"...I don't like football."
Justin Timberlake looked solemnly at Lance, raising both hands in surrender—though his eyes betrayed not a shred of apology.
"Sorry, I know it's rude, but honestly? I prefer basketball. Everyone in L.A. knows I'm always at Staples Center."
Timberlake's deadpan delivery caused Mahos and Kelce's smiles to falter awkwardly—they weren't quite sure how to respond.
But Lance didn't flinch.
Setting aside Timberlake's global reputation as a witty entertainer, the way he had greeted them earlier made it clear this was a seasoned, affable professional.
A guy like this wouldn't invite a guest just to slap them in the face. Besides, tonight belonged to the Kansas City Chiefs.
Lance t Timberlake's gaze with a look of mock concern.
"What happened—trauma? That halfti performance must've been hard for you. Congratulations on overcoming your psychological shadow. So... you're free to enjoy football again now, right? Congrats, congrats."
Timberlake: …
That stung.
Back in 2004, during the 38th Super Bowl halfti show, Janet Jackson—Michael Jackson's sister—invited Timberlake, fresh off his boyband days, to perform a duet. But at the end of their performance, Timberlake suddenly tore off a piece of Janet's outfit, exposing her breast on live national television.
The backlash was nuclear.
There was even an FBI investigation. The incident—forever dubbed the "Super Bowl Incident"—rewrote U.S. broadcasting rules, introducing a mandatory broadcast delay for all live events.
Though both parties issued statents, the truth remained muddled. So said it was staged for publicity; others called it a prank gone wrong. Either way, Janet's career was derailed. Timberlake's wasn't—he went on to win awards and headline tours.
He later apologized publicly—in 2021.
Lance hadn't known much about football until recently. That event was a historical blip he'd only vaguely heard of at the ti. But after being nad a Super Bowl perforr this year, Timberlake found himself back in the dia's crosshairs.
That night, Kelce had eagerly filled Lance in on the whole saga.
Still, even Kelce didn't expect Lance to joke about it—right to Timberlake's face.
Kelce nearly burst from holding back his laughter.
anwhile, Lance remained perfectly sincere. Timberlake instantly picked up on the mischievous gleam in his eyes—he had done that on purpose.
Then—
A figure slipped in from behind and wrapped an arm around Timberlake's waist, smiling sweetly at Lance.
"Lance, thank you. Finally, soone who can shut Justin up."
Who else could it be but Timberlake's wife, Jessica Biel?
Lance raised his brows in mock surprise.
"So this is official sanction? Justin, sorry—you can't even retaliate now."
Cue the laughter.
Curry was the first to lose it. Mahos and Kelce finally let go, doubling over with relieved, wheezing laughter.
Timberlake shook his head, half-exasperated, half-impressed.
"Dude, you really don't play by the script."
He patted Lance on the shoulder.
"See, the plan was—I say 'I don't like football,' pause for suspense, make it awkward, then say, 'But you made love it,' and then you guys clap and cheer. You totally skipped the cue!"
Lance gave a helpless shrug.
"Sorry, I didn't get the script in advance. Guess I'm not built for scripted offense."
Laughter exploded again, even Timberlake had to give him a thumbs-up.
The party continued to roar. People reveled in their little corners, but anyone still conscious from drinking too much could tell—the Timberlake–Chiefs circle was the star cluster of the night.
Naturally, as Lance drifted through the crowd, other guests began approaching him one after another.
"Knock knock. One soda water, please."
Lance finally found an excuse to slip away. His throat was on fire, and he just needed a mont to breathe. The bar was already crowded.
To his left, soone else seed to be patiently waiting for the bartender. She heard his order and turned with a smirk.
"Soda water? You don't look like a good boy."
Lance turned toward her—large, expressive eyes; long brown hair cascading casually; curves that even a loose white T-shirt couldn't hide. Her casual, feline allure made her impossible not to notice.
Lance smiled.
"Guess my carefully cultivated bad-boy image worked, huh?"
She grinned.
"What's the plan—play the Big Bad Wolf and scare the kids?"
Lance spread his hands.
"Hey, beats being Little Red Riding Hood luring people into sin with puppy-dog eyes."
She laughed out loud.
"So the Big Bad Wolf drinks soda water now? Not worried about people seeing?"
"Shh. That's a secret," Lance replied, playing along.
"Now you've got sothing on . I guess that ans we'll have to coexist peacefully."
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Powerstones?
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