Travis Kelce doesn’t want to do the fucking Nae Nae.

I finally get it.

Kelce never admits it outright—he’s too nice of a guy for that—but somewhere between my third and 13th prodding for a trip down memory end-zone, it becomes apparent: the slight shoulder slink, tilted head and forced laugh. All sheepishly intimating “Jesus bro, not this again.”

We’re in his downtown loft, a sprawling Kansas City, Mo. penthouse abundant in wood, exposed brick and 10-foot windows overlooking the city’s northern edge. The space is an embodiment of the city’s much raved about revitalization: on trend, artsy, contemporary.

O’Keeffian modernisms adorn the walls. The aesthetic is minimalist, warm, and comfortable.

But Kelce is restrained. Cautious, even.