"Found you."
Lance picked up his playbook and was just about to leave when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a lone figure wandering across the practice field outside the eting room window.
By now, night had fallen. Kansas City was enveloped in a deep peacock-blue darkness. In the distance, the refinery's towering smokestacks stood like giants at the horizon, holding up a sky filled with scattered stars. The practice field was unlit, with only the dim glow from the office building's still-lit windows casting faint patches of light.
That figure moved like a drifting shadow.
Wait—
Number 11?
Lance grabbed his playbook and quickly headed downstairs. Instead of going to the parking lot, he walked toward the field. His cleats pressed into the soft grass as he advanced.
That figure had stopped moving. He had picked a spot, sat down cross-legged, and faced away from the office building—completely unaware that soone was approaching.
Lance slowed his steps and stopped a short distance behind him, following his line of sight. He thought for a mont, then understood.
"You're looking at Arrowhead Stadium?"
The man in the No. 11 jersey turned slightly at the voice. When he saw it was Lance, he let out a small chuckle.
"Busted?"
Arrowhead Stadium was the Chiefs' ho, but the team's training facility wasn't located there.
The two sites were just a five-minute drive apart. One could even walk between them. The facility had two outdoor practice fields, a full-sized ga field, and an indoor training field—open to the public year-round, always bustling with activity.
Fans could visit anyti to watch practices and cheer for the team.
Now, the Chiefs' starting quarterback, Alex Smith, sat alone on the training field, staring toward Arrowhead Stadium.
Lance was surprised.
He and Smith had always maintained a respectful distance. They weren't exactly friends—"teammates" was the more accurate term.
On one hand, Smith was naturally introverted and quiet, rarely making his presence known in the locker room. On the other, Lance was close with Patrick Mahos, the rookie quarterback poised to take over Smith's starting job. Their relationship was… delicate.
Still, after a full season together, they had built mutual respect.
Smith was a gentle leader, soone without arrogance or sharp edges, always willing to share his knowledge. If Lance had a question, Smith answered it thoroughly. If Mahos had a question, he received the sa treatnt.
As a teammate, a ntor, and a quarterback, Smith was a solid leader.
But tonight…
Lance hadn't expected Smith to linger long after the ga, let alone sit alone on the practice field, staring into the distance.
Sothing felt off.
Even though they weren't friends—never shared drinks or hung out beyond training and gas—Lance still felt obligated to check in.
So, he sat down beside Smith.
Normally, Smith wasn't one to start conversations. But tonight was different.
"Hey, you believe this? That was only the third playoff win of my thirteen-year career."
Lance paused for a second—
So that's what this was about.
All the talk had been about what this victory ant for the Chiefs. No one had stopped to consider what it ant for the players.
For Alex Smith.
Lance shrugged. "I think… you're asking the wrong person."
Smith blinked, then let out a dry laugh. "Right. Rookie. Almost forgot—you didn't even know who Tom Brady was. Of course, you wouldn't know my playoff history either."
There was a self-deprecating bitterness in his voice.
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Sorry?"
The uncertain tone made Smith laugh out loud. "No, don't be. Actually, I should be thanking you. You brought us this win."
Lance opened his mouth to respond, but this ti, Smith cut him off.
"I know, I know. You're going to say, 'It was a team effort.' But we all know who really led us when it mattered most."
"Or rather—maybe it wasn't necessarily you," Smith exhaled, glancing toward Arrowhead again. "But it sure wasn't ."
His words were sharp, but they weren't ant to wound.
This wasn't jealousy. It wasn't anger.
It was self-awareness.
Lance suddenly understood—
The post-ga press conference.
Normally, the biggest spotlight in a playoff win should fall on the quarterback. But Smith had been overlooked.
Forget being compared to Lance—even Marcus Mariota had gotten more attention.
Mariota's insane self-pass touchdown was still making headlines.
Smith, on the other hand?
Barely a footnote.
And yet, this was his milestone win.
He had played well. The Chiefs' first-half offensive explosion? His command. Their final drive? His precise passing set the foundation.
But no one cared.
Lance considered that for a mont.
If their roles had been reversed, if he had been the one overshadowed, he might have felt the sa way.
How was he supposed to comfort Smith?
Lance hesitated. "Alex—"
Smith sighed. "Sorry. Wrong person to vent to, huh?"
Lance grinned. "No, actually, I'm the only right person to vent to. And for the record—I didn't an to steal your spotlight."
His tone was lighthearted, teasing.
Smith opened his mouth to argue—then realized the way Lance had said it.
"You don't sound sorry at all."
Lance nodded seriously. "I'm not sorry at all."
Smith burst out laughing. "Fair enough."
His smile lingered for a mont before fading.
"I just…" He let out a slow breath.
"I just want to do my job. To be the guy who leads this team. To be soone who truly helps us win."
His voice grew quieter.
"You ever wonder if… maybe I'm the problem?"
Lance frowned.
"I an," Smith continued, "maybe I've been holding this team back. Maybe I'm not as good as I think I am. Maybe… without , we'd actually go farther."
Lance had never thought about it that way.
As a quarterback, Smith was always in the spotlight. Always expected to take responsibility.
But now, that spotlight felt more like a burden than an honor.
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Powerstones?
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