Monday morning.
It was an official rest day—no training scheduled. Players could relax. But with the regular season still ongoing, "rest" wasn't truly complete downti. Players still needed to maintain their daily routines.
At least, Lance did.
He woke up at his usual ti, his internal clock unshaken, starting the morning with a jog. It was a habit he'd kept day after day—skip it, and the rest of the day just felt wrong.
The only difference was that rest days didn't have intense training sessions. Instead, he'd do yoga to relax his muscles and ease his ntal stress, paired with studying plays outside his normal assignnts—
Like the defensive playbook.
Lance read them for fun, not just the Chiefs' own, but defensive playbooks from other teams from seasons past.
Because of confidentiality, the ones available were years old, already obsolete. But they still showed how defensive strategies had evolved—letting him catch the trends of the league.
Interesting stuff.
But this morning, Lance had other plans.
A hospital visit.
Last night, he'd promised Felix he'd go see his good friend—and the other kids in the chemo ward.
It was an easy promise to make.
So now, Lance planned to head ho, wash up, eat breakfast, and then go to the hospital.
Creak.
He pushed open his front door—and imdiately spotted soone curled up on his dark gray sofa.
A thief?
In Kansas City, pretty much everyone knew whose house this was. Breaking in here was basically volunteering to et the owner, and the outco wouldn't be good. No thief in their right mind would co knocking.
He looked closer—
"Sherlock?"
Lance couldn't stop the surprise in his voice.
Whoa.
The figure shot upright from the couch like a spring-loaded doll—Patrick Mahos.
"Sorry. My bad."
Lance: "???"
What was going on here?
"Sherlock, did Brittany kick you out?"
Mahos froze, staring dumbly at Lance. "How'd you know?"
Lance shrugged. "Well, I do know now. That was just a wild guess before."
Mahos knew where Lance kept the spare key, so he ca and went freely. Today was no different—except for the fact that he had a sports duffel with him. Not the kind for normal practice, either. More like a hastily packed runaway bag.
And his outfit…
A wrinkled T-shirt paired with hideous brown plaid pants. Honestly, they looked like pajamas—really ugly pajamas.
"…Sherlock, you look like a ss," Lance said flatly.
Mahos tugged at his T-shirt collar and sniffed. "That bad? All my clean clothes are at the team facility. I've got nothing at ho."
In the NFL, teams were set up to handle almost everything for players.
Since most players didn't have a live-in partner, or their spouse wasn't a full-ti homaker, the team provided full life support services.
Laundry included.
Players dropped off their dirty gear at the facility, tagged with their na, and the staff handled the rest—washing, dry cleaning, nding, ironing.
Lance's laundry was done there too.
He shook his head. "Not the clothes. Your face. Your whole vibe."
"I thought yesterday was your anniversary. You even celebrated early with a win. Shouldn't you and Brittany have had a sweet night?"
At that, Mahos slumped, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Rookie, I'm done for."
Lance blinked. "She caught you cheating."
Mahos practically jumped off the couch, eyes wide in shock. "How do you know?"
Lance: "…I know now."
Still… Mahos?
"I thought you knew better than to ss around," Lance said skeptically.
Mahos shook his head hard. "No, no, no! I didn't. Really!"
Lance grinned. "Sherlock, I believe you. But it's Brittany's belief that matters. So… what happened?"
Lance couldn't imagine it—
Mahos was like the team's golden boy. Nobody even wanted to corrupt him. He was competitive, always striving to be his best on the field.
From dawn to dusk, seven days a week, he was with Lance—training, studying playbooks, watching ga film. He barely had ti for social dia, much less "cheating."
Honestly, Lance was more shocked than Brittany probably was.
Mahos could see the amused glint in Lance's eyes.
"Bro, my life is on the line here," Mahos said helplessly.
Lance shrugged. "Would Brittany believe if I vouched for you? I'd do it, but in the end, it's her call. So… she must've found sothing to use against you, right?"
Mahos took a deep breath, but the words stuck in his throat.
Lance tilted his head. "Wait, you didn't deny it. So there is sothing?"
Now it was getting interesting.
Mahos finally ca clean. "Rember David's Garden?"
Of course Lance rembered—
David Beckham's secret garden.
Beyoncé's lion's roar. The surreal rabbit hole.
Lance skipped the usual Q&A and jumped ahead. "Wait—are you saying this is from the Super Bowl victory party? You've been hiding sothing from Brittany since then?"
Didn't see that coming.
Mahos had managed to keep this from Lance for over half a year?
Mahos panicked and waved his hands. "No, no, no! Not like that."
"It started that night. I'm not sure who I gave my number to. I'm sure I swapped numbers with so models."
"But that's all it was."
"They didn't even care about —most of them just wanted your number. I told you that before, rember?"
Lance tilted his chin. "So you started texting them back then?"
Lance didn't get distracted—he went straight for the point.
Mahos froze. "…Sotis. Just a few ssages. I didn't dare give them your number. And then nothing else happened."
"Until last month."
"Suddenly, soone sent this picture."
Mahos pulled out his phone, scrolled a bit, and handed it to Lance.
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Powerstones?
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