"So, that's my one fatal flaw keeping me from being perfect?"
Daddario had only meant it as a casual tease, but after she spoke, she noticed the subtle smile that appeared in Lance's eyes. Her cheeks warmed, and she instinctively tried to avert her gaze.
Lance said, "At least, it's the only flaw I've found in my line of sight."
Daddario's heart skipped a beat, her rhythm thrown off entirely.
Lance seemed to notice her fluster and kindly rescued her with a toast, raising his glass of soda water. "To flaws."
Daddario blinked, then laughed again, raising her champagne. "To flaws."
Then, after a brief pause, she couldn't suppress her curiosity. "If we ever get the chance, would you watch a movie with me?"
"With who?" Lance replied without missing a beat.
Daddario was momentarily speechless, her next words swallowed.
Lance's eyes twinkled with amusement, but he didn't press her. "But I pick the movie."
Daddario tilted her head. "What would you pick?"
Lance gave it some thought. "John Carpenter or David Cronenberg."
Well, not strictly traditional horror—Cronenberg's work was more psychological, Carpenter's often mixed with sci-fi—but both certainly leaned into body horror territory.
Her eyes widened. She stared at him in disbelief, and Lance gave a sheepish smile. She regained her composure and declared with mock seriousness:
"Then I'm canceling."
Lance laughed out loud. He was about to joke again when someone clapped both hands on his shoulders. Reflexively, he turned—and there was Justin Timberlake.
Timberlake didn't even greet him. He turned to Daddario and said, "Alexandra, sorry—mind if I borrow this handsome fellow for a moment?"
Daddario's cheeks turned crimson. She shot Lance a quick glance and replied, "He's yours. Go ahead and use him."
Timberlake didn't wait for a reply. He pulled Lance away from the bar before he could react.
"Justin! Hey, Justin! You just ruined my night."
"Relax, bro. Your great night's just getting started."
Timberlake patted Lance's chest, grinning. Then, waving across the room, "Hey, David—guess who I just found?"
Football. Basketball. Now soccer. What's next—baseball, hockey, racing, tennis? The Super Bowl night was getting more surreal by the minute.
Who am I, where am I, what am I doing here?
Mahomes was utterly lost, staring up at the sprawling villa like it was an oasis in the desert. He looked confused and dazed, unable to form words.
Beside him, Kelce wasn't much better—his eyes were glazed, his balance off, swaying in place like a plastic bag caught in the breeze.
Lance wasn't in great shape either. His head was spinning, but he forced himself to stay alert for the other two.
He'd already flown back to San Francisco on a private jet—there was a game in two days.
Earlier at Timberlake's party, they met Beckham. Conversation flowed, drinks followed. Before anyone knew it, they were boarding Beckham's private jet, leaving Minneapolis behind.
As for where they were now?
Honestly, even Lance didn't know. Beckham hadn't said, and he hadn't asked.
He pulled out his phone, checked GPS:
That explained the warm breeze and the salty scent in the air.
It made sense. Lance knew some football headlines, even if not much else. Beckham had founded a club—Inter Miami—a week ago. The team only had a license for now. No stadium, no roster, not even a finalized name yet. They had one year to prepare for their inaugural season.
So Beckham had been hopping between Miami and London.
Attending the Super Bowl? Probably part business, part PR, part networking—starting a new franchise wasn't easy.
Beckham emerged—handsome as ever, grinning as he welcomed them with arms wide open.
"This is a secret garden. Nobody knows about it."
"And as the saying goes, what happens in Rome stays in Rome. What happens in the garden... stays in the garden."
There was a cryptic tone in his voice.
"Garden"? If someone overheard, they'd probably think he meant Madison Square Garden.
Lance arched an eyebrow. "Does Victoria know about this garden?"
"Shhh." Beckham didn't confirm or deny. He just beamed. Then, walking backward, he gestured grandly. "Welcome to the garden."
The heavy wooden door opened. Beckham walked in. Kelce staggered after him. Lance was about to follow, but Mahomes grabbed his arm.
Mahomes looked nervous. "Brittany… What if she finds out?"
Fifty-plus players on a football team, each with different off-field lives. Some liked booze. Some liked gaming. Some liked women. But nobody usually invited Mahomes out.
Not because he was a rookie—but because he was a good guy. He and Brittany were rock solid. Even when female fans screamed at him, Mahomes would blush and look straight ahead.
The team joked about it. Mahomes, they said, hadn't gone bad yet.
And Houston? He'd said it best: If he's not bad, don't corrupt him. Respect the love.
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