The Steelers' locker room was filled with tension, hidden conflicts bubbling beneath the surface. Le'Veon Bell stood in the middle of it all, feeling detached.
The squabbles between Antonio Brown and Ben Roethlisberger? Not his business. Neither of them ever took a running back's opinion seriously, anyway. They all thought of running backs as expendable pieces.
Bell's gaze scanned the room until it locked onto a particular figure. Without hesitation, he straightened his posture and strode forward.
Lance.
While Brown and Roethlisberger were busy blaming each other for the loss, Bell had a different take:
They hadn't lost to the Chiefs.
They had lost to Lance.
Sure, Andy Reid's tactical adjustnts had blindsided Mike Tomlin, but in the end, it was Lance who broke the Steelers' defense in those two crucial drives.
Did Bell like Lance?
No.
After all, Lance's success disrupted Bell's plans. If the Steelers missed the playoffs this season, Bell's chances of securing a massive contract would take a hit.
But liking Lance wasn't the point.
Competition was a good thing.
It wasn't just about showing the league that running backs mattered — that their value couldn't be ignored. For Bell, there was another motive:
He wanted to beat Lance.
If he could surpass Lance on the field — outperform him in gas and stats — it would only strengthen his case for that elusive long-term deal.
That's why he wanted to et Lance. To get a good look at the rookie shaking up the league.
Apparently, Bell wasn't the only one with this idea.
By the ti he reached Lance, TJ Watt was already standing there, exchanging jerseys with him. The two rookies seed to be enjoying each other's company.
"Oh, co on! Who said football players don't like swapping jerseys?" Lance grumbled, shaking his head in mock frustration.
Watt grinned, amused by Lance's reaction.
"This one's going to JJ," Watt said, referring to his brother, JJ Watt. "He really wants one of your jerseys."
Lance smirked, "Well, he'll have to co get it himself next ti."
"I wouldn't worry," Watt chuckled. "JJ's already sharpening his knives. He'll be ready."
Lance spread his hands in a calming gesture. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here waiting for you guys."
His confidence was natural, unforced, and Watt couldn't help but feel his competitive spirit ignite again.
Today, he had failed to stop Lance. Next ti? He couldn't wait.
Watt opened his mouth to say sothing else, but a presence cut him off.
Bell.
Both Watt and Lance turned to face him.
Lance pointed at Watt and feigned confusion, "If you're looking for my jersey, he already took it. Wait — are you JJ or TJ? Either way, it's with Watt."
Watt burst out laughing.
"Doesn't matter if I'm TJ or JJ — either way, we're your worst nightmare next ti."
The two were joking, but Bell wasn't smiling.
His expression was cold, serious. He stood silently, staring at Lance without saying a word, tension crackling in the air.
It seed, for a mont, that Bell might take a swing at Lance.
Finally, he spoke.
"Le'Veon Bell."
Watt blinked in confusion.
What? Did he just introduce himself out of nowhere?
Lance, however, didn't miss a beat. His response was calm, composed.
"Lance."
One na to another. Sparks flew in the silence that followed.
Bell nodded slowly, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips.
"You better rember that na. Because I've already rembered yours. Nice ga."
Then, without waiting for a response, Bell turned on his heel and walked away.
His abrupt exit left Watt scratching his head.
"Okay… what was that?" Watt asked, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. "For the record, I don't really know him."
From fans to players, and now even opponents, everyone was paying attention to Lance.
It didn't stop there. At the post-ga press conference, Lance remained the star of the show.
As he took his seat, reporters surged forward, piling phones and recorders onto the table in front of him. The mountain of devices resembled a small hill.
Lance glanced down at the stack, chuckled, and gave one of the reporters a big smile.
"Thanks for the Halloween gift."
The reporter froze mid-step, unsure whether Lance was joking or serious. For a mont, he debated whether to explain that it wasn't a gift — just his phone for recording purposes.
The room burst into laughter.
But the light-hearted mont didn't last long.
When the questions started, the atmosphere turned sharp.
"Lance, so people believe that your recent Nike endorsent deal has distracted you. Today's ga seed inconsistent — your performance was shaky until the final quarter. Were you distracted?"
The opening question was a jab.
Lance, unfazed, smiled.
"I can't tell whether that question is raising expectations for or underestimating the Steelers' defense, but either way, thanks?"
The room chuckled.
"As for being distracted?" Lance shrugged. "Okay, fine. When I saw the number on that check, I got distracted for three seconds. You'll have to forgive — I'm still young, and I've never seen that many zeros before."
His eyes widened in mock innocence.
"Have you ever seen a check that big?"
The reporter blinked, speechless.
Around the room, journalists chuckled and whispered to one another, enjoying the unexpected turn.
Another reporter quickly stepped in with a different question.
"Lance, before the ga, JuJu Smith-Schuster called you out — he said you're all looks and no substance. He claid you're nothing but a pretty boy. Do you have a response?"
Lance's answer was short and sweet.
"Thanks for the complint, but I'm not interested."
The room fell silent for a beat before laughter erupted again.
The reporter who asked the question realized what had just happened —
Did Lance just imply JuJu was hitting on him?
Lance kept a straight face. "No offense, but I don't really care about looks. Except, of course, for the sponsors."
JuJu's original insult had backfired spectacularly. What was ant to criticize Lance's popularity with female fans now made JuJu look like the one who cared about appearances.
JuJu, wherever he was, must have been fuming.
"Lance, do you have any thoughts on JuJu's performance today?"
"Sorry, I haven't checked his stats."
Another reporter jumped in with the numbers.
"He was targeted three tis and made one catch for three yards."
Lance nodded, his expression turning serious. He clenched his fist and raised it in a gesture of encouragent.
"Keep it up, JuJu!"
The room dissolved into laughter once more.
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Powerstones?
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