Huff, huff.
Humphrey lay on the ground in a spread-eagle position, gasping for breath. His stomach churned, nausea rising in his throat. He felt completely burnt out, a void inside his body boiling over, the world spinning in his eyes.
He just wanted to lie there.
His mind was blank—no thoughts, just the desire to lie still.
Then, a face appeared above him, blocking out the evening sun. With the backlight, he couldn't make out the details, just a smiling mouth.
"Ah, rookie, get off me. Your sweat's dripping on me."
Humphrey twitched like a fish out of water, scooting over. He glanced at the figure, drenched in sweat.
"Haha… Hahaha…"
Laughter rang out.
The man extended a hand. Humphrey slapped it away in disgust but then accepted it, grabbing on for support. With its help, he shakily stood on legs that felt like noodles.
His breathing eased up slightly.
But the world still spun.
He looked at the familiar smiling face in front of him and punched the guy's shoulder—softly, like cotton.
"Rookie, that was a beautiful win."
Fair and square.
Though Humphrey's mouth tasted bitter. He hated losing. Back in college, he was used to winning constantly. But in the NFL, everything was more complex and ruthless—especially with the Ravens fighting for a playoff spot. He didn't want to miss the postseason two years in a row, and this loss stung deeply.
But… he'd done his best. Lance had won fair and square.
A loss is a loss.
"But next time, be careful. What you almost pulled off today—next time, you just might succeed."
Lance looked at Humphrey, remembering Clark, Coach Burns, and all those teammates he once fought alongside for a championship. They were now walking their own paths, fighting in their own ways. Even if no longer side by side, they still looked out for each other.
Lance's smile lifted. "Hope we meet again in the playoffs. It'll be elimination next time. More brutal. But I won't go easy."
"Haha." Humphrey laughed freely, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. "Rookie, you've changed. You're not humble anymore."
Lance shrugged. "Image. It's all about image. You need one in this league. Want me to get your agent to build one for you too?"
Humphrey burst out laughing—
He still liked Lance.
Now, Lance was the face of the league, one of the NFL's biggest stars, training in the offseason with players like Watt.
Some people said Lance had changed. That a single year of college meant nothing. That he probably didn't even remember them anymore.
But Humphrey knew better. That was all envy and jealousy talking.
Lance was still Lance—just like he was back in college.
Humphrey took a step, then paused awkwardly. "Rookie, can you help me with something?"
Lance looked over, confused.
Humphrey tapped his thigh with his fist. "I think I've got a cramp."
Before he finished speaking, he plopped back onto the ground.
Lance burst into full-blown laughter. "Hahaha! Hahahahaha!"
Thunderous laughter.
Humphrey looked dead inside.
Lance crouched down and helped him stretch out his leg.
When Jackson found them, he paused—unsure what to do with the scene in front of him.
Should he get under the car?
Jackson had imagined many possibilities. This wasn't one of them.
Lance looked over. "Instead of standing there staring, come help. We're opponents, not enemies."
Jackson: …
Every time he saw Lance's calm, unbothered face, Jackson thought he was so fake.
They were all in their twenties, still young. What was Lance doing pretending to be some wise old vet, always walking like he had no worries?
Fake as hell.
Jackson rolled his eyes hard but said nothing. He stepped forward to help.
Elsewhere, Reid and Harbaugh had gathered at midfield.
On the field, sparks flew. They looked like they wanted to kill each other. But off the field—it was different.
Harbaugh saw the scene with Lance and Jackson. He nodded in approval and smiled at Reid.
"Looks like the kids are getting along well."
Reid followed his gaze. "That's how kids are. One moment they're fighting and saying 'we're not friends anymore,' the next they're holding hands playing with toys. Us old folks can't keep up."
Between the lines, Reid still wasn't happy with Mosley's rough play.
Harbaugh heard it but played dumb, pretending he didn't understand. Reid hadn't said it directly, so Harbaugh wasn't about to call it out either—
What happened in the locker room would be dealt with there. But publicly, Harbaugh defended his team and players.
Besides, Harbaugh didn't think it was a big deal.
After the game, reporters pounced on the controversy at the press conference.
Harbaugh said, "This is football. Contact is the essence of the sport. I regret any injury, believe me. The last thing I want is injuries—whether it's my players or anyone else's."
"But we must accept that this is part of competitive sports. The brutal side."
Harbaugh was smart—elevating the topic to avoid focusing too much on Mosley and Lance, keeping it about the game overall.
In theory, Harbaugh wasn't wrong. But in this specific case—was Mosley's hit intentional? That was more a matter of sportsmanship than injury or competitiveness.
And precisely because injuries are dangerous, players should never intentionally cause them.
Harbaugh's clever answer dodged the sharpest questions.
But the NFL didn't see it that way.
After the game, the league launched an official investigation, ruled Mosley's hit malicious, fined him $8,000, and issued a warning. One more incident, and he could face suspension or heavier fines.
The Ravens didn't protest. Mosley paid the fine quietly.
Thanks to Harbaugh's handling, the whole thing passed with barely a ripple.
As for how the Ravens and Chiefs players and fans felt about it—that was another story.
Same goes for now.
Harbaugh pretended not to hear the edge in Reid's words. "Coach, at last year's draft, you really fooled me. I actually believed you had no interest in quarterbacks or running backs."
Smoothly, Harbaugh changed the subject.
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Powerstones?
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