Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The doorbell rang again and again, urgently, until Lance finally opened the door—
Whoosh! A gust of cold wind blew in, carrying scattered snowflakes.
A man stood silently at the doorstep, wrapped tightly in a black down coat, blending into the night. Upright and stern, he stood tall in the freezing wind without so much as a hunch, his posture as solemn as Death itself—though instead of a scythe, he held a small plastic toolbox and looked up at the much taller Lance.
"You're a bit shorter than I expected," Lance joked, still groggy, eyes half-closed, voice thick with sleep.
The grim figure didn't get it. "What?"
Lance chuckled lightly and waved it off. "Nothing. Is there something I can help you with?"
The man raised the small transparent toolbox in his left hand. "You can pee into this cup."
Lance lifted his chin slightly, feigning sudden realization. "Wow, fans these days really go all out. Do you want an autograph first?"
The grim-faced man: …
He took a deep breath, unzipped his coat, bit off a glove with his teeth, and reached into an inner pocket, pulling out a neatly sealed envelope. "Mr. Lance, I'm with the League. It's time for a routine surprise drug test."
Lance didn't even flinch. "Of course. Only this could explain such madness at this hour. First thing after winning the AFC Championship? Random drug test."
"Welcome to the NFL, right?"
The man wasn't moved. His dead-fish eyes stared blankly, all business.
Lance's joke fell flat again. He looked at the guy in silence. "Just one question. The day after the Super Bowl—could there still be a surprise test?"
Clearly not a serious question. Though the premise was valid, Lance's tone was laced with sarcasm.
The man didn't even blink. "Please consult the League's regulations. I'm just here to collect the sample."
Lance spread his hands. "Relax, man. You're not the only one working this early—I am too. No need to make this hard on each other."
Still stone-faced.
Lance shrugged, stepped aside, and gestured politely. "Kansas City's cooled down. Come inside."
Door closed, they went in.
Lance rubbed his cheeks vigorously to wake up a bit more.
Unsurprising as it was, he still quickly scanned the envelope—
Yup, League-issued notice for a surprise drug test.
In the NFL, testing was notoriously strict and year-round.
By rule, during the season, the League could conduct random urine or blood tests at any time. The notice window was minuscule—typically just five minutes. Players had to be ready the moment the tester arrived. Even if you'd been tested postgame the night before, an early morning test the next day could still happen—and couldn't be avoided.
Refusing or missing a test meant a suspension.
The League mandates at least six games' suspension without pay for such violations. Given there are only 16 regular season games, that's a huge penalty.
Of course, players can appeal, and the League might adjust the punishment, but in recent years, the average suspension has been about four games.
"Season" begins with preseason—excluding the Hall of Fame game—and lasts until a player's team is eliminated. All other time is the offseason.
Even in the offseason, players must comply with random testing, though advance notice is required. These are split into two phases:
From season's end to training camp: full vacation mode, 24-hour notice window for tests. From training camp to preseason: shorter 2–3 hour windows, divided into morning and afternoon.
Right now? This was a surprise test.
Lance wasn't surprised.
So far this season, he'd already undergone 23 surprise drug tests. Whenever his performance stood out and influenced the outcome of a game, testing ramped up.
He'd heard of some players being tested four times in a week—basically every day between games. Lance hadn't hit that level yet.
Twice in a week was his max, though that had already happened more than once.
It all pointed to two truths:
First, Lance was undeniably under the spotlight—across the entire League.
Second, his performance this season was so exceptional that it sparked constant suspicion and scrutiny. All eyes were on this rookie.
Surprise testing didn't surprise him. The only real surprise?
The time: 6:30 a.m.? Seriously?
After reading the notice thoroughly, Lance said, "I get this is your job, but I still need to see your ID. Thanks for your cooperation."
The tester, who'd been subtly eyeing Lance's apartment, looked slightly surprised.
At this moment, Lance was the top athlete in all of North American pro sports—not just the NFL. Even the NBA, NHL, and MLB had taken notice of this superstar rookie. His off-field endorsements were endless.
Yet here he was, not in a mansion with a pool, but in a modest, unassuming apartment.
He looked every bit the typical first-year pro.
And the place?
Spotless. Simple. Organized.
No alcohol. No junk food. No weed. Even in the early hours of a surprise visit, it was clear the place was kept clean.
Obviously, Lance's focus remained entirely on football. He hadn't succumbed to luxury or distraction.
Rare. Truly impressive.
As an official League tester, the man visited at least 30 players' homes per week—veterans, rookies, even fringe practice squad guys. He'd seen it all. Shocking him wasn't easy.
Hearing Lance's words, he quickly masked his thoughts and retrieved his badge, handing it over.
Lance checked the ID. "Usually, we get some heads-up. Why not today?"
The man answered like a machine. "I left a voicemail saying I'd arrive in five minutes. I timed it. Rang the bell exactly five minutes later."
Lance gave him a look and cracked a smile. He'd been sleeping, obviously didn't hear the call or voicemail.
So now it made sense.
The League did this on purpose—this time slot was meant to catch players off guard.
And Lance could say with absolute certainty—this wasn't the first time they'd pulled this move.
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Powerstones?
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