So it wasn't the media—it was the fans.
And not just 500 of them—nearly a thousand gathered, bustling and packed tight.
Ordinary, good-hearted citizens of Kansas City, passionate, loyal Chiefs fans—all came together with a singular goal: to tell Lance with their presence—
"You'll never walk alone."
Maybe Lance didn't care. Maybe he wasn't glued to the swirling chaos of social media. But Kansas City's residents were watching, every moment.
The truth hadn't yet surfaced, and vicious attacks blanketed Lance online. But Chiefs fans made their choice: they believed him.
Not because Lance led them to a Super Bowl title last season, but because over that short year, Lance had proven himself—on the field, in training, in daily life. No grand speeches, no hollow promises—just action.
And action always speaks louder than words.
The people of Kansas City saw it—felt it—in their everyday lives. Their firsthand experiences outweighed the lies and slander flooding the internet.
So this scene unfolded:
The fans showed up, standing behind Lance with real, unwavering support. Even if the entire world turned against him, they would remain his unshakable shield.
"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere—he's the Edge Walker, Lance, Lance, Lance!"
It was just like game day.
Though they weren't inside a stadium, the unified, booming chants rang out in the crisp morning air, relentless and defiant.
Among the crowd, Chris Provost wore a red Chiefs No. 23 jersey, shouting until his throat went raw, pouring out every ounce of his energy and devotion.
They'd doubted the team before—cursed, turned their backs. But Lance never gave up, grinding forward, step by step.
Now, it was their turn to answer his efforts with action.
Kansas City—a blue-collar, conservative, working-class town—harbored its share of prejudice. In good times, those biases stayed hidden. But in adversity, the ugliness surfaced.
This was no exception.
The social media storm stirred ripples in Kansas City too—curses, doubts, hesitation. Maybe not as extreme as Texas, but close.
It sickened Provost.
"You should see your own disgusting faces in the mirror," he had raged.
"While Lance set aside differences and carried the team on his back, we sat here talking shit."
"While Lance poured every ounce of himself into battle and brought us glory, we lounged like kings, basking in the championship glow."
"And now, when Lance gets slandered, twisted, attacked, and isolated on enemy ground in New England, we stand here judging, drawing lines in the sand."
"Ha. I'm guilty too."
"You've looked down on me plenty, but now? I look down on YOU. You don't deserve a player like Lance. You don't deserve the championship he bled for."
"You disgust me."
Provost let it all fly, furious and unfiltered, shredding the cowards who called themselves fans. They fell silent, eyes down, unable to meet his glare.
"Listen up," Provost declared.
"Tomorrow morning, I'm going to the training facility."
"Because I know, rain or shine, Lance runs to the facility every single morning. For over a year and a half, he's shown up. That dedication doesn't betray you."
"I'm going to show him, with action, that this team is worth fighting for—that this city is worth staying in."
"Hey!"
"Look at your own filth and hypocrisy. If Lance left, all 31 other teams would welcome him with open arms. But us?"
"We've waited YEARS for a true leader, and your arrogance and stupidity are destroying it."
"Damn it!"
"Damn it all!"
He unleashed his fury, shredding every last coward, then stormed out of the Old Oak Tavern.
And he kept his word, showing up at the facility first thing.
Anderson was there. So was Charles West.
Anderson, shackled to the bar for years, rarely visited the stadium or facility. But today, he left the tavern behind—knowing Provost was right.
It was time to drop their biases, embrace the differences. In sports, especially, that unity matters.
They couldn't lose Lance.
More importantly, after the painful loss at Foxborough, the entire Chiefs team was struggling. Fans too. But it's in adversity—in loss, in hardship—that a team reveals its true soul.
The Kansas City Chiefs—a team that celebrates together, that endures hardship together.
It had been that way for half a century.
That Super Bowl trophy carried them through dark times, toward a new dawn. And so it would be again.
Loss demanded unity, now more than ever.
So Anderson came.
And they weren't alone.
Friend by friend, group by group, they gathered.
It wasn't organized, there was no official rally. But the small city of Kansas showed its strength in numbers.
Together, a sea of red flooded the entrance to the facility.
They sang loud, proud, unrestrained.
The signs were rough, scrawled with marker, but their hearts burned bright in the cool autumn breeze.
Thump. Thump.
Their hearts beat in rhythm, like war drums echoing across the morning sky.
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Powerstones?
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