"Training, please prepare."
"Training, please prepare."
The sharp blare of a loudspeaker blared outside the training facility, instantly yanking Lance out of his deep slumber.
That precious two-hour nap was like honey—he was out the moment his head hit the pillow, falling into a dreamless sleep, deep and restful.
Thankfully, Lance didn't push himself like Hopkins, who had foolishly gone off to play golf with Watt. Instead, he wisely chose to catch up on rest and recharge for the grueling schedule ahead.
But now, all of it was over.
Outside, Watt's voice was calm and steady, yet there was an unmistakable hint of glee in the loudspeaker's tone. Clearly, the good boy Watt was excited—
A moment of pure happiness.
Lance flipped over, grabbed his pillow, and pulled it over his head to muffle the noise, trying to squeeze out just a few more moments of peace.
"Ah... Ahhh..."
Lance was on the brink of a meltdown.
Still, he took a deep breath and, with a forceful push, sat upright.
The key to breaking through and challenging yourself often lies in moments like these. When you want to give up, when you want to relax—if you grit your teeth and push through, even if it's just for a little longer, it can make all the difference.
These moments—when you decide to turn left or turn right—determine the final height you can reach.
He splashed his face with cold water in the bathroom, refreshed his mind, and stepped back out onto the field, ready for the afternoon's training.
Unlike the morning session, the afternoon focused primarily on technical training—
First, the players dispersed for individual training, targeting their specific roles with precision.
For Lance, it meant footwork drills, impact resistance, ball handling, balance, evasion techniques, and countless other aspects. Even without full-contact practice, there was an entire basket of drills to perfect.
Luckily, he had Derrick as company, who was also a running back.
From the training alone, it was clear: Derrick was a diligent, methodical type. Quiet and focused, he practiced with unwavering attention. Maybe it was because his two brothers shined so brightly that Derrick felt the need to prove himself. Or maybe the Watt family was just built that way—disciplined and meticulous, treating practice like a game.
Either way, Derrick was entirely focused.
There wasn't much conversation between him and Lance, but an unspoken competition hung in the air. You could feel the tension quietly building as they trained side by side.
Second, the players formed small groups for coordination drills. This wasn't full contact; instead, they played flag football—
In flag football, the emphasis is on agility and technique rather than brute force. Instead of tackling, defensive players simply have to pull a flag from the offensive player's waist to register a stop.
With that as the basis, they worked on route running, evasive maneuvers, catching while in motion, and so on. Lance rotated between different partners—Watt, TJ, Mahomes—going through countless repetitions of coordinated drills.
Training was in full swing.
On paper, the afternoon seemed less intense than the morning. But in reality, it focused on details and precision. It wasn't just large muscle groups but also smaller, often neglected muscle groups. The mental and physical toll was just as heavy as the morning's.
And—
After the technical drills, they took a thirty-minute break to catch their breath and replenish their energy—
Watt, that hippo, began devouring food like there was no tomorrow.
Then came the final push of the day: another round of high-intensity physical training.
Watt called it, "The Final Sprint."
This part of training focused on pushing past limits.
When your body reaches its breaking point, when you feel like you can't go any further, that's when you bite down, dig deep, and push through to the next level.
It sounds simple. It's not.
Jason Kelce was the first to protest, plopping down onto the ground, with sweat pooling around him.
"Nope, nope, nope. I'm a center, alright? When have you ever seen a panda running a marathon like this?"
Jason slumped his shoulders, his eyes vacant, his hair a wild mess, his cheeks flushed as if he'd just been chewed up and spit out.
Then, Allen Robinson, who was still recovering from injury and clearly struggling with the pace, collapsed to the ground. Sprawled out in a giant star shape, he panted heavily.
People rushed over, worried he might have hurt himself.
Robinson waved them off. "I'm fine. Just... just need a minute. Just let me lay here."
Honestly, Lance was also pushing his limits. He kept going purely on willpower.
At this point, it was obvious that his understanding of "offseason training" was completely different from Watt's. Lance thought he had been working hard, training every day, keeping his routine solid.
But compared to Watt? It was child's play.
At 7:30 p.m., training was finally over.
"Last set, last set, sprint to the finish!"
"Keep pushing! Tap-tap-tap! Rhythm! Speed! Full sprint to the end!"
"Good, good, good! Great job!"
The moment it ended, Lance felt his soul leave his body—
Totally drained.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed right there on the spot.
Not just him—everywhere you looked, there were bodies strewn about, limbs spread out like a battlefield. The only sign of life was the heaving of their chests.
Across the field, one man was still standing—
Watt.
Soaked in sweat, practically steaming, Watt looked like he had just crawled out of a volcano's core. Lance's mind flashed to a vivid image.
"You're T-1000, aren't you?"
Watt didn't understand, his face full of question marks, but he grinned broadly. "You still have enough energy to joke around? I guess you're not fully spent yet."
Lance: Monster.
Watt caught the eye-roll but just laughed it off, unbothered.
"Looks like you're not interested in the Super Bowl party tonight?"
Lance didn't want to talk—he didn't even want to move a finger. He looked at Watt, squinting like Stephen Hawking, and asked with his eyes:
Super Bowl party? What party?
Watt shrugged. "Oh, we're going to break down every offensive and defensive play from the Super Bowl. We'll analyze from both perspectives. Tonight and tomorrow, we're just going to focus on the first quarter. Interested?"
After a full day of physical and technical drills, they were going to follow it up with tactical analysis—
To be exact, it was a "tactical party."
Wow. That was… intense.
Lance closed his eyes.
"Hahaha! Hahaha!" Watt laughed heartily.
Then—
Blech!
A loud, guttural sound echoed nearby, and Lance turned to look.
It was Hopkins.
He didn't even have the strength to get up. He just lay there, head to the side, vomiting uncontrollably, as if he wouldn't stop until his stomach was completely emptied.
Afterward, he twitched slightly, lying in his own mess with a look of utter despair. There wasn't even a flicker of energy left for trash-talking with Lance.
But Lance didn't kick him while he was down—
Hopkins was already drowning in his own humiliation. There was no need to add fuel to the fire.
Instead, Lance turned to Watt with a concerned look. "Is your friend okay?"
Hopkins heard it, and his body twitched. He closed his eyes in absolute despair—so Lance still didn't know his name?
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Powerstones?
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