Chapter Text
“Wake up."
“Wake up.”
“Motherfu- Wake the fuck up.”
Josh shoved Jalen over onto his back, exposing his bloated sleeping face. The Knicks captain and Finals MVP had dried blood smeared all over the lower half of his face, the result of a surprise nosebleed that hadn’t quite been stemmed in time.
Josh wrinkled his nose.
Where was his phone? He wanted to take a picture.
Still in last night's clothes, he extracted himself from the bed, blearily recalling that the last time he'd shared one with Jalen had been years ago on some Nova road trip. Thankfully, he was still alert enough to avoid any dark spots on the sheets he hoped were only blood.
He stumbled to his feet, slowly surveying the rest of the room. It was still dark inside, the lights turned off, except for a sliver of light that the curtains didn't cover. They were in some sort of swanky hotel where everything, everything, seemed to be made of glass.
He found OG and Mikal passed out in the second bedroom across the hall, the door thrown wide open, the chaos inside obvious to anyone passing by. Open bottles of liquor sat on every available flat surface, and glasses of every shape and size lay scattered around the room. It stunk of alcohol, and Josh, barely remembering last night besides flashes of drinking and drinking and more drinking, winced at the acrid smell.
Josh Hart was no lightweight, but he had his limits too.
A cursory look behind the heavy blackout curtains in their room told him he’d woken with the rest of the world, the bright daylight temporarily blinding him as he stumbled back, drawing the curtains shut once again. Wherever they were, the sun was out. Jesus.
He lifted his hands to rub at his temples.
Fuck.
Everything hurt.
His brain, his mouth, his eyes, his abs. It felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and probably shouldn’t have survived.
Water. He needed water.
Somehow, he found his way to the kitchen, groping blindly at the walls and tables, in their darkened suite, leaving messy greasy fingerprints behind for the housekeepers to delight at later.
He swiped a glass from the living room on the way there, unsure if it’d been used the night prior or not, but he’d sniffed it and it smelled fine, if not a little dusty. He stuck it under the kitchen faucet, waiting for it to fill up.
The clock on the built-in microwave showed 11:35. Not bad. He was totally gonna rub this in Jalen's face later. He vaguely recalled betting on who'd sleep straight through the next day.
It took him about three glasses to feel relatively normal again, and even then, that didn’t negate the pounding ache behind his eyes, or the pain over his ribs.
Seriously, what was that about?
He set the glass down on the glass counter (why) and lifted up his shirt. In the pale light filtering through the half-shade curtains of the living room, he saw a dark mass covering his front. He poked at it experimentally before immediately regretting it.
Fuck.
Yeah, that was a bruise.
A massive fucking bruise the size of Texas was on his torso.
Suddenly getting hit by a bus didn’t seem so crazy a theory.
He needed his phone, but he didn't want to walk around anymore. The crazy hangover wasn't helping either.
He needed to sit. Turning around, he headed for the L-shaped couch a few feet away. He stopped in his tracks.
What the fuck.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Just to really make sure—
Sitting on the glass coffee table, glinting in the dark room, was the Larry O’Brien Trophy.
Josh stared at it.
The trophy stared back.
“...Nah.”
The Knicks were NBA champions, he remembered that much. And the Larry was theirs. Just not the actual trophy.
The real trophy was supposed to be in New York.
And they were—where the hell were they?
He beelined for the balcony door, pushing it open. Warm, dry heat greeted him instantly. He hadn't even realized the room inside was air conditioned.
Red rock stretched for miles beyond. Birds flew lazily in circles in the distance.
"…The fuck?"
Yeah no, he'd died and gone to some weird backrooms version of heaven, 'cause why the hell was he on another planet?
He whirled around, thinking of his teammates passed out on their beds, trying to work through his brain fog.
Him, Jalen, Mikal, and OG. In the middle of what looked like a desert.
There was a brochure half-hidden beneath the Larry. WELCOME TO BADLANDS NATIONAL PARK, it read across the top.
Josh frowned. Where the fuck was that?
Arizona? Utah? Mars?
He flipped it over, looking at the pictures. People hiking trails and posing in front of rocks smiled back at him. There sure were a lot of rocks. 'Your next adventure awaits in Rapid City, South Dakota.'
South Dakota.
Where the hell was that?
It wasn't in the league, that's for sure.
His eyes flickered between the Larry O'Brien Trophy and the pictures of the red rock that mirrored what he saw outside.
Holy shit.
They were in South Dakota. With the Larry.
Shit.
James Dolan was so going to kill them.
Well.
He considered the still-sleeping Knicks captain.
Not if Jalen killed them first.
He trundled back down the hallway, all of a sudden much more sober than he'd been in the past twenty-four hours. With something like trepidation, he approached Jalen's bed.
"Dude."
"Jalen," he tried again, louder, shaking Jalen's shoulder.
Getting no response, he cleared his throat.
"JALEN. MARQUIS. BRUNSON," he boomed in his best impression of Rick Brunson.
The fearless Knicks captain finally stirred. "Say that again," Jalen mumble-threatened, eyes still closed.
Alright then. Josh took a deep breath. "JALEN. MARQ-"
Jalen's hand shot up and found Josh's face in a blind swing that would've made him proud if he'd been prepared.
"Ow!" Josh jumped back, resisting the urge to retaliate. "What the fuck, dude?"
"Yeah, what the fuck—" Jalen cut off as he stirred awake, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes. He sat up and looked around. The room was devoid of wives and children. Instead, it smelled like the Knicks locker room after a game.
"…The hell?"
Josh grimaced. "It gets worse." He motioned to his nose.
Jalen touched his own nose, frowning as he felt the dried blood. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like."
"It's not what it looks like."
Jalen gave him a look. Josh snapped his mouth shut. Right.
They heard stumbling out in the hallway, then someone cursing as a light went on, bathing their room in a soft orange glow.
Then: "OH HELL NAW. THE FAWK?!"
"Mikal?" Jalen asked, confusion washing over his features.
"Shit, yeah, I guess he just woke up."
Jalen followed him out to the living room to where Mikal was standing in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts, holding the Larry O'Brien Trophy at arm's length like it might bite him.
Jalen stopped in his tracks.
He looked at Josh with wide eyes, bloodied nose forgotten. "Say sike right now."
"Si- "
"I swear to god, Josh."
At the sound of their voices, Mikal looked up from the trophy.
"Guys, what the fuck," he deadpanned, lips all puffy from sleep. "This ain't real, is it?"
Jalen looked about two seconds from exploding.
"It better not be."
This time, Josh didn't have the heart to respond.