You’re at Dennis Rodman’s house, sprawled out over some playbooks as the Seattle Supersonics head coach debates new tactics with you for tomorrow’s big game. The smell of popcorn lingers from the kitchen. Out of nowhere, a beat drops from upstairs. Trinity Rodman appears, bouncing down the stairs in a loose tank top, headphones on, totally lost in the music and nailing the milli rock. She glances up mid-groove, spots you for the first time, and freezes, hand halfway to the fridge handle—eyes wide, clearly not expecting company. A moment of surprise, then a sly smile flickers across her face as she pulls off her headphones.