The offseason training had officially begun.
Despite Watt's repeated assurances that the first day—even the first week—was merely a warm-up, a gradual adjustment to shift from vacation mode to training mode, it was clear that Watt's definition of "warm-up" was wildly different from that of ordinary people.
Or perhaps, Watt simply had a fundamental misunderstanding of the word "warm-up."
The training began with aerobic exercises, followed by strength training, then explosive power training, core strength training, flexibility training, and finally back to aerobic exercises.
In terms of sheer quantity, it didn't seem excessive. Various exercises designed to protect muscles and joints, improve balance, and reduce injury risk were also sprinkled throughout the routine, keeping things diverse and engaging.
But in terms of intensity, type, pace, and frequency, it was undoubtedly hell-level training. There wasn't even enough time to catch one's breath or sip water, let alone complain—there was simply no time to think.
Before anyone realized it, they were swept into a whirlwind.
At the end of the first round, the training field was left with nothing but the sound of heavy breathing.
At that moment, Lance finally understood why Watt was so universally respected in the league.
In the NFL, where talent abounds and egos run high, someone like Watt—gifted, hardworking, and genuinely humble—was practically a rare species. Even if you didn't like Watt, you couldn't help but respect him.
Compared to Watt, Lance—the so-called "training fanatic"—still seemed a bit raw.
Indeed, there is always someone stronger, always a higher mountain.
Coach Burns was right. He still needed to learn. He still needed to grow.
Huff. Huff.
When the first round of training ended, Lance was panting heavily, sweat pouring off him, and his lungs felt like they were on fire.
This scene surprised Villani, Lance's personal trainer. Despite his lackluster state this morning—mentally and physically unprepared—Lance had stubbornly pushed through the training purely on willpower.
To be frank, everyone who makes it to the NFL is a prodigy. That guy standing idly by the water cooler? He was probably a high school superstar. The guy collecting the balls on the practice squad? He might have been untouchable in college. But when you step into the pros, it's easy to be just another face in the crowd.
Not just in football.
All professional sports are like this. To climb to the very top amidst fierce competition and grueling challenges, you need more than just talent—you need grit and determination.
During Lance's rookie season, he emerged seemingly out of nowhere. No one knew much about him, and he caught the league by surprise. But the next season would not be so forgiving. A new season meant a new beginning.
So, when Nash had introduced Villani to Lance, Villani was skeptical. He thought Lance was probably just another pampered superstar, unwilling to work hard.
If it weren't for Villani's training company still building its reputation, he wouldn't have accepted the gig.
But now, Villani realized he had been dead wrong.
Lance had already found that awareness, and on the very first day of offseason training, he showcased a different spirit—no arrogance, no laziness.
Villani's eyes lit up.
Maybe... Maybe he should take this more seriously, push Lance into "hell mode," and mold him into an absolute weapon?
Suddenly—
Ugh...
Lance gagged. He bent over and heaved, but since he hadn't eaten much since last night, it was just dry heaving, only a bit of stomach acid rising up his throat before he swallowed it back down.
"Haha, feeling alright there? If you can't handle it... maybe don't push yourself so hard," a voice sneered from the side.
Hopkins, grinning smugly, was still gasping for breath himself, speaking in broken sentences because he couldn't catch his breath.
Lance looked at him. Hopkins' face was flushed, and his breathing was labored—
In the first round of training, Hopkins had gone all out, finishing first, even beating Watt by a small margin.
But clearly, Hopkins had exhausted himself. His knees wobbled slightly, and his stance wasn't quite steady. It was only seven in the morning, and there was still a full day of training ahead. Lance doubted Hopkins would hold up.
So, Lance decided to stoke the fire a bit.
"Wow, impressive! Truly living up to your reputation!"
He raised a thumb—not one, but two—to show his admiration.
Hopkins tilted his chin up even higher. If Lance wanted to flatter him, fine—he'd take it. After all, it was just the truth.
Watt walked over, glancing at Hopkins' trembling knees, though the wide receiver was trying his best to stand tall and look casual. Watt knew the rest of today, and likely the next few days, would be rough for him—
Training wasn't a sprint; it was a marathon. Endurance and strategy mattered more than burning out right from the start.
But Watt chose not to remind him.
Hopkins always thought he was the smartest guy in the room. Maybe letting him stumble in front of Lance wouldn't be such a bad thing.
"Looks like someone's holding up pretty well," Watt teased with a grin.
Lance looked back at Watt. "A real man never says he can't."
The joke made Watt laugh out loud. He patted Lance on the shoulder. "First round is done. Now, it's time for the much-anticipated breakfast."
They looked at the time—twenty minutes before seven.
Watt had said the first round would be two hours, but in reality, it had only been an hour and forty minutes—not counting the extra warm-up he and Lance had done.
The remaining twenty minutes were intentional, to ensure everyone could complete the training at their own pace.
Otherwise, following the rules of Michael Jordan's "Breakfast Club," if you didn't finish on time, you didn't get breakfast. You'd have to wait until the training was over to eat—alone.
That was the origin of the "Breakfast Club"—
Only those who finished on time could sit together and enjoy breakfast.
In that sense, Watt really hadn't pushed them too hard today.
But—
Lance collapsed into a chair, every muscle aching. He didn't want to move a single finger. The lavish breakfast prepared by the private nutritionist and chef looked tempting, but he had no appetite at all—
That's what happens when you're utterly exhausted.
Next to him—
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Jason Kelce's fork kept clattering against his plate. He tried to steady his hand with his other hand, but it only made things worse.
Now both hands were shaking.
Jason's face was full of resignation, but he still forced a smile.
Across from him, Travis Kelce laughed so hard he was clutching his stomach. Though he wasn't much better off, watching his brother's predicament was just too funny.
Jason didn't mind. The fork kept clattering on the plate, and despite his own shaking, he started laughing too—until tears formed in his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
"They're tears... tears from laughing," he muttered.
And the whole room erupted in laughter.
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Powerstones?
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