Soft, warm, and slightly sticky little hands clung to Lance's neck. Though the child whispered, everyone around still heard it clearly: "That catch."
Throughout the season, Lance had delivered at least eight to ten highlight plays. But the one that truly made waves was that catch in the divisional round—not just because of its brilliance, but because of the opponent and the game's importance. It had already become his signature moment, one that would define him for years to come.
Lance knew instantly what the boy meant. A smile curled at the corners of his lips, and he whispered back, "Yeah, that was me."
Cole finally smiled.
Curry, watching nearby, was amazed. He hadn't expected Lance to interact so naturally with the kid.
Lance looked at the No. 30 jersey in Cole's hands, then down at himself—he'd come as a guest tonight, completely unprepared. He had nothing to give.
Cole's cheeks were still red and tear-streaked, clearly shaken and unable to fully process what had happened. He likely didn't even understand the full extent of his fear or why he was crying in the first place.
After a moment, Lance said, "I've got a game next week. If you're interested, maybe you can come with Stephen. How does that sound?"
He reached into his pocket and handed Cole Donald Yu's business card.
Curry took a second to process it. "Next week's game?"
Then it hit him, and he turned to Lance, stunned.
Lance glanced at Curry, then at Cole—two baby-faced guys, one young, one younger—and chuckled, "Figures. Elementary schoolers."
Curry grinned and fired back, "With you, that makes three."
Lance's Asian features made him look even younger to Americans. Even with his rookie season nearly over, people still shouted "Rookie! Rookie!" with unrestrained joy.
Lance shrugged. "One step away from turning this place into a kindergarten."
"Ha!" Curry laughed.
But then—
Security approached again, disrupting the moment. They didn't want to, but the atmosphere was on edge. The crowd had finally calmed, but it wouldn't last if Lance stayed much longer. The moment he mentioned inviting Cole to the game, everyone's eyes lit up, and another wave of frenzy was starting to build.
To keep order, Lance had to leave.
"Mr. Lance, we really should go. If you stay, things might spiral again."
Lance understood. He gave Cole one last strong hug, then, surrounded by security, turned to leave.
Curry: ?? Wait, what about me?
The NBA superstar was left behind like an afterthought, his baby face frozen in a look of confusion. The crowd couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it.
…
A few steps down the hallway, Lance finally realized Curry wasn't with them. He paused, glanced back.
"Curry?"
"Curry!"
The shout echoed without reply. One of the security officers answered instead. "Don't worry about him."
Lance burst out laughing.
Was he worried about Curry's safety?
Not really.
He just felt weird leaving him behind like that.
Then Lance noticed they weren't headed toward the players' locker room. Or at least, it didn't look like it. Not that he knew the layout of Madison Square Garden.
"I thought we were going to the locker room to say hi to the team?" he asked.
The head of security responded again, "Don't worry about them."
Again?
Lance laughed. "I think I should be worried about myself right now."
That broke the tension. Several security guards fought to suppress smiles, including the team lead, who twitched slightly at the mouth.
Finally, the lead relented and gave a proper answer.
"We're headed to the VIP suite. Mr. James Dolan is waiting for you."
Ah. That explained everything.
The big boss had finally decided to show himself.
It made sense. Dolan's call overrode everything. That's why security had rushed Lance out and left Curry behind—the excuse about safety was just that. The real reason? Orders from the top.
Lance relaxed. The mystery was solved.
The security lead also eased up. They'd exited the main concourse—no fans, no chaos, no threat. Tension lifted.
"You don't need to worry," the guard said. "If anyone should be worried, it's us."
He shot Lance a sideways glance.
Lance caught it and grinned. "Relax. I don't bite. You guys are too stringy and tough anyway. Hard to chew. I'll pass."
The guard's eyes widened in panic. When he turned to look, Lance's face was perfectly composed, innocent even, as if he hadn't just threatened cannibalism with a smile.
Fortunately, the walk wasn't long. The security team escorted Lance to the VIP suite, knocked, and without waiting for a response, pushed the door open and motioned him in.
"Mr. Lance has arrived."
One last smile from Lance: "Pleasure chatting. Hope we meet again."
The security lead: …
The other guards stared blankly at the wall, holding their expressions tight. But a close look revealed their throats twitching, jaws clenched—desperate not to burst into laughter.
Door closed.
Pfffft.
Someone broke first. Then laughter erupted in the hallway.
Inside the VIP suite, Lance looked around, utterly confused.
Wait—where's James Dolan?
He had studied Dolan's face before coming, just in case. Basic courtesy for any guest. But now, looking at the three unfamiliar people in front of him—
Who the hell are you?
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Powerstones?
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