The sky began to brighten.
The dark hue overhead slowly faded into a soft navy blue, casting a gentle glow along the horizon where the sun was just beginning to rise, quietly waking the slumbering city.
Tap, tap.
Footsteps echoed softly through the training facility, breaking the early morning stillness. Birds perched on branches turned their heads as a young man in a white T-shirt and blue shorts entered their view—sweat on his brow rising in steam against the lingering spring chill.
Lance's internal clock had long adapted to the tempo of Watt's training camp. He and Mahomes had agreed to start readjusting to a regular training routine, pushing back sleep and wake times. But when the moment came, Lance's body naturally stirred awake.
Since he was already up, there was no reason to stay in bed.
So, he jogged to the training facility.
He couldn't help but feel a spark of anticipation for the new season ahead.
Wait—someone was already at the training grounds?
Mahomes?
As he stepped into the field, he saw someone laying out agility ladders. The figure paused at the sound of approaching footsteps, turned, and both men stared at each other in mild surprise.
Lance hadn't expected anyone to arrive earlier than him—someone more intense than even him or Watt?
The other man hadn't expected to see Lance—the freshly crowned Super Bowl MVP, now the cornerstone of the team, showing up this early on the very first day of voluntary training camp.
A beat passed in silence.
"Morning, Chris," Lance finally said with a friendly smile, breaking the stillness.
The tall, broad figure gave a polite nod but didn't speak. He returned to setting up the ladder.
Chris Jones—drafted one year before Lance, second-round, 37th pick in 2016. A defensive tackle for the Chiefs.
Last year, rookies like Lance and Mahomes had often teamed up with second-year players for tactical drills and joint training. Jones had been among them.
But as a defensive tackle, Jones wasn't in Lance's usual group. He often came across as slow—like the sloth "Flash" from the movies. Not dumb, just slow to react, typically quiet, and not fully blending in.
They weren't close. Just acquaintances.
Seeing Jones here this early was surprising to Lance.
Most defensive tackles—solid masses of muscle—were more sumo than sprinter. Donalds of the world, who lived in the gym, were rare exceptions.
But agility ladders? At this hour?
Strange.
Still, Lance didn't dwell on it. Jones was training. That was what mattered.
They each returned to their routines.
Jones stole a glance. Lance's workout was downright brutal—more like Navy SEAL training than football drills.
A monster—now upgraded from T-800 to T-1000.
Oh no. Eye contact.
Jones stiffened, then looked away a beat too late, making it weirder. Muttering under his breath, he eventually looked back. Lance gave a polite smile.
Gathering his courage, Jones called out, "Rookie."
Lance responded while stretching, "Yeah?"
"Could you do some one-on-one tackle and evasion drills with me?"
Lance smiled. "Of course." He'd expected something more dramatic.
He walked over, toweling sweat from his brow. "You want contact drills or technical?"
"Technical," Jones said quickly.
He tried to explain, but the words fumbled in his head. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and got started.
First rep. Lance juked laterally with a pendulum motion—easy bypass.
Second rep. Jones initiated the grab, hands on Lance—but before he could wrap up, Lance spun 360° clockwise, slipped past him on the right, and even bumped Jones off balance.
Jones flushed, though it was hard to tell through his dark skin. "Again," he muttered.
Third rep. Lance feinted a charge, waited a beat. As Jones closed in, their arms tangled—Jones tried to overpower him, but Lance slipped in, shoulder-to-shoulder, and pivoted through.
Another clean escape.
Huff, huff. Jones was breathing heavily. Three reps of non-full-contact technical drills had him gassed.
He stared at Lance, frustration in his eyes.
He wanted to say "again"—but swallowed the words.
This was his problem: tackle consistency.
His rookie year had gone well—he'd played with the reckless courage of the untested. That plus the league's usual leniency toward first-year players had earned him All-Rookie Team honors.
Now, he was entering year three.
The pressure was mounting—especially after watching Lance, a rookie himself, dominate the field and start emerging as a leader both on and off the field.
To say he wasn't jealous would be a lie.
Jones knew he had to improve his tackle technique. He had to solidify his place on the team—this was his second-to-last year on his rookie contract. Time to prove himself was running out.
That sense of urgency drove even the sloth to wake early.
He had trained all offseason—tackling, form, technique. He thought he'd improved. Yet Lance had just humiliated him.
On paper, he should've won—6'6", 310 pounds (198 cm, 141 kg), newly bulked up.
And still—total failure.
His pride lay shattered.
Now what?
Anger. Frustration. Shame.
He almost walked away—but held himself back.
He needed to improve.
And more than that—he needed to know why he'd failed.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates