless, celebratory heat. It was the kind of day that made the gold in the Warriors' jerseys shimmer like actual bullion.
The air around Lake Merritt was thick with the smell of barbecue smoke, stale beer, and the electric, vibrating roar of a million people screaming until their vocal cords shredded.
But before the buses could roll, before the confetti cannons could turn the streets into a yellow blizzard, there was the obligation.
The stage was set up near the convention center, a temporary altar to the basketball gods.
They brought them out in tiers, like a royal court. First came the coaching staff, waving politely.
Then the bench warmers—the guys who played garbage time but still got a ring—soaking up applause that was mostly polite.
Then, the volume spiked. The Hamptons Five. The Death Lineup.
Andre Iguodala walked out, cool as ice.
Draymond Green flexed, roaring at the crowd without a microphone.
Klay Thompson looked around as if he were surprised to be there, wearing a newspaper bucket hat.
Steph Curry danced out, the baby-faced assassin.
Then, the announcer's voice dropped an octave, trembling with hype.
"And finally... the back-to-back Finals MVP!"
Donovan stepped onto the stage. He carried the Larry O'Brien trophy in one hand like it was a lunchbox, his other hand occupied with a bottle of champagne that was already half empty.
He walked past the podium where the 2017 trophy sat on a mantlepiece, placing the 2018 edition right next to it with a heavy thud.
The noise was deafening. It wasn't just cheering; it was worship.
Donovan sat down next to Steph, putting his feet up on the railing. He adjusted his sunglasses, hiding eyes that were already scanning the horizon, bored.
The interview segment began with Joe Lacob and Steve Kerr. They spoke about "resilience" and "culture" and "the journey." Donovan tuned them out completely.
The words floated by him like dust motes. His mind wasn't on the intricacies of the triangle offense or the salary cap implications Lacob was dancing around.
His mind was in a hotel room that he hadn't entered yet. He was thinking about Nicole. He had checked his phone just before walking out; she had landed an hour ago. She was at the Four Seasons, waiting.
But as he thought about Nicole—about the curated photos, the "easy" promise of her DMs—his brain, annoying and traitorous, flickered back to Margot. Margot in his oversized hoodie, eating a McChicken with the appetite of a linebacker. Margot, who had looked him in the eye and challenged him.
He wondered if Nicole could match that energy. He wondered if he was trading a diamond for a rhinestone just because the rhinestone was easier to pick up. A small, nagging part of him wanted to DM Margot, just to send a picture of the parade, just to see if she'd reply.
He pushed that thought down, drowning it in a swig of warm Moët. He didn't want witty. He didn't want serious. He didn't want a challenge. He wanted a victory lap.
The reporter, a woman with a desperate smile plastered on her face, moved down the line to the Splash Brothers.
"Steph Curry, Klay Thompson," she began, holding the mic with a white-knuckled grip. "You're much taller than me, so I'm going to stand in front of Donovan."
She stepped sideways, blocking Donovan's view of the crowd, effectively cornering him. "Before his Warrior exit—if that even happens—I want to spend as much time as possible near greatness."
The crowd's reaction was immediate. A low, rumbling "Booooo" started from the front row and rippled backward. They didn't want to hear about exits. They wanted to pretend this summer would last forever.
The reporter laughed nervously, trying to salvage the vibe. "We'll smooth Joe over later! Any contract you want, right Joe?"
Lacob laughed, but his eyes were tight.
Donovan didn't smile.
He just shook his head slowly, looking at the back of the reporter's blazer. The contract was the least of his concerns.
The numbers were irrelevant; everyone was going to offer him the max. It was about where he wanted to go.
Donovan tuned it out again, his fingers drumming on the champagne bottle.
Nicole is waiting, he thought. Get this over with.
Finally, the reporter turned to him. She looked up, her eyes pleading for a soundbite that would make the 6 o'clock news.
"Donovan," she said, pitching her voice to be heard over the chanting fans. "We want you back at any contract you would like. Any contract, any years? What do you say to Dub Nation?"
Donovan leaned forward, grabbing the mic. He didn't take off his sunglasses.
"I don't even know why that's a discussion," Donovan said, his voice booming through the massive speakers, flat and dismissive. "Why are we even talking about this?"
He stood up, grabbing the trophy again.
"We got a parade to start."
The parade was a blur of blue and yellow confetti, but for Donovan, it was a solo mission.
The parade unfurled like a fever dream down Market Street, convertibles crawling through a sea of blue and gold.
Confetti swirled in the breeze off the bay, fans packed ten deep behind barricades, their screams a deafening tide.
He stood at the very front of the double-decker bus, effectively cutting off the view for Jordan Bell and the other rookies behind him. When the bus turned the corner onto Broadway, the roar was physical, a wall of sound.
Donovan didn't wave to the teammates behind him to join him. He spread his arms wide, soaking it all in alone.
Donovan waving sporadically as 'MVP' chants rolled his way. Banners snapped in the wind—'Don't Go Donovan!' but he soaked it in with detached appreciation.
While Steph mugged for selfies with kids, tossing mini jerseys into the crowd, and Draymond hyped the masses with fist pumps, Donovan played it cooler, scrolling his contacts under the pretense of live-tweeting.
The adulation was sweet, no doubt but it blurred into routine after the grind.
What clawed at him was the hotel room waiting, Nicole's body primed for his use, no drama, no follow-up.
He nodded at a cluster of screaming teens, their signs pleading for his return, but his mind raced ahead: peeling off her lingerie, burying himself in her heat to chase away the Margot echo. The route dragged past landmarks—the Ferry Building, Embarcadero—pyro bursts lighting the sky, but Donovan's impatience simmered.
As floats ground to a halt for the finale, confetti cannons blasting one last time, Donovan was the first off, slipping into the shadows of a side street, bound for release.
By the time the bus looped back to the staging area, Donovan was buzzed and restless. He slipped away before the team dinner could be organized.
He had a car waiting—a blacked-out SUV with tinted windows that swallowed the light.
"Four Seasons," he told the driver. "And take the back way."
He wasn't going to bring Nicole to his crib in Atherton. That was his sanctuary. That was where his Corgi lived. That was where his trophies were displayed.
Bringing a random hookup there felt like a violation of the sanctity of his home. He was smarter than that. Hotels were for business, and this was strictly a transaction of pleasure.
The hotel was quiet, a stark contrast to the madness of the streets. Donovan moved through the service elevator, a ghost in his own city, until he reached the penthouse floor.
He found the room number. 1408.