June 21st, 2018
Draft Night
The media room in Donovan's Atherton house was dimly lit, feeling more like a bunker than a luxury entertainment space.
The massive eighty-five-inch curved television dominated the far wall, casting a sharp, oscillating blue glow that illuminated his face.
The 2018 NBA Draft was underway.
Donovan sat dead center on his oversized plush sectional, Big Dog the Corgi curled up near his lap, completely oblivious to the franchise-altering decisions being made across the country.
Donovan held his phone in one hand and a sleek aluminum remote in the other, aggressively flipping between the live ESPN broadcast, Twitter feeds, and his overflowing iMessage inbox.
He barely watched the actual panel analysis.
He didn't care what Jay Bilas thought about a nineteen-year-old's wingspan or what Jalen Rose had to say about lateral quickness.
He cared about results.
He cared about the chess pieces being moved on the board.
He cared about his own legacy.
His phone buzzed incessantly against his palm. It vibrated with such frequency it felt like a tiny, localized earthquake.
It wasn't just his usual group chats popping off; it was the entire upper echelon of the league actively trying to court him.
He was the biggest domino of the 2018 free agency class, and every superstar wanted him to fall their way.
He looked at the notifications lighting up his lock screen, his face twitching with a volatile mixture of amusement, arrogance, and sheer annoyance.
LeBron James: LA is the move, brother. Me and you. Think about the empire we could build. The movies, the rings, the legacy. Showtime 2.0.
Donovan stared at the text. He let the words sit there.
LeBron in LA was tempting, undeniably so.
The weather, the branding opportunities, the sheer, overwhelming talent of the two of them on the same hardwood.
It was basically a guaranteed ring, maybe two or three.
The league wouldn't know what hit them.
But playing with LeBron meant living in LeBron's shadow.
It meant being the Robin to his Batman, the Kyrie Irving or Dwyane Wade to his LeBron.
Donovan had three championship rings. He had back-to-back Finals MVPs. He was a two-time regular-season MVP. He wasn't a sidekick. He wasn't a co-star.
He was Batman. He needed his own Gotham.
He swiped the notification away.
Russell Westbrook: Come on we both thinking about it. OKC. We'd be dogs. Nobody stopping us in the West.
Donovan shook his head, a dry chuckle escaping his lips.
He loved Russ. He loved Russ's psychotic, relentless, hundred-miles-an-hour intensity.
But the man treated the basketball like it owed him money, and he refused to let anyone else collect the debt. Russ needed the ball 90% of the time to be effective. Donovan needed the ball 90% of the time to dictate the offense.
There was only one ball on the court.
It would be a spacing disaster, an isolation nightmare, and they'd probably end up fighting in the locker room within a week.
He swiped again.
Jokic: We have horses. And mountains. Come to Denver. We drink Rakija. It will be fun, brother.
Donovan chuckled genuinely at that one. Denver was cool. Jokic was arguably the most unselfish superstar in the entire league, a big man who passed like a point guard. Playing with him would be basketball nirvana.
But the lifestyle? It was non-existent unless you legitimately liked craft breweries, hiking up steep inclines, and dealing with altitude sickness.
Donovan was a creature of the night.
He was a creature of the bright lights.
He couldn't bring a bad bitch to Denver; she'd leave by halftime of the first snowy November game.
No, Stella was right. It didn't come close to New York.
The fit was perfect.
The narrative of the prodigal son returning to save the Mecca of basketball was perfect.
The ultimate control over the roster... that was the drug he really wanted.
He refocused on the television, watching the picks roll in with a critical eye.
Deandre Ayton went first overall to Phoenix. Marvin Bagley III went to Sacramento.
Luka Doncic was drafted by Atlanta and immediately traded to Dallas—that kid was going to be a problem, Donovan noted mentally, recognizing the sheer fundamental skill the Slovenian possessed.
The New York Knicks were on the clock at number 9.
Donovan sat up straight, his posture rigid. Big Dog grumbled as he was disturbed, but Donovan ignored him.
