Lilith kept her eyes on Lance, conveying a message without saying a word.
Sure enough, Lance stopped in his tracks.
"Hey, Dr. Rosen."
Lance barely finished his greeting before the pack of wolves lurking nearby seized the opportunity to stir things up.
"Aren't you supposed to be heading to the press conference?"
"Oh, so it's a date, huh?"
"Dr. Rosen, my knee is feeling a bit sore. Mind taking a look?"
The tunnel was so loud that the roar from outside Gillette Stadium was completely blocked out. Even though it was an away game, it felt like home.
Mahomes, always the instigator, was the first to start singing nonsense.
"Lance and Lilith, sitting in a tree, Lance and Lilith, sitting in a tree…"
It was a nursery rhyme—originally sung as: "Boy and girl, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g." Middle schoolers would insert names as a way to tease their friends.
But usually, this kind of teasing stopped by high school—because by then, kissing wasn't a forbidden thing anymore.
Yet here was Mahomes, acting like a middle schooler.
Lance turned to him helplessly. "Sherlock!"
Mahomes immediately shut up, but his throat still hummed the tune through ventriloquism. The others continued jeering.
Then, something unexpected happened.
Lilith silently raised both hands and cracked her knuckles—pop, pop, pop—like firecrackers going off. Her face remained ice-cold, as if she were assessing a corpse.
Instantly, the troublemakers shut their mouths and scattered like birds.
Only Mahomes, a step too slow, was left in place, still clowning around. That was until Lilith's piercing gaze locked onto him. He went silent in an instant.
Mahomes stood at attention, blinked, and obediently said, "Sorry." Then, like a gust of wind, he sprinted off—without even looking at Lance—rushing past him and Lilith into the locker room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Bang.
The door shut with a loud thud.
Lilith remained expressionless as she looked up at Lance.
Lance struggled to hold back his laughter. Seeing her face, he gestured toward the door. "You do realize they're all still eavesdropping, right?"
Lilith raised an eyebrow slightly, looking completely indifferent.
"Your back and waist need a massage before the press conference."
Oh, so that was what this was about.
"That last catch looked smooth and effortless, but it put a lot of strain on your body. Right now, you're still riding an adrenaline rush, so you don't feel it. But if you don't relax your muscles in time, it could leave lasting damage."
"Also, the ice bath is necessary."
"No need to rush the press conference. Coach Reid can handle it. Even if he can't, let the reporters wait."
Her tone was steady and matter-of-fact, like she was reading a financial report.
Finishing her piece, Lilith turned to leave without waiting for Lance's response.
Lance called out, "Are you worried about me?"
Lilith froze, her pupils trembling slightly. She quickly looked up at Lance.
Just as she was about to explain, Lance spoke again. "Thank you."
His open, straightforward attitude caught her off guard, making her even more flustered, as if she had completely misread the situation.
"I—I was just doing my job."
She stammered for a moment before regaining her composure.
Then, she looked up and saw the teasing smile in Lance's eyes. Her expression softened slightly.
Lance grinned. "Thank you for your work. I need these reminders."
Lilith steadied herself. "I'm part of the Kansas City Chiefs too."
She hesitated for a moment before adding, "It was a great game. Not just that last catch."
However, she received no response.
Looking up, she saw Lance smiling brightly.
"Thanks."
A simple and polite response, yet it carried a warmth that made Lilith's heart skip a beat.
For a brief moment, she thought she felt her cheeks flush.
Lance didn't linger. He walked past Lilith toward the locker room.
Just as Lilith began to relax, his voice came again from behind her.
"Hope to see you at the next game."
With that, he pushed open the locker room door. Inside, the noise exploded—whistles, jeers, and banter, as if they were about to tear the visitor's locker room apart.
"Lance and Lilith, sitting in a tree…"
That obnoxious song started up again.
For a split second, Lilith's heart skipped another beat.
She was always traveling with the team—whether to Pittsburgh or Jacksonville. So why did Lance make a point to invite her? And why did her heart react like that?
Lilith was momentarily stunned.
"Dr. Rosen?"
Kelce had just returned and saw her standing at the locker room door.
"Looking for someone? Want me to call them for you?"
But Lilith simply waved him off without saying a word and walked away.
Kelce was left behind, full of confusion. He thought for a moment, then sniffed his jersey.
"Is it my sweat? It's not that bad, is it?"
The Kansas City Chiefs' press officer had already informed the media that Lance's press conference would be delayed by 45 minutes. But that did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm.
By the time Lance finally arrived, the press room was still packed—reporters crowded in, eager to fire off questions about the victory and that catch.
Surprisingly, a refreshed-looking Lance kept a low profile, showing none of the expected arrogance.
"…We got a little help from Lady Luck."
"The New England Patriots played an incredible game. They showed us what it takes to be a championship-caliber team. Clearly, we're still young and have a lot to learn."
His words were so generous that someone unfamiliar with the game might've thought the Patriots had won. But looking at the scoreboard? Completely different story.
Then, Lance shifted gears.
"But we never gave up. We fought until the very end. Our defense, offense, and special teams all worked together with the same mindset, and that's how we created this one chance."
"And we seized it."
"Our next game? Doesn't matter who the opponent is—we're still the underdogs. So, we'll be ready. We'll give it everything we've got."
Even though Lance was downplaying things, the media quickly picked up on the real message. Excited, they started crafting headlines on the spot:
"The Patriots were perfect, but victory belongs to the Chiefs."
"Brady is aging—the future belongs to the young guns."
"The Patriots are Brady and Belichick's team. The Chiefs win through teamwork. Victory belongs to the collective, not the individual."
Perfect!
Yup, headlines secured.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates