Inside the SoFi Stadium, in another exclusive suite, a man stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass, his expression a deep frown. If one were to compare this suite to Eminem's, the difference would be stark. While the rapper's suite was undeniably impressive, resembling a high-end luxury hotel lounge with its sleek furnishings and modern aesthetics, this one was on an entirely different level. It wasn't just larger—it was easily twice the size, an opulent space that exuded power and exclusivity. Every detail, from the handcrafted Italian leather seating to the private chef preparing gourmet dishes in the back, screamed wealth and influence. This was not just a suite; it was a command center for the true power players of the event.
Yet, despite the grandeur of the room, the people inside were not household names like the celebrities in the other suite. But for those who were truly in the know, it was clear—these individuals wielded more power than any pop star, athlete, or Hollywood icon. Being in this room meant rubbing shoulders with the ones who made the major decisions, the ones who shaped industries and influenced economies. If given the choice, any astute observer would choose to be in this suite over the one packed with A-listers.
At the center of the room sat a man whose appearance was rather unremarkable. He was overweight, with a round face, thinning hair, and the kind of presence that made it easy to overlook him in a crowd. Yet, despite his ordinary looks, his position was anything but. He was one of the top executives at Coca-Cola, the billion-dollar beverage giant and one of the primary sponsors of the Super Bowl. His company's name was plastered all over the stadium, their commercials playing in prime slots throughout the night. And yet, he sat there, leisurely eating, seemingly oblivious to the electrifying scene unfolding outside the suite.
Across from him, a woman was far more focused on perfecting her makeup than watching the event. She moved with the calm precision of someone used to luxury, unconcerned with the spectacle outside. To the uninformed, she was just another wealthy woman enjoying a night out. But to those who knew, she was Ann Walton Kroenke, one of the heirs to the Walmart fortune. Unlike some of her high-profile relatives who basked in the public eye, Ann preferred to maintain a low profile. While her cousins commanded the headlines and controlled vast fortunes exceeding $70 billion, she remained more discreet, with a personal net worth of around $10 billion. A figure still astronomically high—one most people could never even dream of—but in her family's world, she was far from the wealthiest.
Yet, even with her immense wealth, Ann was not the richest person in this suite. That title belonged to the man sitting beside her—her husband, Stan Kroenke.
Stan, a man in his mid-seventies, had the look of someone who carried the weight of empires on his shoulders. His graying hair was neatly combed back, and his tailored suit fit him with the effortless precision of a billionaire accustomed to power. There was a quiet intensity in his sharp gaze, a gaze that now fixated on something—or rather, someone—outside the suite.
In a stadium filled with immense wealth, where simply attending required deep pockets—general admission tickets costing a minimum of $6,000 and luxury suites fetching hundreds of thousands—Stan still stood apart. This was a venue packed with ultra-rich moguls, legendary athletes, and globally renowned celebrities. Some of the biggest names in sports and entertainment were in attendance—Dr. Dre, Jay-Z, LeBron James, Tom Brady, Shaquille O'Neal. Team owners and billionaires, like his wife and fellow NFL owner Mike Brown, were scattered throughout the stadium. Yet, among them all, Stan Kroenke was indisputably the wealthiest individual present.
His fortune, built almost entirely on sports ownership, was staggering. While others invested in teams as passion projects or financial ventures, Kroenke had turned team ownership into an empire. He held stakes in nearly every major sport—his English football club, Arsenal FC; his NBA team, the Denver Nuggets; his NHL franchise, the Colorado Avalanche; and of course, the Los Angeles Rams, who were now favorites to win the championship. His portfolio of sports franchises alone had propelled his net worth to an astounding $15 billion.
And now, in this very moment, his attention wasn't on the game, the halftime show, or even the high-stakes business discussions taking place in the suite. Instead, his gaze was fixed on a single figure—Ethan. The young pop star who, intentionally or not, had managed to steal the entire show. The way the crowd was reacting to him, the sheer level of engagement he commanded—it was something that piqued Stan's interest. He made a mental note to remember him. The way he had the audience in the palm of his hand was something special, something rare. And Kroenke wasn't the kind of man to ignore rare opportunities.
But he wasn't the only one watching Ethan with such intensity.
Sitting at the center of it all, wedged between two of the wealthiest and most powerful team owners, was Roger Goodell, the NFL Commissioner. His expression was unreadable, but the way his eyes bore into Ethan made it clear—he wasn't simply observing; he was analyzing. Unlike Stan, whose interest seemed almost amused, Goodell's gaze carried a different weight. It was scrutinizing, calculating.
While the executives and owners around him sipped on their drinks, casually chatting about numbers that would make the average person's head spin, Goodell remained silent, his attention locked onto the young superstar outside. He had seen celebrities attend games before—countless times, in fact. But something about this felt different. Something about the way Ethan was interacting with the crowd, the way the stadium seemed to revolve around him at this moment, was enough to give Goodell pause.
And that was never a good sign.
The Commissioner's mind was already racing through possibilities, implications, and potential headlines. Ethan was drawing attention—perhaps too much attention. And in the world of professional sports, especially one as tightly controlled as the NFL, too much attention from the wrong kind of people was never ideal.
