Buzz—
The hotel lobby fell into a brief state of stunned silence, a montary lapse into chaos.
Not just the reporters—Kansas City Chiefs players also tensed up, their guards imdiately rising. No one could comprehend why the opposing team's general manager had appeared here.
A coincidence?
Impossible. Even a middle schooler wouldn't believe this was just chance. Yet, their minds struggled to find a logical explanation.
For a mont, the scene was pure disorder.
Chiefs GM Brett Veach stepped forward instinctively—if there was going to be a confrontation, GM to GM was the proper way to handle it.
At the draft, Veach had pulled off a masterstroke, outmaneuvering Caldwell and setting the foundation for the Chiefs' rapid rise. But few had expected Caldwell to strike back, executing a shrewd free-agency strategy that transford the Jaguars into the biggest wildcard of this postseason.
Now, the two GMs stood face to face for the ultimate showdown.
But then—
Another unexpected twist.
After a brief exchange of veiled pleasantries, Caldwell flashed a polite smile and raised a hand.
"Apologies, give a mont."
Veach: ???
Caldwell's words were courteous, so Veach hesitated just long enough to miss his chance to stop him.
Caldwell stepped aside and strode toward—
Lance.
In the midst of all the confusion, Lance might have been the only one unfazed.
For one, he had no idea who Caldwell was.
Two, he didn't know if the league had any rules against a rival GM approaching a player without permission.
Three, he didn't think this situation had anything to do with him.
Until Caldwell called out his na.
"Lance!"
Lance stopped in his tracks, looking puzzled. "?"
Mahos, standing beside him, instinctively went into full alert mode, his fists clenching before he even realized it.
Lance noticed and chuckled. "Sherlock, relax. If you accidentally break the old man's bones, that'd be a real problem."
Then, he let out a carefree laugh.
Mahos couldn't help but grin as well.
Surprisingly, Caldwell also smiled. "Lance, I'm David Caldwell."
The Jaguars had been this close to drafting Lance.
Even though they had Fournette, and their ground ga was the second-best in the league, Caldwell still saw Lance as sothing far greater—a brand.
Forget ticket sales and jersey revenue. Lance's impact on the league's marketing and global expansion was imasurable.
Kansas City's entire franchise had beco a sensation because of him.
That wasn't sothing Fournette could replicate.
Caldwell had never forgotten this.
At the start of the season, when the Chiefs were on a winning streak, the Jaguars beca a laughingstock. The dia had no idea Caldwell had wanted to draft Lance, only to have him stolen away at the last second.
And Caldwell had no way to explain himself. He could only endure the ridicule.
All he wanted to say was: It wasn't that I lacked vision—I got robbed! The Jaguars were the victims! We only took Fournette because we had no choice!
Fournette: …So I was just a backup plan.
But now—
The Jaguars were in the AFC Championship, widely considered the Super Bowl favorites.
The tables had turned.
For Caldwell, this was about two things:
One, beating the Chiefs to prove the Jaguars deserved to be here. This was a must-win ga.
Two, making sure Lance knew there would always be a place for him in Jacksonville.
If the Chiefs were foolish enough to undervalue him, Caldwell was more than willing to step in, salary cap be damned.
This was just the beginning.
Caldwell believed he and Lance would cross paths again in the future.
Of course, he was aware that approaching another team's player in secret was a potential violation of league rules.
But then he had a brilliant idea—
What if it wasn't in secret?
By making this eting public, right in front of reporters, he ensured there could be no accusations of tampering.
So, Caldwell made his move—
A simple introduction.
Lance, ever polite, extended his hand for a friendly handshake. "Mr. Caldwell."
Mahos' palms were sweating. Was this even allowed?
"Can I help you with sothing? Do you need an autograph, or maybe a photo?"
Mahos: Cough.
He nearly choked on his own spit, his face turning red as he fought to hold in his laughter.
Caldwell blinked, montarily caught off guard. But as a seasoned executive, he recovered quickly.
Taking a deep breath, he put on his best smile. "Lance, I'm the GM of the Jacksonville Jaguars."
Clarifying his identity.
Lance tilted his chin slightly, feigning sudden realization. Caldwell relaxed—
Only for Lance to continue.
"Oh. That must be tough, being a Chiefs fan in Jacksonville."
Caldwell: …
Mahos: Clenching fists. Holding in laughter.
Veach, now approaching, froze for a second—before a smirk crept onto his face.
Behind them, Kelce and the others couldn't hold back anymore, their snickers filling the air.
To be fair, in the NFL, this wasn't unusual—
Many people worked for teams they didn't necessarily support. It was a business. Loyalty was secondary to professionalism.
But that didn't an fans—or ownership—wanted to hear that their GM secretly rooted for another team.
Caldwell's temple throbbed, a vein pulsing as frustration boiled inside him.
He was known as a no-nonsense, hard-nosed GM. Not the type to joke around with players or staff.
And even though he knew Lance was sharp-tongued, watching from the sidelines was one thing—being on the receiving end was another.
His smile faltered. The anger flared in his chest, spreading rapidly.
Lance was a troublemaker. A problem.
Was he really worth the effort?
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
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