This was the test. This was the moment of truth. If they took Shai Gilgeous-Alexander like he had explicitly demanded, he was a Knick.
He would sign the papers tomorrow.
His phone buzzed.
Stella: You watching?
Donovan typed back, his thumb hitting the glass screen with heavy, forceful taps.
Donovan: Yeah. Tell me they got Shai. Tell me they didn't mess this up. I want SGA running my point.
He watched the three typing dots bubble up on Stella's end. It took too long. His stomach sank.
Stella: Knicks want to draft Kevin Knox.
Donovan froze. The air in the room seemed to evaporate. "Who?"
He looked up at the massive screen just as the ESPN camera panned to the green room. Kevin Knox, the nineteen-year-old forward out of Kentucky, was sitting at his table, surrounded by his family.
As he stood up to hug his parents, his suit jacket flared open.
The interior lining was custom-made, plastered with the unmistakable, brightly colored logo of the Fortnite video game.
Donovan's face contorted in visceral, unfiltered disgust. It wasn't just a bad suit; it was a statement of profound immaturity. This was the draft. This was a billion-dollar business.
"He's wearing a video game suit?" Donovan shouted at the empty room, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "To the biggest night of his life? He thinks this is a game? We're trying to win championships, and this kid is worried about dropping in Tilted Towers?!"
His thumbs flew across his keyboard.
Donovan: The guy has a Fortnite suit. If they draft him, I'm not signing there. I'm serious. Pull the plug.
Stella: Okay, I'll tell them.
Donovan waited, his heart pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs. The broadcast cut back to the podium. The commissioner, Adam Silver, walked out, holding the envelope that held the fate of the franchise.
"With the ninth pick in the 2018 NBA Draft, the New York Knicks select... Kevin Knox, from the University of Kentucky."
Donovan stood up with such explosive force that he knocked the coffee table, sending a bowl of popcorn tumbling to the floor.
He threw his aluminum remote at the couch. It bounced violently off the plush cushion and clattered against the hardwood floor.
"Are you kidding me?!" Donovan roared, running a hand over his head. "The kid looks like he's twelve! He looks like he's worried about his math homework! He shot forty percent in college! Forty! Are they blind?!"
He snatched his phone off the couch, typing furiously.
Donovan: I ain't playing with some clown in a Fortnite suit. This is a joke. The whole organization is a joke. I'm done, I'm staying.
Stella: I did. They didn't listen. Scott Perry likes his length. Let me talk to the owners. Give me five minutes.
Donovan paced the room, his long strides eating up the distance between the couch and the far wall. Moments later, the reply came.
Stella: The GM isn't going to listen to you. He says Knox has 'tremendous upside' and fits the timeline of their rebuild perfectly.
Donovan: Replace him.
Stella: Seriously?
Donovan: Tell James Dolan I'll sign if he gets rid of the GM right now. Tonight. I'm not playing for a guy who thinks a Fortnite suit is a good culture fit. I asked for ONE thing. One goddamn player.
Stella: You're asking them for a lot here. Firing a GM on draft night? It would be a PR catastrophe.
Donovan: I asked for one thing, and they bottled it. They choked. I'm not risking my legacy on someone who won't listen to what I say. I'm the MVP. They are the laughing stock of the league. Fix it.
Stella: Okay.
Donovan continued to pace the room like a caged panther. This was exactly what he feared about going to New York.
The sheer, unadulterated incompetence.
The arrogance of a management team thinking they knew better than the players who actually bled on the floor.
He felt insulted.
He was the best basketball player in the world, willing to come to their dumpster fire of a franchise, willing to endure the brutal media market, and they ignored his direct request for a kid who liked Battle Royale.
Later in the night, the anger still simmering in his veins, Donovan watched as the Knicks were up again in the second round.
"With the 36th pick, the New York Knicks select... Mitchell Robinson."
Donovan stopped pacing and squinted at the screen. They showed the kid's highlight reel.
The kid was an absolute pogo stick. He blocked everything in sight, erasing shots at the rim with terrifying verticality.