Yet, even as he stared, his frown deepening, Ethan remained blissfully unaware of the two powerful figures locked onto him, one with interest, the other with concern.
The storm was already brewing, and he hadn't even realized it yet.
Roger Goodell, the NFL Commissioner, sat in his seat, his expression carefully composed into a polite smile as he glanced at the two billionaire owners seated nearby with their wives. His face bore the well-practiced look of a man accustomed to public appearances, a smile that could charm investors, soothe angry players, and convince even the most skeptical owners that everything was under control.
But right now, everything was not under control.
Still, he maintained his polished demeanor, straightening his suit before standing up with an exaggerated chuckle that was as fake as a reality TV show apology. "Ha ha! You know, I just need to go check on something real quick! Won't take a second—just hold on," he said, waving a hand dismissively as if he were about to handle nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
As he left the luxury suite, he executed a flawless series of interactions that had become second nature to him. A warm handshake here, a nod of acknowledgment there—he even threw in a well-placed compliment or two.
He turned to Ann Walton Kroenke, her focus momentarily shifting from her compact mirror. "And Ann, as always, you look absolutely radiant. You bring such class to every event."
To the Coca-Cola executive, a man who was more focused on his plate of food than the conversation around him, Goodell smoothly said, "You guys have really outdone yourselves this year with the sponsorship activations. That halftime show beverage integration? Genius."
He moved through the suite with the charisma of a seasoned politician, ensuring everyone felt acknowledged and valued. But the moment he crossed the threshold and the door shut behind him, his expression dropped like a failed fourth-down conversion. His face hardened, the forced grin vanishing instantly as his features settled into something more fitting for a man who ran the most powerful sports league in America. His voice, now devoid of warmth, came out low and sharp, carrying the kind of authority that made grown men scramble.
"Who the hell is that?" he asked, his tone like a blade cutting through the air as he started striding down the hallway with purpose.
The man who had followed him out—a sharp-dressed assistant in his early 30s, who had learned over the years to anticipate his boss's moods—quickened his pace to keep up. This was not the time to lag behind.
"Sir, that's Ethan Jones," the assistant, Daniel Harper, replied, his voice professional and measured.
Goodell didn't slow his stride but shot him a sharp glance. "Who?"
"Ethan Jones, sir. A new artist. He's a pop star—well, more than that, actually. He's been dominating the charts lately. Young audience, big social media following."
Goodell exhaled through his nose sharply, his irritation growing. A pop star? That didn't explain why the entire damn stadium seemed to be locked in a frenzy over him. The Super Bowl had plenty of celebrities in attendance—actual megastars. Beyoncé, Justin Bieber, Kevin Hart, The Rock. People who had been famous for decades. And yet, here they were, with kickoff being delayed because of a new artist?
"What the hell is going on? A celebrity sighting shouldn't be causing this kind of chaos. There have been bigger names at Super Bowls before, and the game still started on time."
Daniel hesitated. "Well, sir… it's a little different this time."
Goodell came to a sudden stop, turning to face his assistant fully. His glare alone was enough to make most people crumble, but Daniel had dealt with enough high-pressure situations to stand his ground.
"Different how?" Goodell demanded.
Daniel had been bracing for this. He had already reached out to a few key staff members before his boss even left the suite, knowing this conversation was inevitable. He glanced at his phone, reading off the latest update. "Sir, the fans in that section aren't just reacting to him being there. He's engaging with them directly. Signing things, taking selfies, making jokes. He caught someone's phone, took a picture, and tossed it back—which, by the way, has already gone viral."
Goodell's jaw tightened. "And security? Why aren't they putting an end to this circus?"
Daniel, anticipating this question too, sighed internally before responding. "Well, sir, that's the problem."
Goodell narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, that's the problem?"
Daniel hesitated, then finally said, "Sir… half the security guards are in the crowd."
Silence.
Goodell blinked. His brain took a second to process the words, as if Daniel had just spoken in some foreign language.
"What?" he asked flatly.
Daniel shifted uncomfortably. "A lot of them got swept up in it. They started off trying to maintain order, but then some of them joined in—taking selfies, chanting his name. Sir… they're fans too."
Goodell stood there, completely still, his mind struggling to grasp the absurdity of the situation. He had dealt with contract disputes, league scandals, and multi-billion-dollar negotiations. But this?
The damn security team had turned into fanboys?
Goodell let out a slow, measured breath, rubbing his temples. "Get. Me. Solutions."
Daniel nodded quickly, already typing frantically on his phone. Goodell didn't have time to waste. The game needed to start, and whatever this was—it needed to be handled. Fast.
And it had to start on time. This wasn't just about sticking to schedule—it was about money. Millions of dollars were on the line with every passing minute of delay. The Super Bowl was a meticulously orchestrated event, with broadcast slots that cost millions per commercial. The longer the game stalled, the more havoc it wreaked on advertisers, networks, and all the business interests tied to the event. The halftime show had a fixed window, and if the game didn't kick off soon, it would throw the entire production into chaos. This wasn't some regular-season game—this was the single biggest sporting event in America. A delay wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a financial disaster.
And if there was one thing Roger Goodell hated more than unnecessary distractions, it was watching the NFL lose money.
He gritted his teeth. "Fix this now."