As the final buzzer sounded, the arena exploded. The Orlando Magic had just won their first-ever NBA Championship, and I was standing at the center of it all. The noise was deafening—fans screaming, teammates running onto the court, confetti raining down from the rafters like golden snowflakes.
Tobias tackled me first, nearly knocking me over.
"WE DID IT! WE DID IT!" He shouted in my ear.
The cameras swarmed me, reporters pushing microphones in my face, but I wasn't listening. I was looking up at the rafters, watching as the banner "2015 NBA CHAMPIONS – ORLANDO MAGIC" flashed across the jumbotron.
Then, the announcement came.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your 2015 NBA Finals MVP… Franklin Lincoln!"
The crowd lost it.
David Stern's replacement, Adam Silver, stepped up with the trophy in his hands, smiling as he called me over.
I took the trophy in my hands—it was heavier than I expected.
The fans started chanting.
"M-V-P! M-V-P! M-V-P!"
I leaned into the mic.
"Orlando… we got one!"
The roar of the crowd was so loud, it felt like the arena might collapse.
-Locker Room
The moment we stepped into the locker room, it was pure chaos.
Bottles of champagne were already lined up, waiting for us. As soon as I walked in, Tobias and Elfrid doused me with one. Ice-cold champagne ran down my face, soaking my jersey.
I grabbed my own bottle, shook it up, and sprayed the whole team. My entourage and those of the guys on the team were present.
Vic was standing on a chair, popping bottles like we were in a club.
Coach came in, already drenched, smiling. "Hell of a season. We're at the top. Now let's enjoy it."
I sat in front of my locker for a moment, trophy in one hand, champagne in the other. My phone was blowing up—texts from Kyrie, AD, Dame, even Kobe.
-ESPN Panel – Postgame Reaction
Stephen A. Smith: "Ladies and gentlemen, what did I tell you? Franklin Lincoln is a superstar, a final mvp at 20, not to mention his other accomplishments. This young man is the real truth.
-Franklin's pov
After the press conferences, we headed out—downtown Orlando was on fire. Fans flooded the streets, cars honking, people climbing light poles.
We pulled up to a club for the real celebration. Champagne, music, the Finals trophy sitting in the VIP section like a king's crown.
At one point, I stepped outside, looking at the skyline. Vic walked up next to me.
"How's it feel, Pres?"
I smiled, looking at the trophy in my hand.
"Feels like the start."
-June 20, 2015-Location- Franklin Lincoln's Apartment, Orlando, FL
For the first time in years, I could finally breathe.
No early morning workouts. No film sessions. No media obligations. Just me, my family, and the rare peace that came with knowing we were NBA Champions.
I was back in my Orlando apartment—the one the team had set up for me when I got drafted.
Cee-Cee had been with me through everything—from the streetball courts in New York to this exact moment, where we were sitting on my couch, watching the Finals highlights for the tenth time.
"You ever get tired of watching yourself win?" she teased, tossing popcorn at me.
I smirked. "Nah. I worked too hard for this."
She rolled her eyes but smiled. "I'm proud of you, Frank."
Offseason before this? It was work, nonstop. Early mornings. Late nights. Isolation.
But this time?
My mom announced, scrolling through her phone. "You need a real vacation."
I shook my head. "Yeah that's true but, I don't really know what to do"
She smacked my arm. "Franklin. For once in your life. You just had a great season . Let yourself enjoy it."
I sighed, but deep down, I knew she was right.
My phone was still blowing up. My social networks are only going up I am at 23 million on Instagram now. While I was on my phone I received a message from Dom.
Dom: "We need to talk soon. Puma's ready to launch your first signature shoe next season, the model you approved."
Me: "They want us to talk about a contract renegotiation?"
Dom: "Yes they know very well what you bring they don't want to lose you, and they also want to advertise the launch of your shoes."
Me: "Ok where should we meet, for all that I have a lot of time at the moment."
Dom: "No we are going to do everything in Orlando to keep the side connected with the city."
After two days...
My first deal with Puma was solid, but after winning two MVPs, two DPOYs, the scoring title, and leading my team to a championship, it was time for an upgrade.
The executives—suits, watches that cost more than cars—stood as soon as I entered the room.
"Franklin," one of them, a bald guy with a thick German accent, greeted me with a wide smile. "Congratulations again, champ. What you did this season was... historic."
I shook his hand. "Appreciate that. But I'm here to talk about what's next."
Dom nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Alright, let's cut to the chase. My guy just had one of the greatest individual seasons ever. MVP. Defensive Player of the Year. Champion. First Team All-NBA and All-Defensive. He's the face of this league's future. And he deserves a contract that reflects that."
The Puma reps exchanged glances.
"We hear you," one of them said. "Which is why we're ready to present Franklin with a seven-year, $190 million deal."
I kept a straight face, but inside? Damn.
Dom, though, didn't flinch. "That's a great start. But let's talk incentives. Signature shoe sales, playoff bonuses, merchandise revenue split—my guy isn't just an athlete, he's a brand now."
The negotiations went on for about two hours—Dom breaking down every angle, every percentage, making sure I got the best deal possible.
By the end of it?
Seven years. $210 million. Signature shoe revenue split. Bonus incentives for MVPs, titles, and DPOYs.
Yeah… I could live with that.
I signed the contract, shook hands with the execs, and walked out with Dom.
"That" he said, adjusting his suit as we stepped into the Orlando sun, "is how you secure generational wealth, my guy."
A few hours later...
I was at a private gym in Orlando, walking onto the set of my first-ever commercial shoot for my signature shoe.
The place was packed—cameramen, directors, lighting crews, extras in Puma gear, all prepping for the big moment.
The creative director, a short dude with a headset, ran up to me. "Franklin! Man, so hyped to have you here. We're gonna make this look iconic."
The shoot was insane.
First, they had me dribbling under neon lights, sweat dripping as I went through killer crossovers in slow motion.
Then came the dunk sequences—they rigged up a hoop with special cameras to capture the moment in 360 degrees as I threw down windmills and tomahawks.
At one point, they brought in a crowd of extras—fans in the stands, kids wearing my gear, chanting my name.
After three hours of intense shooting, the director called for the final shot—the big reveal.
The lights dimmed. A spotlight hit center court.
I walked into the frame, holding my first signature shoe in my hands.
The camera zoomed in as I laced them up, stood up, and stared into the lens.
Cut.