The scene teetered on the brink of chaos. Security personnel, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, sweating buckets, were overwheld by the surging waves of the crowd. It was barely sustainable—on the verge of collapse.
But what about Lance?
He was already off the court—why had he co back?
Was it because of that female fan?
Lance's eyes didn't even glance that way. He was focused on the opposite direction, where soone was shouting themselves hoarse trying to calm the crowd down, repeating again and again, asking people to regain their senses.
Unfortunately—
In the roar of the crowd, Lance's voice couldn't travel far. He could only calm the people nearby, urging them to stay rational.
But the effect was minimal.
Security rushed forward, trying to pull Lance away. They couldn't be heard either, so they had to reach out physically—but faced with the tall, solid Lance, these normally imposing guards suddenly seed timid and small. One by one, they failed to move him, sweat forming on their brows.
Seeing the scene slipping into uncontrollable chaos, Lance had no ti to explain. He broke free of their grip, stepped forward, and used brute force to part the crowd—until he found the small body trapped between legs and knees—
A boy, five, maybe six or seven years old. Wet dark curls stuck to his forehead, cheeks flushed red, eyes filled with fear and panic, wide open and unfocused, utterly lost.
Clearly terrified senseless.
Lance had caught a glimpse of the boy just a mont ago. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But when he turned back to confirm, he imdiately realized: a crush, maybe even a stampede, was happening—right here.
He knew that staying could make things worse, might even stir the crowd further. But if he left this child behind, there was no telling what might happen.
Even for an adult, being trapped in a stampede was terrifying. You feel small, powerless, your life hanging by a thread. One misstep, and tragedy.
So Lance returned—and reached out his hand.
One pull. One grab.
He pulled the boy into his arms, dragging him out of the pressing crowd. The mont they were free, the people closed back in behind them, the humid, suffocating air bearing down like a wave.
Even Lance found himself instinctively holding his breath. Not until they'd gotten out did he finally exhale, gasping for air.
They'd survived.
Now the nearby fans and security finally understood what had happened. The noise died down a little. One by one, people held their breath, expressions full of worry, watching the tiny child.
The boy hadn't snapped out of it. Still standing there like a puppet, blank, hollow-eyed, overwheld with fear and confusion.
Lance wiped the sweat from his forehead and didn't say a word. Just gently patted his back, letting the boy rest on his shoulder—trying to soothe the fright.
And then—
The boy looked up into Lance's eyes. Clear, bright, calm. A north star in a spinning world. The chaos inside him slowly found its balance again.
And just like that—
He collapsed into Lance's arms and burst into sobs, wailing as though the sky had fallen. Every ounce of fear poured out with those tears.
It broke your heart to hear it.
Lance felt the sa. If he hadn't seen it in ti, who knows what would've happened to the kid? He didn't say anything. Just kept gently patting his back, wrapping him in the safety of his arms, letting all that fear and panic pour out.
Sotis, crying is the best dicine.
The crowd went quiet. Even that wild female fan lowered her arms. People looked on nervously, unsure how to help, unsure what to say.
And yet—there's always soone who ruins it.
"Lance, can I get an autograph?"
Scene: ...…
Now?! You want a freaking autograph now?!
Lance ignored it. He looked down at the small, trembling bundle in his arms, heart tight with emotion.
He thought—maybe this is how Alan sees him. No matter if he's thirty or forty, no matter what records he sets or trophies he wins, he's still a child in his father's eyes. One to be cared for. To be protected.
Parents… always torn.
They want their kids to grow up, spread their wings—and yet, they can never truly let go. They always want to shield them, to protect them from the storm.
Lance let out a soft breath.
"Hey, rookie. Just sign sothing, man."
"What, too big to give an autograph now? Acting all high and mighty. The kid's not even hurt—why're you still hugging him?"
"What is this, so kind of staged drama?"
"Jesus Christ, it's not the end of the world, buddy. Don't be such a diva."
Blah blah blah.
Irritating and nasty. The sarcasm made people nearby frown. In a closed arena like this, the sharpness of every word is amplified. So fans tried to shut the guy up, but the heckler only got more energized, chirping louder and louder.
Noise. Human noise.
Still, Lance didn't react. He could feel the boy's shoulders trembling, so he just kept gently patting his back.
And then, finally, Lance looked up—eyes locked on the source of the voice.
No anger. No expression. Just cold, deep blackness. Like staring into a void.
The heckler choked. The words died in his throat.
He wasn't alone. The others nearby also caught sight of Lance's stare. One by one, they swallowed nervously. Usually, Lance looked harmless, like so mild-mannered scholar—smiling and gentle. You'd never guess he was a football monster.
But in this mont—
That look. That quiet fury. They all rembered.
This man terrifies NFL players. You? You wouldn't last a second.
Uh-oh.
The air tightened. That loudmouth—just a mont ago so bold—now hunched his shoulders, doing his best to disappear. He wanted to say, "Lance won't do anything in public, right?" But he saw that glint in Lance's eye—and shut his mouth real quick.
Even the security staff noticed the shift and stayed alert.
Then—
Right as the tension peaked—
Lance smiled.
"Hey, I'm not Ron Artest, and this ain't the Palace at Auburn Hills. No need to be so scared."
One beat. Two beats.
Everyone burst out laughing.
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Powerstones?
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