June 20th, 2018
The air in the Atherton estate was conditioned to a crisp sixty-eight degrees, a stark contrast to the California heat baking the asphalt outside. Donovan Knight sat deep into his Italian leather sofa, his legs sprawled out, the Corgi—Big Dog—snoozing rhythmically on his shin, looking like a burnt loaf of bread.
Across from him sat Stella Peck. She was a woman who defied the aging process through sheer force of will and an aggressive retinol regimen. She wore a Chanel suit that cost more than the Honda Civic Donovan had driven in college and her oversized glasses magnified eyes that had seen every dirty trick the NBA had to offer.
She had been with him since the beginning, the architect of his empire, the only person who could tell him to shut up and actually get a result.
The coffee table between them was a battlefield of paper. Contract offers, salary cap projections, roster depth charts.
"You have twenty teams all willing to sign you," Stella said, looking up over the rim of her glasses. Her voice was a dry rasp, honed by decades of arguing with billionaires.
Donovan didn't move his head, just shifted his eyes. "Only twenty? The league has thirty teams, Stella. Who are the ten idiots?"
"Well," Stella sighed, flipping a page with a manicured finger. "Some have to clear cap space, but nobody is willing to gut their roster just to get a meeting right now because it puts them out of the running for other pieces. You're kind of locked into the twenty. And realistically, we both know you aren't going to Utah."
"Damn right I'm not going to Utah," Donovan muttered, picking up a stress ball and squeezing it. "No nightlife, and the fans look at you like you owe them money. And they don't even have internet."
"I've removed a lot of the teams we know you won't sign for," Stella said. She reached forward, her bracelets clinking, and swept a massive pile of folders off the table.
They hit the floor with a heavy thud, a visual representation of dashed hopes for franchises like the Magic, the Kings, and the Hornets.
Two folders remained.
The Golden State Warriors.
The New York Knicks.
Donovan stared at them. The decision felt heavier than the weights he lifted in the gym.
"I'm not sure about New York," Donovan admitted, breaking the silence. He picked up the orange and blue folder, feeling the texture of the cardstock. "It feels... desperate. Like moving back into your parents' basement because you broke up with your supermodel girlfriend."
"We talked about this," Stella said, shifting into her 'closer' mode. "Homecoming hero. The prodigal son returns to East Harlem to bring a championship to his childhood team. It's not just basketball, Donovan. It's mythology. It's literally printing money. It could turn you into a billionaire in a couple of months. The endorsements alone—Nike is already drafting a 'King of New York' campaign."
Donovan scoffed, tossing the folder back down. "You know how bad New York is? The organization is a dumpster fire. The owner plays the blues in a band nobody listens to. They suck, Stella. They've got nobody. Porzingis is a unicorn with an ACL made of paper. It's a graveyard for careers. Look at Melo. They chewed him up."
"Well, they'll have you," Stella countered, unphased. "Melo was great. You are transcendental."
"I'm not going to New York if it's just going to be me and a bunch of bums," Donovan said, his voice rising slightly. "I might as well just stay here. Steph, Klay, Draymond, Iggy. It's easy. I can stay here and rack up guaranteed championships. Three rings in four years? We could win three more. I could retire with twelve. That's double Jordan and only Russell is near."
"I thought you would say that," Stella nodded, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "But there are a lot of reasons you shouldn't."
"Like?"
"First, the Warriors aren't going to give you a supermax," she dropped the bomb casually. "They want to conserve cap space for next year to pay Klay and Draymond. They're talking about 'shared sacrifice.' They are willing to do under-the-table stuff—investments in your restuarant and tech ventures—but on the books? They're asking you to take a pay cut."
Donovan's jaw tightened. He stopped squeezing the stress ball. "A pay cut? After back-to-back Finals MVPs? That's disrespectful. That's actually insane."
"It is," Stella agreed. "And about championships... a championship in New York has infinitely more weight than in Golden State. Here, you're part of the machine. You're the best part, sure, but the car was already winning races before you got in the driver's seat. A ring in New York? That counts for three anywhere else."
"A ring is a ring," Donovan argued, though his heart wasn't in it. He knew she was right.
"But a ring in New York will mean more to you and it shows you're greater than your peers," Stella pressed, knowing exactly where to stick the needle. "LeBron is going to LA to save the Lakers. You go to New York to save the Knicks. You want to be in the conversation with MJ and Bron? You got to do the impossible"
"Playing to my ego won't work," Donovan lied. It was working perfectly. The image of holding the trophy at center court in MSG, confetti falling, the city worshipping him... it was intoxicating.
"Also," Stella added, "the fan base."
"What about them?"
"The Warriors fans appreciate you," Stella said, looking him dead in the eye. "But New York fans? They are obsessed with you. They love you way more than they do in Golden State. In Oakland, you're a star. In New York, you're a deity."
Donovan frowned, looking skeptical. "I doubt it. I haven't played a single minute in a Knicks jersey. How can they love me if I haven't done anything for them yet?"
"It doesn't matter," Stella said, reaching for her phone. "Just watch it."
She tapped the screen and slid her phone across the marble coffee table. The video was titled "Come Home, GOAT".
"What is this?" Donovan asked with a chuckle, picking up the device.
The video opened with a grainy shot of Times Square. A group of about hundred men, woman and children, ranging from teenagers to old heads, were gathered in a semi-circle.
They were wearing Knicks jerseys—some vintage Ewing ones, some duct-taped Melo jerseys, and a few custom-made ones with 'Knight' scrawled on the back in Sharpie. They looked dead serious, like a choir about to perform a hymn.