He dunked everything in sight, catching lobs that seemed overthrown by three feet.
"Okay," Donovan muttered, crossing his arms and analyzing the mechanics. "He's athletic. He's long. Good timing on the contests. But..."
He watched the reel loop again. Not a single jump shot. Not a single post move. Not even a simple mid-range turnaround. It was all purely reliant on raw, unpolished athleticism.
"He has no bag," Donovan realized, groaning aloud. "He's just a rim runner. That means the paint is going to be clogged. I drive, his defender collapses on me because they don't respect his shot from outside of three feet. Good lord, this team is some shit, man. The spacing is going to be atrocious."
His phone lit up.
Stella: He's talked to the GM. He apologizes for the Shai thing, but he's going to stick with it. He says trust the process.
Donovan: I ain't going there unless they fulfill promises. Nobody handicapping myself if they're not going to listen. I'm not 'trusting the process', that's Philly. If I wanted to trust a process I'd go play for Brett Brown and deal with Ben Simmons refusing to shoot.
Stella: I have an idea. You sign a two-year contract. One guaranteed, the other a player option. It gives you ultimate leverage. If they don't build a winner, if they don't cater to your needs, you stiff-arm them into trading you or you walk next summer for absolutely nothing. It puts all the pressure on them. It protects you.
Donovan stopped pacing entirely. He stared at the blue bubble on his screen. A 1+1 deal. It was a mercenary contract. It was the "LeBron contract," popularized during his second stint in Cleveland.
It said: "I'm here, but keep me happy every single day, or I'm gone."
It gave him total control. It was a power move that completely shifted the dynamic from the front office to the player.
Donovan: Go ahead. Make it happen. 1+1. Maximum leverage. Let them sweat.
He sat back down on the sectional, grabbing a yellow legal notepad and a pen from the side table.
If the GM wasn't going to build the team properly, Donovan would do it himself.
He needed veterans.
He needed shooters.
He needed adults in the room who wouldn't crumble under the lights of MSG.
He thought deeply about the upcoming free agent market.
He needed someone who could space the floor.
Someone who wouldn't demand the ball but would absolutely kill the opposing defense if they dared to leave him open in the corner.
His mind flashed back to last November. A rainy, dreary Tuesday in Portland. The Warriors were playing the Trail Blazers at the Moda Center.
Donovan was switched onto Seth Curry. He remembered thinking it was going to be an easy night on the defensive end.
Seth wasn't Steph.
He didn't have the hallucinatory ball-handling skills, he didn't have the MVP trophies, and he didn't have the green light from 35 feet.
Donovan had sagged off him a bit, dropping his hands, daring him to shoot, blatantly disrespecting him.
Seth had caught the ball on the right wing. He hit Donovan with a vicious hesitation move that froze him completely—a move that looked eerily, genetically similar to Steph's, that same familial twitch—and then pulled up right in Donovan's face from 28 feet out.
Swish.
It was pure water.
Seth had run back down the court, looking Donovan dead in the eye, pointing a finger at his own forearm. "Check the bloodline, boy! I got that DNA too!"
Donovan had smiled then.
He respected that. He loved that.
The kid had a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder because he was always "Steph's little brother."
But he shot 45% from three.
That was elite. That was a sniper. That was exactly what he needed to keep the floor wide open.
Donovan: Free agents. I want Curry.
Stella: They can't get you Steph. He's staying in the Bay. You know that. Lacob would sell his yacht before he lets Steph walk.
Donovan: I meant the other one. Seth. He's supposed to be a free agent, he mentioned it before. Get him. He shoots the lights out. We need spacing if Robinson is going to be clogging the paint all night.
Stella: Okay, Seth. Who else?
Donovan: Get Rondo. I need a general. I need a psycho. Someone who can yell at Knox and these rookies so I don't have to punch them in practice. Rondo sees the floor exactly like I do. He's crazy, but he's smart. Playoff Rondo is real.
Stella: Okay, Seth and Rondo. Anyone else?
