Who are you?
For a brief mont, Lance seriously questioned whether he had a problem with face recognition—because none of the three people in front of him were Jas Dolan.
Unless Dolan had secretly gone to LA for a full facial reconstruction, Lance was absolutely certain: the three in the suite were not him.
His guard went up imdiately—
An ambush?
It didn't make sense. Why would Dolan ambush him? Why would the New York Knicks ambush an NFL player? Why now, of all tis, in the middle of a crowd? Still, instincts are instincts.
But it only lasted a second. One of the n stepped forward—suit crisp, smile in place, clearly the one ant to do the introductions.
In situations like this, the lower the status, the more ticulous the attire—dressed to the nines, hoping luxury brands and tailored fits could prop up dignity. But true power dressed as it pleased. At an even higher tier—where nobility, tradition, and heritage held sway—appearances could flip again.
And of the three, the most finely dressed one stepped up first.
"Lance, at last we et…"
He launched into a stream of self-introduction, polite flattery, and practiced charm—but Lance's attention had already shifted to the two n behind him.
The middle-aged one standing slightly forward looked more at ease. He had the air of authority. Late fifties, perhaps. Wrinkles around the eyes and forehead that didn't age him—if anything, they added refinent. Gold-rimd glasses, brown-blonde hair combed neatly back. Though the hairline was receding, the thickness and tidy grooming hinted at grace aged over ti.
Compared to the sharply dressed mouthpiece, this man wore his suit casually—tie slightly loosened, vest unbuttoned, jacket open, his rosy cheeks relaxed, muscles at ease. Definitely the one holding the cards.
He noticed Lance's gaze and t it without flinching, raising his champagne in greeting, a faint smile at the corner of his lips.
The PR guy noticed the exchange but wasn't fazed. He smoothly redirected the conversation.
"Lance, this is John. A friend."
Lance raised an eyebrow.
John? That's it?
No surna, no title, no extra context.
What ga was Dolan playing?
"John" remained composed, calm as a mountain. He nodded and said, "Welco ho, Lance. Though I suspect I'm not the first New Yorker to say that."
A small detail caught Lance's attention.
He said 'New Yorker,' not 'New York native.'
Lance once thought "New Yorker" was a badge of pride—stylish, iconic, even. There was a magazine by that na, after all.
But after rging with the mories of this world's original Lance, he learned the truth: real New Yorkers hated being called "New Yorker."
It was a romanticized label, used by out-of-towners and drears passing through—a fantasy that had little to do with the brutal, beautiful reality of surviving in NYC. It was a na used by people who didn't live it.
Just that one word told Lance everything he needed to know about John.
Still, Lance showed nothing.
He spread his hands, rapper-style, and said, "Love. The world's full of love."
The cheeky line loosened the air instantly.
John's smile deepened—but there was sharpness now.
"So, is that why you high-fived your opponent during the ga?"
Instant tension.
Lance hadn't expected this—he thought the mont with Curry had passed. He wasn't sure if the dia would stir it up again.
He didn't flinch.
"Opponent?" He tilted his head. "To the weak, sports is about winning and losing. Anyone in the way is an enemy. But to the strong, sports is about challenge and pushing limits. The only enemy is yourself. That's not so easily simplified."
Lance wasn't fazed by the jab—whether from John or the internet.
But not everyone had Lance's composure.
The other two n in the room tensed up imdiately. One even began to sweat. The implication was clear: Lance had just called John… weak.
Not great. Very not great.
But John? John looked intrigued.
"You do realize," he said calmly, "that perspective doesn't sell tickets, right? Winning does."
Lance laughed aloud.
"You disagree?"
Lance waved it off. "I'm saying New York has never had to worry about selling tickets. NBA, NFL, MLB, NHL—there's always a market here. New York could have built a Galácticos-style franchise like Real Madrid. But it never has. Why?"
John stayed silent, watching him, waiting.
Lance didn't make him wait long. "Because New York isn't nouveau riche."
Just like John refused to call himself a "New Yorker," Lance knew he wasn't so social climber.
"Winning matters. But culture, legacy, and soul matter more. That's what makes a franchise a brand."
"Take the Dallas Cowboys—they haven't won two playoff gas in a row since 1995. But they still have the biggest fan base in North Arica. Maybe the world."
"I bet Jerry Jones never worried about ticket sales."
Jerry Jones—owner of the Cowboys, known for being brash, ruthless, and arrogant.
No one disagreed.
Simple. Sharp. Spot-on.
John's eyebrows lifted with interest. He didn't reply imdiately. Instead, he let the thought settle, and the tension in the room relaxed.
Then, just when the air began to clear—
John struck back.
"So, you're comparing to Jerry Jones?"
"Are you saying I'm not as good as him?"
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Powerstones?
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