"Justin Houston, we just made a plan with the other rookies: we're all crashing his party together. We'll storm the place, do a full lap around, snatch all the best booze we can find, and then 'choo-choo' out like a runaway train. Quick hit. Total chaos."
"Ha, hahahaha!"
Curry pictured the scene in his head and exploded with laughter.
Kelce, meanwhile, looked utterly lost, his expression reading: Wait, why didn't anyone tell me we were robbing a train?
"You rookies can go wreak havoc all you want," he protested.
"Why am I involved? I want off this ride! Stephen, help, I've been kidnapped! Hey! Anybody hear me?"
Kelce yelled out the window at passing fans—
who thought he was cheering—
and erupted into loud supportive screams.
Kelce: ???
Mahomes was laughing like a lunatic in the backseat.
Curry checked the rearview mirror, a bit worried—
but seeing Lance's completely unconcerned expression, he relaxed.
"But seriously," Curry asked, "isn't your big boss hosting a victory party tonight?"
Instead of answering, Lance gave Curry a sidelong glance:
"When you guys won your championship, did you spend the night hanging around your big boss's party?"
"No."
The word flew out of Curry's mouth faster than he could think.
He immediately chuckled, realizing just how fast he had answered.
First off, championship nights were crammed with dozens of parties.
Nobody stayed at one place.
Four or five parties in a single night was normal.
Second, the owner's party was always full of billionaires and VIPs—
players usually felt like gorillas dropped into a gala.
Awkward.
Not fun.
Owners didn't expect players to show up anyway.
Curry remembered vividly:
after winning his first title, young and naive, he had dutifully attended the owner's party—
and felt like he'd wandered into a circus.
Later, when he told his teammates, they howled with laughter.
He realized he'd been pranked.
So, why wasn't Lance being pranked too?
Wasn't he a rookie?
Curry squinted at Lance suspiciously.
"What about your teammates? What do they think?"
Lance looked completely innocent,
"Most of them didn't really know any better.
Since it was our first title,
so I, along with Chris Jones, told them:
'We should go say hi to the boss.'"
"And Houston and Berry nodded quietly."
"So," Lance said cheerfully,
"Guess how many guys are headed to the owner's party right now?"
Curry stared at him, slack-jawed.
Meanwhile—
Kareem Hunt stood nervously outside an upscale rooftop bar.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself—
and caught sight of Clark Hunt, the Chiefs' owner, strolling past with a glass of champagne.
Excited, Kareem shouted,
"Mr. Hunt!"
Clark Hunt paused, frowning slightly—
then squinted into the dim light.
After a moment, he vaguely recognized the young player from his jersey—
and was completely baffled.
"You... what are you doing here?"
Kareem Hunt:
...felt his heart sink like a rock.
Elsewhere—
Lance, Mahomes, and a bunch of rookies and second-years had just stormed into Houston's party—
turned the place upside down—
and roared out again like a hurricane.
Houston:
...watched the chaos and devastation with dead eyes.
Looked at the demolished snack tables, the drained champagne bottles...
"At least leave me two good bottles, you little bastards!" he shouted.
His cries echoed sadly into the cold Minneapolis night.
But Lance and the gang were already racing off to the next party.
Now—
Lance, Mahomes, Kelce, and even Curry were standing in front of an intimidating, bustling venue—
nervously shifting their feet.
They all glanced at Curry like helpless kids.
Curry swallowed hard.
"I, uh, don't really know anyone either."
Just fifteen minutes ago—
they had been heading to Tyreek Hill's party—
when Lance suddenly got a phone call.
From Justin Timberlake.
Yeah, that Justin Timberlake.
The halftime show star himself had personally invited Lance to his afterparty.
At first, Lance thought it was just a polite formality.
But Timberlake called again, joking that he needed Lance to "save the party."
Twice?
That sounded more serious.
Lance couldn't bring himself to refuse.
And so—
here they were.
Walking into a literal who's who of the entertainment world.
Even Curry—
a megastar himself—
was feeling small.
Because here, the scale was different.
Even though NBA players made more money individually than NFL players,
when it came to local American clout—
nothing beat the NFL.
The star power at this party was mind-boggling.
Snow machines blowing artificial snow, neon lights flashing, music pounding—
and celebrities absolutely everywhere.
Jennifer Lawrence was tearing up the dance floor,
Amanda Seyfried and Alexandra Daddario giggling hysterically nearby,
obviously entertained by J-Law's absolutely insane dance moves.
On a central couch, sipping whiskey half-asleep, was probably Rihanna—
although it was too dark to see clearly.
And apparently someone was collapsed under her high heels, but good luck figuring out who.
Two figures—laughing and joking—brushed past them.
Mahomes whispered to Lance:
"Wait...
was that Black Widow and Captain America?"
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Powerstones?
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