Donovan: Also make sure they keep the white boy who can shoot.
Stella: Who?
Donovan: I don't know his fucking name. That Kornet 4 guy? Tall, pale, looks like he does taxes for a living? Luke Kornet? Whatever. Keep him. He spaces the floor from the five spot. The rest of the roster, management can trade for all I care. Also make them go all in. I'm not half-assing a team. We are pushing all our chips to the center of the table.
Stella: Is there anything else you want? You want me to call them and tell them to build you a house on the moon? Maybe a personal unicorn?
Donovan: I love you, thanks.
Stella: You only love me when I get what you want.
Donovan: Come on, I pay you big money.
Stella: With the big money I make you.
Donovan: Come on, think of the paycheck. 4% of a max deal is a lot of Chanel suits, Stella.
Stella: Fine, I'll tell them. But you better sign after all this.
Donovan: Thanks. I will. I'm going to need some moving guys. Discreet though. I don't want TMZ camped out on my lawn documenting my shoe collection.
Stella: You want me to sell your house?
Donovan looked around the room. He looked at the framed jerseys on the wall, the custom sneaker racks, the trophies gleaming in their glass cases. The memories of building a dynasty here in California were heavy.
Donovan: Nah. I might come back. Or just keep it for the Summer. California weather beats New York humidity any day of the week.
Stella: Okay, I will. About the other thing?
Donovan frowned. The muscles in his jaw tightened. He knew exactly what "the other thing" she meant.
Donovan: Man, fuck the other thing. She can go to hell.
Stella: Okay, just checking. Don't want you getting all lovesick again?
Donovan: Not going to happen. Strictly business.
July 6th, 2018
The ink was dry. The press release had dropped at exactly midnight Eastern Standard Time, completely breaking the internet.
Twitter had crashed for ten minutes straight.
Reddit servers had melted under the weight of a million hot takes.
Donovan Knight was officially a New York Knick.
Donovan stood in the expansive living room of his new, ultra-modern penthouse in Tribeca.
It was temporary housing until he found something more permanent in the city, but it was spectacularly nice.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city he now effectively owned.
The Empire State Building pierced the skyline in the distance, standing like a monument to his arrival.
The massive, wall-mounted television behind him was tuned to ESPN. First Take was broadcasting live, and the energy in the studio was chaotic.
Stephen A. Smith looked like he had just injected pure caffeine directly into his veins. He was standing up from his chair, pacing aggressively around the debate desk, waving a freshly printed Knicks jersey with 'Knight' stitched in bold white lettering on the back.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Stephen A. roared, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated passion. "The long national nightmare is OVER! The drought is ending! The prodigal son has returned to the Mecca!"
Donovan watched over his shoulder, a slow, arrogant smirk playing on his lips.
He usually found Stephen A. to be a loudmouth, a caricature of a sports fan who yelled for ratings.
But today?
Today, the glazing felt absolutely incredible. It rubbed his ego in exactly the right way.
"We are talking about the Best Player in the World!" Stephen A. continued, pointing a trembling finger directly at the camera lens. "Not LeBron James. Not Kevin Durant. Donovan Knight! The man who just three-peated! The man who looked the Golden State dynasty in the eye and said, 'I built this, and now I'm leaving it because I want a real challenge!' He has come home to New York City to end the 45-year drought! Madison Square Garden is alive again!"
Donovan nodded slowly, taking a sip of his nutrient-dense, gray protein smoothie. "Talk to 'em, Stephen A. Tell 'em who the King is."
Max Kellerman, sitting across from him, looked deeply skeptical. He shook his head, expertly playing the analytical heel to Stephen A.'s emotional fanaticism.
