The Super Bowl, as North America's grandest annual sporting event, carries enormous influence—
every gesture, every moment, is enough to spark endless discussions.
With LeBron James and Stephen Curry, two of the NBA's biggest stars, both appearing at U.S. Bank Stadium but supporting different teams,
the media and internet were bound to be buzzing for days.
Clearly, Curry's worries weren't just about being accused of "goofing off."
Lance, however, wore an expression of complete innocence, hurriedly distancing himself,
"Whoa, Stephen! What an honor to see you here! Welcome, welcome!"
Acting like he had absolutely no clue why Curry had come to the game.
Curry stared at Lance, speechless for a second,
"Wow," he said, scanning Lance up and down.
"Wow, I didn't realize you were this kind of person."
Lance burst out laughing,
"Don't worry about the noise.
Just treat it like hot air.
As long as you guys keep winning, it'll all blow over.
I'll even come to Oracle Arena and cheer for you during the Finals!"
Curry tried to keep a straight face—
but couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips.
"You're that confident?
You're sure we'll make it all the way to the Finals?
Tell you what—how about you show up at our home game against OKC the day after tomorrow?"
Lance made a face of mock surprise,
"You need me, the ultimate lucky charm, just to beat the Thunder?"
Curry laughed outright.
"So am I a lucky charm or a secret weapon?"
Lance shook his head seriously,
"Clearly you don't understand:
It's not the masked killer from Scream that's scary—
it's Paddington Bear storming hell with a shotgun that's truly terrifying."
Curry was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, giving Lance a thumbs-up.
Unfortunately, their chat didn't last long.
Crowds kept surging in to congratulate the Chiefs on their Super Bowl win—
and especially to congratulate Lance on winning Super Bowl MVP.
No time even to catch a breath.
Even Commissioner Roger Goodell showed up personally to offer congratulations—and to hint at exciting things to come next season.
As soon as Lance pushed open the locker room door—
A stream of champagne blasted him straight in the face—
followed immediately by a Gatorade bucket dumped overhead.
Lance was instantly drenched.
Worse, ice cubes slid down his back under his jersey, making him curl up involuntarily against the cold.
Originally, Travis Kelce had been mid-celebration, arms raised—
but froze the second he saw the gauze from Lance's forehead injury fall off.
Everyone's faces turned sheepish.
Kelce rushed forward, panicking,
"Rookie... Lance... Lance..."
He saw Lance rubbing his eyes, his head lowered—
Was Lance's wound infected?
Kelce bent down to check, worried—
only to see Lance flashing a sly grin.
Before Kelce could react—
Lance grabbed him in a headlock!
"Well, what are you all standing around for?
The hero of our game-winning touchdown is right here!"
Another Gatorade bucket, mixed with ice, dumped onto Kelce's back.
The big man howled like a stuck pig.
The whole locker room collapsed into hysterical laughter.
At that moment, the locker room door creaked open.
Coach Andy Reid stepped halfway inside—
Everyone froze like deer in headlights.
Without a word, Reid quietly stepped back out—
and closed the door behind him.
Lance and Kelce exchanged a glance.
Without thinking, they each grabbed an arm and hauled Reid back inside.
Champagne, beer, Gatorade, ice water—
a baptism of champions.
Reid squeezed his eyes shut and endured it all—
then opened them just in time to see Mahomes and Tyreek Hill hefting a huge ice bucket.
"What are you doing?!" Reid gasped.
Mahomes and Hill froze guiltily.
Before they could answer,
Lance grabbed the bucket—
and dumped ice water down Mahomes' jersey.
Before the season started, none of them—Reid included—had dared to even dream of this.
They deserved this celebration.
When Lance and the others finally stumbled out of the locker room, it was already 1:33 AM.
Normally, they'd be deep asleep by this hour, recharging for practice or games.
Professional athletes knew better than anyone:
Sleep wasn't just a luxury.
It was essential for recovery, performance, and avoiding injury.
Coaches didn't get mad because players went out partying.
They got mad because lack of sleep wrecked their conditioning.
But tonight was different.
For once, they could cut loose.
Lance stood at the curb.
A sleek black Porsche rolled up.
"Hey, handsome—need a ride?"
Driver: none other than Stephen Curry.
Though the Warriors had no game tomorrow, Curry would still fly back to San Francisco for training.
So tonight, he was playing designated driver.
the afterparties were just getting started.
And there were a lot of them.
Dozens, scattered all across Minneapolis.
So Curry asked the natural question:
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