The woman tilted her chin slightly. Those Persian-cat-like eyes gleamed with a flicker of amusement as she gave Lance another slow, discreet once-over.
"A secret, huh? So I was right—you are worried someone might see you drinking soda water. Let me guess… you're a football player."
Lance stayed completely calm. "Are you sure?"
She smirked. "I've overheard football players more than once claiming football is the real man's sport, that soccer is for wimps and basketball is a girls' game."
"Haha." Lance nearly choked with laughter—he hadn't expected that.
As he met the woman's openly playful gaze, a smirk curled his lips. "Actually, you didn't hear the full version."
"Rugby is the real man's game. American football is for softies. Soccer is for women. Basketball? That's a kids' sport."
She blinked, stunned by the twist, then burst out laughing so hard her whole body shook. "Oh my God, I can't believe there's a full version of that!"
Lance gave a light shrug. "Because rugby players don't wear pads when they smash into each other?"
Her eyes sparkled. "So, I guessed wrong. You must be British then, and not an American football player."
Lance spread his arms. "Unfortunately, I am an American football player."
She laughed again, more controlled this time. "So, what do you think about all those stereotypes?"
Without hesitation, Lance replied, calm and assured.
"I think superiority complexes in any sport are narrow-minded and stupid. Competitive sports aren't just about power or physicality. They're about pushing boundaries, challenging oneself."
"Yes, it's about strength, speed, and collision—but it's so much more than that. Beyond the wins and trophies, there's heart and growth."
"I feel sorry for people who can't see that."
She held his gaze, admiration flickering behind her expression—clearly caught off guard by his depth, pleasantly so.
Lance caught her reaction and added with a grin, "So… did my peacock feathers display okay?"
Her laughter returned, boisterous and bright. As her body leaned forward with joy, it was hard not to notice the captivating curves catching the eye even in dim light.
"So, you really are a football player?" she asked between laughs.
This time, Lance gave a proper answer. "Lance."
She blinked. "Ah… you're Lance?"
Lance smiled humbly. "Seems my work has gotten some results."
The woman quickly connected the dots. "Hey, I didn't watch tonight's Super Bowl, but I did catch some clips. Sorry—I didn't recognize you with the helmet on."
"So... disappointed?" Lance teased.
She tilted her chin, eyes curious. "Disappointed?"
"The face behind the helmet," Lance said. "Was it a letdown?"
She grinned. "No, a surprise. A pleasant one. I expected some hulking beast with a brick face—like Cerberus—but clearly, you don't fit that image."
She gave him another slow once-over, then leaned closer, her voice dropping.
"This is where I should whistle... but I can't actually do that."
Lance burst out laughing.
Still smiling, he extended his hand again. "Lance."
She took it. "Alexandra Daddario."
Lance lifted his chin. "Ah, Italian."
Daddario nodded. "My father is part Italian, part Irish."
"So, what do you do?" Lance asked.
Daddario gave him a coy smile and took a breath. "Actress. Apparently, my work hasn't made a strong enough impression yet."
But before he could say anything, Daddario gave a mischievous wink—clearly teasing him.
Lance recovered quickly. "No, I'd say Hollywood's failing—people should've seen more of your work."
That turned the tables. Her expression softened with delight.
Lance continued, "What have you acted in? Maybe I've seen it, just didn't recognize you—kind of like me with the helmet."
Daddario looked faintly bashful for the first time. "I'm not sure you'd like my kind of movies."
Lance smiled. "Then what kind of movies do you think I'd like?"
She had something ready on her tongue, but she paused, then leaned in with a twinkle in her eye. "Something like Titanic, maybe?"
Out of all genres—action, adventure, sci-fi, horror—she picked Titanic?
Not that Titanic was a bad film, of course. It's iconic. But clearly, this was a setup.
Lance caught on instantly and gave her a slow, knowing look.
Daddario realized he'd caught her and flushed a little. "I mean… it's a movie everyone's seen…"
"I actually hate that movie," Lance said, all seriousness. "Never seen it."
"What?" she gasped. "You've never seen Titanic?"
Lance spread his hands. "Just because it had insane box office doesn't mean every human being has watched it. I bet you haven't even seen Avengers."
Daddario's mouth opened, but she hesitated. "But it's Titanic!"
Lance laughed. "James Cameron directed The Terminator, Aliens, The Abyss, Avatar, and then what? He made the most expensive, most melodramatic love story ever. And it grossed billions. Re-releases, fan hysteria—you believe that?"
"I made a decision—I refuse to watch it."
Daddario howled with laughter. "That's so childish!"
"It's called integrity," Lance said seriously. "Refusing to follow the herd."
She couldn't stop laughing. "But I love that movie! Don't you think it's romantic?"
Lance took a deep breath. "That's okay. Everyone has flaws."
Then Daddario got it—and burst into uncontrollable laughter again. "So that's my biggest flaw keeping me from being perfect?"
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