"Stephen A., you need to calm down," Max said, holding his hands up, trying to inject cold, hard logic into the hysteria. "Yes, Donovan is a generational talent. Maybe the best offensive talent we've ever seen in the history of the sport. But look at the roster he is joining! Who are these guys? He has absolutely no help. This isn't the Warriors. He doesn't have two of the greatest shooters of all time standing next to him. Look at the East right now! The 76ers have Embiid and Simmons. The Bucks have the Great Freak. The Celtics are getting Kyrie Irving and Gordon Hayward back healthy. The Raptors just traded for Kawhi Leonard. Donovan is great, but he cannot beat those teams 1-on-5 in a seven-game series. He's walking into a trap, and quite frankly, he should have reconsidered this decision."
Stephen A. Smith slammed his hand on the desk so hard his microphone rattled, cutting Max off entirely.
"It doesn't matter, Max! Because there is a new sheriff in town! There is a new man who runs the East! There is a new man who runs the Garden! And his name is Donovan Knight! He will elevate them! He will drag them kicking and screaming to the promised land! We have a King in New York!"
Donovan liked that.
"A new man who runs the Garden," Donovan repeated softly, testing the weight and the cadence of the words on his tongue. It tasted like power.
He looked back out the window. The city sprawled out before him, a concrete jungle of millions of people, waiting to be conquered.
He felt a profound surge of power that he hadn't felt during his entire tenure in Golden State.
There, he was part of an ensemble cast.
He was the lead singer of the band, sure, but it was still a band.
Here, he was the frontman, the label owner, and the entire production crew.
He was the new King of New York.
He walked over to the glass coffee table. There was a piece of hotel stationery he had left there last night, covered in scribbled notes, salary cap math, and offensive formations. He picked it up.
He needed to make sure Stella had executed the rest of his master plan. He pulled his phone from his pocket.
Donovan: Did we get the list?
Stella: Working on it as we speak. Seth is very interested. He likes the idea of playing in a massive market and stepping out of his brother's shadow. Rondo is 50/50 right now, he says he wants a guarantee to start.
Donovan: Tell Rondo he starts. Period. I want the ball in his hands so I can move off-ball and terrorize defenses coming off screens. I scouted these guys, Stella. They fit perfectly.
He looked at the paper again. He closed his eyes and visualized the geometry of the court. Mitchell Robinson setting the bone-crushing hard screen at the top of the key, then rolling violently to the rim.
Seth Curry stationed deep in the corner, his defender terrified to leave him and help in the paint.
Rondo orchestrating at the top of the key, manipulating the defense with his eyes.
And Donovan... Donovan catching the ball in the mid-post, isolated, with the entire floor spaced out perfectly around him.
It was going to be an offensive masterpiece. It was going to be beautiful.
Donovan: Get it done. I want the roster set and finalized before training camp starts. No distractions.
Stella: On it. Also, James Dolan wants to take you to dinner tonight to welcome you to the city. Cipriani's. He wants to discuss 'synergy' and his band.
Donovan: Tell him I'm busy. I'm watching film.
He wasn't going to watch film. He sat down on his plush sofa, unlocked his phone, and idly scrolled through his apps until he inevitably found himself opening Instagram.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He searched for her name. He navigated to her page.
Margot Robbie.
He hadn't spoken to her since that chaotic, tequila-soaked night in Cleveland. He looked at her most recent picture. She looked stunning, as always, radiating that effortless, magnetic charisma that had initially drawn him to her across the crowded club.
He almost tapped the message button. He almost typed a message.
Got those courtside tickets you wanted. Best seats in the Garden.
He stared at the blinking cursor. He wanted to text her.
He really did.
The memory of her stealing his shot glass with no hands, the way she wore his oversized jacket in the McDonald's, the raw, unfiltered banter—it all tugged at a surprisingly vulnerable string in his chest.
But he stopped. His jaw tightened.
He didn't chase.
He was Donovan Knight.
He hadn't chased a girl since his junior year of high school. He wasn't about to start doing that again, not even for a Hollywood superstar.
He was the King now.
Kings didn't beg for attention; they commanded it.
If she wanted to see him, she knew where he played.
He deleted the drafted text. He locked his phone and tossed it onto the coffee table, letting out a long, heavy exhale.
"Time to go to work," he whispered to himself, staring out at the Manhattan skyline.