One guy in a fitted Yankee cap stepped forward and started conducting. They began to sing, completely off-key but with a passion that bordered on religious fervor.
"There comes a time when a decision must be made," they bellowed, their New York accents thick. "Will the GOAT move on or will he stay? We're waiting helplessly as we hold our breath in fear. Should we get tickets for next year?"
Donovan snorted, covering his mouth to hide a grin. "Are you serious?"
The group threw their arms out wide for the chorus. "Please come home. We really need you. No bigger heart is gonna love you half as much as we do"
The camera panned to a guy crying real tears. "It's a choice you're making. Will you come or will you stay? Just tell us, what changes we must make? We'll rename every street "Donovan" if that's what it takes"
Donovan was shaking his head, laughing openly now. "Rename every street? They're insane."
The choir hit the second chorus, louder this time.
"Please come home. We really need you no bigger heart is gonna love you half as much as we do"
Then, a guy in a Timbs stepped up for the solo, rapping awkwardly. "It's a choice you're making. You can save our downtown. New York is a better place with you around." Then, the grand finale, everyone screaming at the camera. "Please come home. We really need you. No bigger heart is gonna love you half as much as we do!"
The video cut to black with text that read: WE PROMISE WE WON'T BOO YOU.
Donovan handed the phone back, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
"That just gave me an ick," Donovan said, shuddering theatrically. "Grown men singing to me on the street corner? That's nasty work."
"It has a nice flow," Stella argued, tucking her phone away with a straight face.
"Come on, be serious," Donovan laughed. "That was terrible."
"They love you there," Stella insisted, leaning back. "They will worship the ground you walk on. That video has three million views in a day. They are starving, Donovan. And you're the meal. You will have control."
Donovan sighed, the laughter fading as the reality set in. They really were desperate. And there was something seductive about being that needed. "You will have no say about things behind the scenes here."
"Seriously?" Donovan sat up, disturbing Big Dog, who let out a huff of annoyance and waddled to the rug. "After all I've done for them?"
"That's what I tried to bring up to Bob Myers and Joe Lacob, but they were rather firm on the issue," Stella said, her expression hardening. "They also don't trust you."
"Don't trust me?" Donovan repeated, genuinely offended. "I deliver every night. I put my body on the line."
"Yeah, but they don't trust your... off-the-court antics," Stella said delicately. "The partying. The late nights. The rotating door of women. They think you're a distraction waiting to happen."
Donovan rolled his eyes. "I perform. That's all that matters. If I drop 40 with a hangover, that's talent, not a distraction."
"What about New York?" Donovan asked, looking back at the folder.
"You get some control of things going on behind the scenes," Stella smiled. "Coaches. Personnel. You even get to recommend who you want to play with. You're the General Manager in shorts. You run the show."
Donovan smiled. That sounded nice.
"I'm telling you, New York is the place to go," Stella concluded. "And I think you want to go there, and you know you do. So why fight it?"
Donovan leaned his head back, staring at the high ceiling. He thought about the roar of the Oracle Arena. It was loud, sure. But the Garden? The Garden was different. It vibrated. He thought about walking into the bodega in Harlem and seeing his face on every newspaper. He thought about being the King of New York.
"Fine," Donovan exhaled, the decision settling in his gut like a heavy stone. "We'll see."
He looked at Stella with sharp eyes. "But I'm not going in blind. Tell New York to bring in who I want on draft day. If they pick the guys I want, I know they're listening, and I'll sign. If they don't? I'm going back to Golden State, and I'll drop 60 on the Knicks every time I see them."
"You're willing to die on the hill on a rookie?" Stella asked, eyebrows raised.
"I'm not going there and playing with bums," Donovan stated flatly. "I need help. I'm not Thanos"
He thought about the draft class. He had watched the tape. "I want to play with a young star," Donovan said, pointing a finger. "Tell them to draft SGA I watched him at Kentucky. He's got pace. He's slippery. He doesn't panic. That's who I want running the point."
"SGA," Stella noted it down. "Okay. Anything else?"
Donovan paused. He thought about the perks. The lifestyle. He thought about a certain conversation in a McDonald's about field hockey and ice hockey.
"I need tickets," Donovan said suddenly. "A box. At the Garden. For the Rangers."
Stella paused, her pen hovering over her notebook. She looked at him over her glasses, confused. "The Rangers?" Stella asked, her brow furrowing. "Hockey? You hate hockey. You hate the cold."
"It's not about the cold," Donovan said, looking away, feigning interest in his fingernails. "It's about the atmosphere. The energy. It's a New York staple."
"You've never watched a period of hockey in your life," Stella countered, crossing her arms. "You thought 'icing' was something you put on a cake until last year."
"I'm expanding my horizons, Stella," Donovan insisted. "It's cultural. I need to be seen at the big events."
Stella rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "You are about to sign a contract worth one hundred and fifty million dollars, and you're worried about ticket prices? You are so frugal."
"You know how many people go broke from being in the NBA?" Donovan shot back defensively. "I gotta watch the bottom line, Stella. MC Hammer went broke. I ain't going out like that."
"Fine," Stella conceded. "I'll put it in the rider. Who is this for?" Stella asked suspiciously. "Is this for a girl?"
"It's for other reasons," Donovan said vaguely, his face a mask of indifference. "Just get the box. Center ice. Best view."
Stella shook her head, muttering something about 'hormones and tax brackets', but she wrote it down. "Fine. Rangers box. For 'other reasons'."