Whistles echoed one after another, filling the air with lively commotion. The blonde woman came to a stop, turned toward the sound, and the culprits—led by Mahomes—immediately chickened out, silencing themselves in a flash.
Seeing this, Hunt stepped forward to salvage the situation.
Grabbing a football, he lobbed it in her direction. But clearly, passing wasn't his forte. The football wobbled unsteadily through the air, resembling a stubborn autumn leaf clinging to a branch before plummeting to the ground.
The throw lacked precision, landing embarrassingly short, bouncing awkwardly a couple of times before coming to a pitiful stop.
Clearing his throat, Hunt forced himself to speak, "Excuse me, could you toss the ball back?"
Was this a pickup line from some outdated high school rom-com?
The others immediately burst into laughter and jeers, further roasting Hunt for his failed attempt. Hunt wanted to claw back some dignity, but his situation only worsened.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The blonde woman actually approached, picked up the football, and looked around the group. Several players raised their hands high, signaling for her to pass to them, while Hunt awkwardly jogged forward, seemingly ready to meet her halfway.
She ignored Hunt completely.
With no fanfare or preparation, she stepped forward, swung her arm back, and launched the football.
The ball shot forward like a missile, spinning tightly in the air with an audible whoosh. It carved a graceful arc, whizzing over Hunt's head before continuing to soar across the field.
Wait—what just happened?
Stopping in his tracks, Hunt craned his neck to follow the football's path, its trajectory leaving him utterly flabbergasted.
Then he saw the target.
Standing further back was Lance, the only one who hadn't joined in the commotion. Amid the noisy revelry, he had remained a quiet observer, now abruptly thrust into the spotlight.
Including Hunt, everyone instinctively held their breath.
The football streaked across 30 yards of open field with precision, descending toward Lance like a heat-seeking missile.
Despite the unexpected pass, Lance remained composed. He adjusted his stance, taking a step back before calmly extending his right hand.
It was like plucking a star from the sky.
With ease, he caught the ball above his head in a smooth, almost nonchalant motion, showcasing his skill with a one-handed grab.
Mahomes broke the silence first, blowing a celebratory whistle. The others quickly followed suit, cheers erupting as they crowded around Lance, forgetting all about Hunt.
To be fair, the pass had been impressive. The control over its trajectory, arc, and speed—especially over 30 yards—required real technique. It wasn't something just anyone could pull off.
Even Lance's eyes lit up with interest. He hadn't expected the blonde to hide such skills.
Surprisingly, it was the blonde who applauded first, flashing Lance a smile. "Nice catch."
She had flipped the script again.
In truth, this wasn't the first or second time they'd crossed paths. Technically, it was the third.
Back in the morning, Lance had recognized her face but couldn't fully confirm it. Now, under the soft glow of the setting sun, her golden hair framing her sharp, spirited features, it all clicked into place—
She was the same woman from Old Oak Tavern.
The one who had stood up for her friends with sharp wit and poise.
This time, Lance didn't hesitate. Three meetings in a day seemed like fate, and at the very least, he owed her an introduction.
With a smile, he asked, "And does this passer have a name?"
Even from afar, Lance could see her brow arch slightly, intrigued by his choice of words.
Unfazed, Lance shrugged, his body language adding: Doesn't that title suit you?
Her lips curled briefly into a faint, ephemeral smile, like a fleeting ripple on a still lake, before reverting to her usual cool demeanor.
"Lilith Rosen," she replied, her voice carrying over on a gentle breeze scented faintly of mint.
Lance repeated the name silently, letting it linger in his mind. But before he could respond, she turned to leave, taking long, purposeful strides.
"Wait," Lance called out, raising his voice just enough to carry across the field. "A one-way introduction seems a bit impolite, don't you think?"
Lilith turned, holding up the folder in her hands and giving it a light tap. The message was clear—she already knew who he was.
Lance spread his hands, shaking his head in mock resignation. That's not fair.
Lilith mirrored the gesture, tilting her head slightly. What can you do about it?
She continued to back away, a sly glint in her eyes as she prepared to make her exit.
"Hey!" Lance called again, his tone playful. "I'm Lance, Scorpio, blood type O, running back for the Kansas City Chiefs."
This time, Lilith faltered mid-step, glancing back at him with a flicker of surprise in her eyes. But it didn't last long—her cool facade cracked into a soft laugh, her smile finally blooming in full.
She didn't stop walking. With one final glance, she disappeared from view.
Mahomes sprinted over, clapping Lance on the shoulder, the first to egg him on. The others followed, surrounding him with a mix of playful jabs and loud cheers.
In that moment, they weren't professional athletes but a group of college kids, young and carefree, their energy crackling with the vitality of youth.
Hunt stood off to the side, feeling both annoyed and resigned. What had even happened?
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink as the Kansas City Chiefs' 2017 spring training camp officially kicked off. Despite some unexpected moments, it had been a successful day overall.
Even better, it carried a hint of promise.
From the coach's office, Reid stood by the window, observing the lively scene on the field. The last remnants of his worry dissipated. It seemed they had made the right choice.
But the season was long, and the road ahead remained challenging.
Reid took a deep breath, silently vowing to make the most of it.
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