Bailey was right about one thing—there's no mercy for weight class differences in professional football.
In fact, leveraging mismatches to dominate physically is a hallmark of both offensive and defensive strategies in the NFL.
For instance, the offense might pit a tight end against a cornerback, or the defense might unleash a defensive end to steamroll a running back.
As the saying goes, numbers and raw power are football's irrefutable advantages.
During his time in the NCAA, Lance had faced defensive ends like Jonathan Allen from the Crimson Tide's defense multiple times. The professional stage wasn't going to be any different.
Bailey was offering Lance a crash course in NFL-level physicality, the kind he'd face from opponents who wouldn't think twice about exploiting any weakness. And Lance knew this wouldn't be the last time someone would try to prove themselves by stepping on the back of the draft's third overall pick.
With that in mind, Lance stepped forward without hesitation.
But how exactly does a bull rush drill work in football?
"Lance, your goal is to break free of his tackle," Childress explained from the sidelines.
Ah, now it made sense.
Much like basketball's one-on-one matchups, football's bull rush drill focuses on individual contests. Here, it's all about tackling and breaking free. No football required—just pure physical dominance, much like a real bullfight.
Bailey was fully awake now.
The half-closed eyes behind his helmet snapped wide open, locking onto Lance with a predatory glare. Both men crouched into position—knees bent, torsos forward, one hand touching the ground—ready to explode. The air between them grew heavy with tension, as if the oxygen was being compressed by their collective anticipation.
The beast inside Bailey stirred, and it wasn't hiding anymore.
The sidelines erupted in cheers.
"Come on, Bailey! Show him how it's done!"
The shouting reached a fever pitch, the crowd feeding off the charged atmosphere of this gladiatorial contest.
For Lance, this setup was unfamiliar.
In college, he usually had room to accelerate or change direction, creating opportunities to outmaneuver defenders. Even against a dominant defensive leader like Jonathan Allen, Lance's agility gave him the edge.
But here, he had no such luxury.
With less than a yard separating him from Bailey, there was no room for acceleration or evasion. It was going to be head-to-head, brute force against brute force.
No dodging. No tricks.
This was football in its rawest form.
Childress's voice from earlier now made perfect sense. In the NFL, every player except the quarterback had to embrace these physical battles. Tackling, breaking free, smashing through the opposition—this was the essence of the game.
In college, tackling drills were often practiced against cushioned equipment, like punching bags for boxers. Machines don't hit back, and they lack the aggression, adaptability, and sheer presence of a real opponent.
This, however, was entirely different.
A yard apart, helmets nearly touching, Lance and Bailey could feel each other's breath, hot and heavy through their visors. Their bodies were coiled springs, ready to unleash.
The air around them seemed to vibrate, growing hotter with every passing second.
Childress's whistle sliced through the tension.
Lance barely moved a step before he slammed into an immovable object.
Bailey's mass hit him like a wrecking ball, absorbing and nullifying the force of Lance's initial burst before reversing it entirely. The defensive end's overwhelming power sent Lance reeling, robbing him of balance in an instant.
His chest tightened, a wave of pressure crushing his ribs and organs as he was lifted off the ground. The next thing he knew, his face was buried in the foam mat.
That's why the foam pads were there.
Pain signals finally reached his brain, throbbing and sharp, accompanied by the bitter sting of humiliation.
Lance had been utterly dominated.
No room to maneuver. No chance to resist. Just brute force, plain and simple.
"C'mon, Lance, show some fight!"
"That's the third overall pick? Hah!"
"Go easy on the kid, Bailey!"
The taunts poured in from every direction, relentless and unforgiving. They weren't just jabs; they were cannon fire aimed directly at Lance's pride.
As he tried to push himself off the mat, Bailey shoved him back down, planting him on his shoulder and driving him into the padding once more.
"Stay down, rookie," Bailey growled.
The sideline erupted into laughter and cheers as Bailey pounded his chest like King Kong, his message clear.
He glanced around, scanning for the next target. His gaze briefly settled on Mahomes, Kelce, and Hunt, as if daring them to step into the ring.
Satisfied that he'd made his point, Bailey turned toward the sidelines, ready to bask in his small victory.
Then he heard a voice.
"How about another round?"
The crowd fell silent.
Bailey froze mid-step.
Turning back, he saw Lance standing tall, chest heaving with each deep breath. There was no trace of embarrassment, no anger.
Instead, Lance wore a grin—a wide, unsettling grin that gleamed with pure exhilaration. His eyes burned with excitement, daring Bailey to come at him again.
The onlookers were dumbfounded.
What the hell? Is he… enjoying this?
Bailey's heart skipped a beat, but his lips curled into a smirk. If the rookie wanted more, who was he to deny him?
"Don't tell me you got brain damage from that hit," Bailey sneered.
Lance tilted his head, cracking his neck. "Maybe a couple more hits will do the trick."
His tone was playful, but the energy radiating off him was anything but lighthearted. It sent chills down the spines of everyone watching.
Even Mahomes, usually full of energy and banter, fell silent, nervously eyeing the brewing storm.
The two men lined up again.
One yard apart, breaths mingling in the space between them.
Childress blew the whistle.
And they collided once more.
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