"Coach Reid."
Lance flashed a smile, standing up as if nothing had happened.
Reid sighed inwardly, glanced at the time—plenty left before the press conference—then walked toward Lance, awkwardly sitting down beside him.
"Come, sit with me for a bit."
Lance hesitated, "But the press conference—"
Reid waved him off, "What? Still dwelling on the game?"
Lance didn't answer immediately. He glanced at Reid, then realized the coach had probably seen his vulnerable moment earlier. He sat back down beside him.
"Yeah…"
"I can't help but think—if I'd been just a fraction quicker on that field goal block attempt, maybe I could've altered the ball's trajectory."
"Or maybe… I could've done more during the game. Sherlock's been blaming himself the whole time, but honestly, I didn't play well either. I should carry more of the responsibility—"
Countless thoughts raced to his lips, but he stopped abruptly.
Turning to Reid, Lance offered a bitter smile.
"I know… I know all the logic. Don't get lost in the details, or you'll spiral, drive yourself crazy. I even told Sherlock not to shoulder all the blame but…"
"Coach."
"I hate losing. Truly."
He exhaled deeply—the taste of defeat was unbearable, like a raging fire burning in his chest, impossible to swallow or spit out.
Reid patiently listened, never interrupting, then finally turned to him.
"Then tomorrow, you'll need to watch that game film a few extra times."
Lance froze.
He'd expected some profound wisdom, a soothing speech to let go of the loss, but Reid flipped the script completely.
Catching Lance's confused look, Reid's round face broke into a grin.
"We can't change the past, can't predict the future. The only thing we control is the present."
"New England's a strong team. Belichick's a top-tier coach. That's a fact. We lost today. Even if we meet them again this season, it doesn't guarantee victory—we could still lose."
"Yeah, we're the defending champs, but Belichick and his team have stayed elite for years. Their foundation runs deep. Truthfully, we're still the ones chasing them."
"Heh, doesn't that sting a little?" Reid teased.
Lance spread his hands, "Ask me tomorrow, I'm not calm enough for objectivity right now."
Reid chuckled.
"The truth's often harsh. Like tonight—I've got to admit, New England played better. They earned the win. God, saying that still hurts."
"But facing facts is the only way to improve."
"Next time, I want to beat them."
Calm, honest, direct.
Lance couldn't hide his surprise. Reid rarely showed emotion; win or lose, he was as steady as a mountain.
Behind those glasses, Reid's eyes gleamed.
"Here's a secret… I hate losing too."
Lance blinked, then burst out laughing.
Who doesn't hate losing?
Reid hesitated, words caught between pride and vulnerability. He never exposed weakness to his coaching staff—he was the head coach, the shield for everyone. Not even family heard these things. Certainly not the players.
Heavy lies the crown.
But looking at Lance—the young man he handpicked in the draft, step by step growing into a leader—Reid spoke his truth.
"I spent thirteen years in Philly. Even now, I still think of it as home. I miss the weather, the beer, the fans."
"But truth is, those fans were against me for years. I never brought them a Super Bowl title. We had great seasons, made deep playoff runs, but always fell short."
"They wanted me gone. Some even threw rocks through my windows."
Jeffrey Lurie, owner of the Philadelphia Eagles, had stood by him through it all.
"So yeah, I hate losing."
"And that's why… tomorrow, we're watching that film extra times."
A sharp pivot—Lance expected an inspiring finale, but Reid looped right back to the grind. Lance couldn't help but laugh.
Reid tried to push off the stairs to stand—it wasn't easy. Lance reached out, steadying him.
Reid didn't need to look back. He believed in Lance—this kid would be the tree that held up Kansas City's sky.
All that anger, frustration, and bitterness—that was passion. It would fuel his growth, mold him into something greater. Reid looked forward to the day Lance truly spread his wings.
Before stepping into the press room, Reid made up his mind:
No one hurts my player.
No one.
True to his word, Reid launched swift, decisive action.
The entire Kansas City Chiefs organization stood united. Owner Hunt filed formal complaints with the league, publicly backing Lance in interviews.
Meanwhile, the New England Patriots played dirty, fueling an online storm—
A clipped video of Lance "threatening" Patriots fans circulated, showing his fierce expression, painting him as a villain. It went viral, casting Lance as public enemy number one.
New England's deeply rooted discrimination emerged subtly, but the internet magnified it a hundredfold. A tidal wave of hate crashed down.
The video, taken out of context, erased Mahomes' presence and the full story. Lance stood alone under the harsh spotlight, a target for public fury.
After a flawless rookie year, Lance now faced his first real crisis—the backlash of so-called political correctness. The ugly shadows beneath the league's glamorous surface began to reveal themselves.
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Powerstones?
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