He looked at it sideways, then upright, then flipped it over to study again.
The phone in Lance's hand was like a Rubik's Cube, turning over and over.
One glance, and Mahomes knew—Lance was deliberately mocking him.
Mahomes took a deep breath. "Go ahead, laugh if you want."
Lance's face was dead serious. "No, I'm just surprised you're into this type. I thought you were more of a Rihanna guy."
In the photo was a woman of about thirty, wearing a leopard-print bikini that flaunted her curves. Her upper body was full and bursting, her waist slim enough to wrap a hand around, arched into a perfect backbend.
But the pose was what stood out most.
She was lying on her back on the bed, arching her waist upward, both legs raised and braced against the wall at the head of the bed, head tilted back to look behind her.
The camera was positioned at the foot of the bed, taking in the layered curves and long legs that seemed to go on forever. Her skin was dark and glossy like black pearls, though her facial features were blurred by the angle.
Still, her oval face and the outline of her eyes and nose could be made out.
Lance had to admit—professionals really were something else.
Mahomes' cheeks went bright red. "Lance!"
Seeing him about to blow, Lance reined in the teasing. "Last month?"
"That was after you got your second AFC Offensive Player of the Week award, right?"
Mahomes thought for a moment. "Yeah, yeah!"
"Sounds like she runs a fishing ground," Lance said. "And you're just one little minnow."
Mahomes frowned. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"How do you know it came from that night at David's Garden?" Lance asked.
"She sent me a photo—from that night. Me, in the garden."
Mahomes didn't elaborate, but Lance's suspicion was confirmed—
That garden was a secret. No one wanted what happened there leaking, not even David Beckham, who surely wouldn't want Victoria finding out.
Imagine it: an inexperienced rookie like Mahomes suddenly seeing a picture of himself in the garden—how could he not panic?
If he replied, it meant the fish had taken the bait.
Lance nodded. "She probably took a ton of photos that night and kept backups. Like managing a fishery."
"Before this, you were a backup QB, a rookie, no real value. No one bothered targeting you."
"Now, you're worth something."
"So the fishery manager figured it was time to cast the net."
"She sends you a few photos to see your reaction. Your reaction confirmed her guess, so she moved to the next step."
Mahomes stared, stunned. "I didn't reply to anything!"
Lance shook his head. "You replied once: 'Who are you?' That already gave away your nerves and inexperience. A real veteran wouldn't answer like that."
Mahomes blinked. "So what should I have done?"
"If you were interested, you'd ask for the address—one-time transaction. You get what you want, she gets what she wants. If it goes well, maybe it becomes a regular thing."
"If you weren't interested, you wouldn't reply at all. You'd know what it means, and that any reply could be evidence. Honestly, you should've just deleted the photo."
Mahomes: "…"
He sat there, mouth slightly open, not even caring if a fly flew in.
"You didn't delete it," Lance said flatly.
Mahomes knew there was no hiding from Lance's eyes. He groaned, clutching his hair in frustration.
"I just… Rookie, I just looked, okay? You know—the photo's good. Perfect light, perfect angle. I just kept it for my own collection. It's like… like a porno. Yeah, just like that. No big deal."
Lance shook his head. "No, Sherlock. This is not the same thing."
"Why?" Mahomes asked.
"Porn is like Rihanna—an image, a fantasy. In Brittany's mind, it's something you'll never actually touch in real life. But this—" Lance held up the phone. "She's within arm's reach."
And of course, it wasn't just one message.
After that, the model had sent plenty more: different angles, poses, outfits, along with a string of flirty texts—
Mahomes hadn't replied to any of them.
But… he hadn't deleted them, either.
She knew exactly how to shoot—sometimes without showing much skin, but always enough to spark desire. She gave just enough to entice, hiding the rest.
Skillful.
But that wasn't the real danger. The real threat was the final text.
Sent a week ago. An address.
A Kansas City address.
If Lance's internal map was right, it was right along their daily route to the practice facility. They passed it twice every day.
"That's what Brittany cares about," Lance said.
Mahomes froze, brain locking up.
Then he groaned. "But nothing happened, I swear, Rookie! Okay… I admit, I thought about it when we drove by. And… once, I parked across the street from her apartment."
"But only for a minute. One minute. Then I left."
"Nothing happened."
Mahomes buried his head in his hands, eyes full of despair.
Lance could only sigh—
Even a fair judge couldn't settle a lovers' quarrel. Relationships were never that simple.
How do you define cheating—does emotional straying count?
Is fantasizing about Rihanna different from fantasizing about the neighbor next door?
The logic might be clear, but the reality between couples was a mess of gray areas.
Even the people involved couldn't always decide for themselves.
That's just how relationships were—messy, tangled, impossible to untie.
Mahomes slumped into the sofa, face full of frustration. "So what do I do? I love Brittany, really. I've never thought about any other girl. Not once."
"I've been waiting for the right moment to propose. I know she's the one I want forever."
"But now…"
He sank deeper into the couch. "Rookie, what do I do if she wants to break up? What do I do?"
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Powerstones?
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