In 2004, during a game between the Indiana Pacers and Detroit Pistons, the infamous "Malice at the Palace" broke out—Ron Artest's brawl with fans erupted into a massive melee, becoming the most heavily punished and notorious incident in NBA history.
Casual viewers might not grasp the weight of it, but for basketball fans, it's one of the defining moments of post-millennium NBA lore. Even after more than a decade, its shadow still lingers.
So when Lance brought it up—no one saw it coming.
But the effect? Flawless.
With a single line, Lance completely shifted the atmosphere. The crowd, which had been teetering on madness, suddenly found its composure. Like flipping a switch from horror to comedy. The energy returned—lively, buzzing.
Except for one guy—
The mouthy heckler.
He'd caught the flicker of menace in Lance's eyes. That wasn't a joke. That was a warning. Lance was saying loud and clear: he didn't mind going full Artest if necessary.
And whether Lance would actually risk throwing a punch didn't matter. What mattered was—the heckler couldn't take a punch.
He swallowed hard. Watching Lance's powerful, athletic frame—coiled and calm, like a spring—his knees began to wobble.
Then—
Lance looked his way again. Just a glance. A smile.
The guy cracked. "Ghosts!" he muttered.
And vanished. Slipping through the crowd like a greased eel, gone in a blink.
No one cared. Not even Lance.
Instead, he looked down at the small, shaken boy still in his arms.
…
Ian Cole's mind was blank. He had no idea what had just happened—how he ended up in this chaos. Terrified, stunned, his instincts led him into the safe, warm harbor of Lance's arms, burying his face, waiting for the world to go quiet.
Eventually, the noise subsided. Little Ian peeked up, wide-eyed, scanning his surroundings. Then his gaze met Lance's—calm, warm, steady.
A soft smile curled Lance's lips.
"Hey, buddy."
Ian nodded shyly. But as his eyes caught the thick forest of legs all around them, fear rushed back in. He squeezed his eyes shut, fresh tears spilling out, and curled tighter into Lance's chest.
Lance sighed silently. Who knew if this kid would carry a scar from tonight?
Still, he didn't let it show. He kept the smile, his voice low and gentle.
"You know who I am? Is there anything I can do to help?"
Maybe a photo, a signature—anything to help comfort the boy.
But Ian shook his head hard, rubbing his eyes, trembling as if Lance were a monster. His thin shoulders quivered.
Lance: …Okay. That's awkward.
So much for being a fan. He'd thought the kid might've come to see him. Now it seemed Ian had just been caught in the chaos while sitting quietly.
Still, that wasn't what mattered. What mattered were the bruises—visible and not.
"So… whose fan are you?"
Then he chuckled. "Sorry, I think I just figured it out."
He'd spotted the jersey the boy was wearing—Golden State Warriors. Number 30.
Not many Warriors fans in Madison Square Garden tonight, especially surrounded by hostile Knicks fans. If the media spun this—"Even five-year-old fans aren't safe in New York"—tonight's loss would be a PR disaster.
Thankfully, Lance stepped in before it spiraled.
But—number 30?
Lance glanced back toward the court, then smiled.
"Hey, Curry!"
He'd already called him that once. No harm calling again.
Sure enough, Curry came jogging over with a basketball under one arm. He couldn't see the boy's jersey, so he had no idea why Lance called him—but he came anyway.
Lance nodded toward the child. "He's one of yours."
Curry: Huh?
It took a beat to click. But Lance just smiled, motioning to the boy.
"Batman gives his cape to those in need. Like Willy Wonka's golden ticket."
Now Curry got it—and immediately peeled off his jersey and handed it over.
Lance didn't steal the spotlight. Instead, he bent down and said softly to Ian, "Hey, look who's here."
Curry crouched beside them, his trademark grin glowing.
"I heard there's a warrior here tonight braver than any of us."
Ian raised his head, blinking through damp lashes. When he saw the familiar baby-faced star right in front of him, his eyes widened in disbelief.
Curry's face softened—dad instincts kicking in. With two daughters of his own, he knew the look of a scared child.
"No worries, little man. The monsters are gone. The dragon scared them away."
Lance froze. Dragon? What dragon?
Curry caught the awkward stare—blushed a little—but pressed on, handing the jersey to Ian.
"I'm Stephen Curry. What's your name?"
"…Ian…" came the whisper.
Crisis averted.
Lance started to let go, giving the boy a moment with his hero. But—
Ian grabbed his arm tightly, locking him in a hug.
He didn't want to let go.
Curry noticed immediately. He saw how Lance tensed, terrified of hurting the boy. Classic rookie dad energy.
"They're not as fragile as you think," Curry chuckled, patting Lance's shoulder.
Then he leaned down to Ian again. "You know who this is, right? He's a football player. Number 23. Kansas City Chiefs."
Ian looked up, eyes suddenly bright. "Of course I know! Lance!"
Lance: ??? Wait, what? So who said he didn't know me?
Ian wrapped both arms around Lance's neck, leaned close, and whispered in his ear with a soft, squeaky voice—
"That catch."
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Powerstones?
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