Giggling and laughter echoed all around.
Whether it was Kelce or Beckham, both were veterans of scenes like this—completely at ease, dancing to the music as they chatted and strolled ahead.
As they walked on, Lance pulled Mahos aside, falling a few steps behind. "Sherlock, I think it's ti we leave."
Mahos blinked in confusion. "Why?"
Even as he asked, he kept his gaze straight ahead, his neck stiff—clearly afraid of glimpsing anything inappropriate by accident.
Lance noticed. "Seriously, what you and Brittany have is special."
"You know how it is during our training, or when we're on the road for away gas—there are too many temptations. Even guys with families ss around. We've seen it way too often."
"If soone wants a thrill, it's easy. Just take a walk through a hotel lobby or a bar. It's not hard to turn bad. But a bond like yours—one that started in high school and lasted until now—that's rare. Most selfish, immature people never get it."
That's why Houston told the team not to corrupt Mahos.
Teammates often teased him, but Houston always intervened. It was unusual in an NFL locker room.
In pro sports, the off-field temptations are overwhelming. People don't care anymore. They go with the flow. "If everyone else is doing it, why not ?" "If I say no, I'm weird." In ti, innocence, loyalty, and conviction lose all aning.
But those values aren't weaknesses. They matter—and deserve to be protected.
Mahos froze for a second, obviously tipsy, his brain lagging behind. "What if I want to be selfish and immature just once?"
"You like the new ?"
Lance exhaled deeply and gave a helpless grin. "Then I'll keep my mouth shut in front of Brittany."
Mahos grinned sheepishly. "Thanks, man."
Lance shook his head, amused. "Don't thank . Because if Brittany finds out, she'll one hundred percent bla for corrupting you. I don't want that. So yeah, I'll keep quiet. But you better not let it slip either."
"Alright, alright… wait—Is that… Jay-Z? Oh my god!"
Before Lance could reply, Mahos was already distracted.
Lance followed his gaze and spotted a tall Black man, wearing sunglasses despite the late hour, a chunky gold chain glinting at his neck, his thick lips almost overshadowed by his sheer presence. The mont he entered, he beca the center of attention—
As if he were the real star of the party, pushing even Beckham and the Super Bowl champion Chiefs aside.
It was none other than Jay-Z himself, East Coast hip-hop legend.
But Lance remained cool—no longer the awestruck rookie from Minneapolis. After a night full of celebrity sightings, he'd beco immune.
Honestly, Lance was more intrigued by the vintage arcade machines nearby.
He could barely rember the last ti he played one. But once he sat down, his muscle mory kicked in—
The buttons, the combos, the moves—they were a little rusty but still there. Childhood joy returned in full swing.
Then—
A commotion erupted behind the pool table.
"Jay, Jay!"
"Security just called. Beyoncé's Range Rover just barreled through the front gate!"
One… two seconds of silence.
The booming EDM from the next room still pounded, making the hush in this space even more noticeable.
Lance turned to look—Jay-Z's cool deanor had completely vanished. Even behind the sunglasses, the tension in his jaw and trembling double chin were unmistakable.
Then—
"Run!"
Jay-Z shouted.
"Everyone! No one is safe!"
Wait, what?
Beyoncé? As in the Beyoncé—Jay-Z's wife? The pop icon?
Why would no one be safe?
Jay-Z didn't stick around to explain. He bolted out the back like a startled deer—surprisingly nimble for his size, vanishing from sight in seconds. Only the view of his corgi-like rear remained.
And then—chaos.
People ran like headless chickens, a scene straight out of a Hollywood disaster film.
Lance: ???
This was his first party like this. He didn't follow tabloid gossip, so he had no idea what was happening.
Was this… normal?
"Travis—"
Lance spotted Kelce and called out. But Kelce didn't stop. "Run!" he shouted, dashing for the exit.
It was like a scene from Jurassic World, after the T-Rex breaks free.
In his peripheral vision, Lance saw a woman accidentally knock Kelce into the pool.
Splash!
A perfect swan dive.
Water flailed everywhere. Lance barely glanced—he knew the pool wasn't deep. Kelce would be fine. His attention snapped to a new noise—
BAM.
The front door exploded inward.
Literally—it fell off its hinges.
A fierce, storm-like presence entered the room—a woman radiating murderous intent.
"Jay."
She said his na. Not loud. In fact, her voice was low, almost calm. But that made it even scarier—like a whisper from hell.
"Jay."
"Jay!"
Then—
"SHAWN COREY CARTER!"
A thunderclap!
Her voice rang in the air like a gunshot.
Lance was a beat slow to realize—Shawn Corey Carter was Jay-Z's real na.
Which ant… the woman standing there, fierce as a terminator, was Beyoncé.
She scanned the room and imdiately locked eyes on Lance—still calmly seated at the arcade machine.
"Where's Jay-Z?"
Lance stared wide-eyed, innocent. "He's not in the ga room."
He wasn't lying. Jay-Z really wasn't in the ga room anymore.
Beyoncé stared daggers at Lance, then seed satisfied he didn't know anything. She turned and stalked off.
"David."
"David…"
"Don't make call Victoria."
That voice. Calm. Chilling. It was like Jigsaw from Saw whispering threats.
The entire garden fell silent. Every guilty soul trembled.
Lance had only one question in his mind:
Where the hell had Beckham gone?
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