Pro athletes weren't strangers to hospitals. Every so often, they'd come in for checkups, head to radiology for scans.
And Lance hadn't forgotten Berry.
Berry, still in rehab. Berry, who'd gone from one injury to the next late in his career, forced to fight over and over against both physical breakdown and the limits of nature, clinging to the slimmest hope.
Lance admired Berry.
They'd only been teammates for less than three months, but Berry's will and spirit were unforgettable—
Day after day, year after year, battling injury. Worse than the pain was the unknown. There was no guarantee that the effort and persistence would pay off—no guarantee of healing, and even if healed, no guarantee he could return to the speed and intensity of the NFL.
Which meant those four months, plus ten more, of grinding work could still end in nothing.
That was the most frightening part.
Anyone else might have given up. Berry wasn't some no-name—he already had a place in the NFL. Even if he retired now, walked away, there'd be no shame.
But Berry didn't.
He kept pushing, kept fighting—not because the goal was within reach, but because the fight itself defined him, his identity, his career.
Lance respected that deeply.
No matter what happened, Berry was showing his worth with his actions.
So Lance often visited him at the hospital.
Unexpectedly, he and Berry had become real friends—more than teammates or comrades, actual friends.
Which meant hospitals were hardly unfamiliar to Lance.
Even so, every time he walked into one, it felt strange—
Here, whether hope or despair, neither was truly in your own hands. Life and death made you feel small and powerless.
Instinctively, his steps slowed.
Step. Step. Step.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell as they climbed.
They'd skipped the elevator, choosing the stairs for a bit of exercise. They weren't in a hurry anyway.
Up front, Mahomes—still trying to distract himself from his own turmoil—suddenly stopped short. Lance and Kelce pulled up behind him.
"What is it?" Lance asked.
Mahomes didn't answer. He just glanced back at Lance, then gestured ahead with his eyes.
Lance followed his gaze. One turn of the stairs, and—
A little girl.
Six or seven, wearing a bright red knit jacket. Her light brown hair was tied into two cute little buns like ram's horns.
She was sitting on the steps, elbows on her knees, chubby cheeks squished up in her hands, a faint blush on them. It was hard to tell if she was pouting or sulking—but she was so cute you wanted to pinch her cheeks and say, "Adorable."
Mahomes hesitated. "Think she's lost?"
Lance glanced at her outfit. "She's wearing a hospital gown under the jacket. She's a patient."
Kelce caught up and lowered his voice between them. "Or… is she a ghost?"
Mahomes flinched, neck and shoulder muscles tightening, not daring to turn.
Lance suddenly spun his head and shouted, "Ghost!"
Kelce jumped back three steps, plastering himself to the wall like an emergency exit sign. For a split second, he swore his heart stopped.
Lance ignored him, hiding his smile as he continued up the stairs. He sat down a few steps below the girl, making their eyes level. Turning his head back, he said, "Hey, twenty-five cents for your thoughts."
The girl kept her chin propped on her hand, tilted her head slightly, glanced at him, and paused.
Just when Lance thought his opener had failed, she spoke. "I don't get it. Why is everyone so interested in my peeing?"
Lance: …
The air went still.
Kelce and Mahomes froze too, exchanging a glance. Kelce nearly lost it, head dropping quickly to hide his grin, shoulders shaking.
Rare!
It was rare to see Lance struck speechless.
He really hadn't expected that. Was this childish innocence? Or an old soul's bluntness?
With a kid, it felt like there was no right way to answer—and not answering felt just as wrong.
Studying her face and eyes, Lance confirmed she wasn't joking. He thought for a moment. "What did the doctors say?"
The girl shrugged. "They said I need to pee. I don't know why."
She gave him a look that said, If I knew, would I still be sitting here thinking about it?
The childish voice and mature gaze together were both roasting him.
Lance found he… had no comeback. A smile tugged at his lips. "Sorry. I'm still learning how to talk properly."
The girl nodded seriously. "It's okay. Everyone makes mistakes. I forgive you."
Lance nodded too, smiling from the eyes. "Thanks for understanding."
"From what I know, after some treatments—like chemo—you can have urinary frequency. And because those treatments often involve toxins, they need to be flushed out. The doctors may want to make sure patients pee in the hospital so they can handle it safely."
"That's just what I think, not necessarily right. But I bet if you ask the doctors, they'd give you the real answer."
Sincere, straightforward.
The girl lifted her chin and glanced at him. "They won't."
Lance blinked. "What?"
"They won't tell me. They think I'm a kid and can't understand complicated things, so they don't tell me."
Lance: …
The girl added, "Of course, I don't understand."
Lance's mouth twitched—what an interesting little one.
Before he could speak, she propped her chin up again, eyes showing a touch of sadness, like she was feeling the melancholy of a forty-five-degree gaze into the distance.
"But I just don't have any ideas. What am I supposed to do? If I don't feel like peeing, even sitting on the toilet doesn't help. Right?"
Her furrowed brows and sighs seemed to lament how hard life was—
And it was true. At seven, life had its difficulties. At twenty-seven, different ones. We always think growing up will change that. In reality, at forty-seven, seventy-seven… life is still hard in its own ways.
Then, the girl looked back at Lance, waiting for an answer.
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Powerstones?
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