Monday morning.
It was an official rest day—no training scheduled. Players could relax. But with the regular season still ongoing, "rest" wasn't truly complete downtime. Players still needed to maintain their daily routines.
At least, Lance did.
He woke up at his usual time, his internal clock unshaken, starting the morning with a jog. It was a habit he'd kept day after day—skip it, and the rest of the day just felt wrong.
The only difference was that rest days didn't have intense training sessions. Instead, he'd do yoga to relax his muscles and ease his mental stress, paired with studying plays outside his normal assignments—
Like the defensive playbook.
Lance read them for fun, not just the Chiefs' own, but defensive playbooks from other teams from seasons past.
Because of confidentiality, the ones available were years old, already obsolete. But they still showed how defensive strategies had evolved—letting him catch the trends of the league.
Interesting stuff.
But this morning, Lance had other plans.
A hospital visit.
Last night, he'd promised Felix he'd go see his good friend—and the other kids in the chemo ward.
It was an easy promise to make.
So now, Lance planned to head home, wash up, eat breakfast, and then go to the hospital.
Creak.
He pushed open his front door—and immediately spotted someone curled up on his dark gray sofa.
A thief?
In Kansas City, pretty much everyone knew whose house this was. Breaking in here was basically volunteering to meet the owner, and the outcome wouldn't be good. No thief in their right mind would come knocking.
He looked closer—
"Sherlock?"
Lance couldn't stop the surprise in his voice.
Whoa.
The figure shot upright from the couch like a spring-loaded doll—Patrick Mahomes.
"Sorry. My bad."
Lance: "???"
What was going on here?
"Sherlock, did Brittany kick you out?"
Mahomes froze, staring dumbly at Lance. "How'd you know?"
Lance shrugged. "Well, I do know now. That was just a wild guess before."
Mahomes knew where Lance kept the spare key, so he came and went freely. Today was no different—except for the fact that he had a sports duffel with him. Not the kind for normal practice, either. More like a hastily packed runaway bag.
And his outfit…
A wrinkled T-shirt paired with hideous brown plaid pants. Honestly, they looked like pajamas—really ugly pajamas.
"…Sherlock, you look like a mess," Lance said flatly.
Mahomes tugged at his T-shirt collar and sniffed. "That bad? All my clean clothes are at the team facility. I've got nothing at home."
In the NFL, teams were set up to handle almost everything for players.
Since most players didn't have a live-in partner, or their spouse wasn't a full-time homemaker, the team provided full life support services.
Laundry included.
Players dropped off their dirty gear at the facility, tagged with their name, and the staff handled the rest—washing, dry cleaning, mending, ironing.
Lance's laundry was done there too.
He shook his head. "Not the clothes. Your face. Your whole vibe."
"I thought yesterday was your anniversary. You even celebrated early with a win. Shouldn't you and Brittany have had a sweet night?"
At that, Mahomes slumped, letting out a heavy sigh.
"Rookie, I'm done for."
Lance blinked. "She caught you cheating."
Mahomes practically jumped off the couch, eyes wide in shock. "How do you know?"
Lance: "…I know now."
Still… Mahomes?
"I thought you knew better than to mess around," Lance said skeptically.
Mahomes shook his head hard. "No, no, no! I didn't. Really!"
Lance grinned. "Sherlock, I believe you. But it's Brittany's belief that matters. So… what happened?"
Lance couldn't imagine it—
Mahomes was like the team's golden boy. Nobody even wanted to corrupt him. He was competitive, always striving to be his best on the field.
From dawn to dusk, seven days a week, he was with Lance—training, studying playbooks, watching game film. He barely had time for social media, much less "cheating."
Honestly, Lance was more shocked than Brittany probably was.
Mahomes could see the amused glint in Lance's eyes.
"Bro, my life is on the line here," Mahomes said helplessly.
Lance shrugged. "Would Brittany believe me if I vouched for you? I'd do it, but in the end, it's her call. So… she must've found something to use against you, right?"
Mahomes took a deep breath, but the words stuck in his throat.
Lance tilted his head. "Wait, you didn't deny it. So there is something?"
Now it was getting interesting.
Mahomes finally came clean. "Remember David's Garden?"
Of course Lance remembered—
David Beckham's secret garden.
Beyoncé's lion's roar. The surreal rabbit hole.
Lance skipped the usual Q&A and jumped ahead. "Wait—are you saying this is from the Super Bowl victory party? You've been hiding something from Brittany since then?"
Didn't see that coming.
Mahomes had managed to keep this from Lance for over half a year?
Mahomes panicked and waved his hands. "No, no, no! Not like that."
"It started that night. I'm not sure who I gave my number to. I'm sure I swapped numbers with some models."
"But that's all it was."
"They didn't even care about me—most of them just wanted your number. I told you that before, remember?"
Lance tilted his chin. "So you started texting them back then?"
Lance didn't get distracted—he went straight for the point.
Mahomes froze. "…Sometimes. Just a few messages. I didn't dare give them your number. And then nothing else happened."
"Until last month."
"Suddenly, someone sent me this picture."
Mahomes pulled out his phone, scrolled a bit, and handed it to Lance.
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Powerstones?
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