Jogging along the Missouri River, Lance breathed in the crisp morning air. Though it was already early winter, bright red and yellow leaves still clung to the trees, holding on as if resisting the inevitable fall. The gentle warmth of late autumn flowed under his feet, and Kansas City, slowly waking, began its daily bustle with the hum of life and industry.
Lance knew this route well by now, and the route knew him in return.
For over half a year, Lance had followed the same path every morning for his warm-up run. But more than just a routine to loosen his muscles, it was a way to acclimate himself to the city's rhythm — the weather, the people, the very pulse of Kansas City itself. From spring to summer to autumn, and now into winter, this daily run had become a fixture in both his life and the lives of the residents who lived along the route.
At first, he had drawn curious glances. But over time, they became familiar with his presence.
Seven days a week. Rain or shine. No breaks, no excuses.
Eventually, people began to greet him. A simple "morning" here, a nod there.
Lance didn't need to say much in return. A quick wave or a glance was enough to acknowledge them.
The run took Lance past a grain silo and an oil refinery. On game days, workers would gather early at the gates, waiting just for a chance to greet him and cheer him on for the game.
These small, seemingly insignificant moments built a bond between Lance and the city.
For outsiders, it was hard to understand why a mere running back had captured the hearts of Arrowhead Stadium's crowd. Even his impressive on-field performances didn't seem enough to explain the unwavering support.
But those who lived here understood.
Of course, not every interaction was positive.
When he heard that, Lance barely batted an eye. He simply shot back a middle finger without breaking stride, making the heckler shrink away in embarrassment.
There were others, though, whose bitterness ran deeper.
"I told you, didn't I? I said it from the start."
"Hope? What hope? We're going to be disappointed again. It's all just a stupid fantasy."
"No quarterback could save us. So what makes you think a running back can?"
The voice, slurred and bitter, belonged to Chris Provos.
Stumbling out of the Old Oak Tavern, reeking of alcohol, Provos nearly tripped over the steps. Behind him, Anderson rushed out, heart leaping into his throat as he grabbed Provos's arm to stop him from falling.
But the drunk man's momentum pulled them both forward.
Just in time, Lance stopped his run and caught Provos, steadying him while nudging Anderson upright with his shoulder.
"Jesus, Lance," Anderson said, his face pale. "Thank you… just… put him down. He'll be fine on the ground."
Lance glanced at the freezing pavement, then guided Provos to sit on the steps instead.
But Provos wasn't grateful.
"Nothing… There's nothing left. It's all gone."
From the very first time they met, Provos had disliked Lance. His sour mood and pessimistic outlook hadn't changed one bit.
The drunk man chuckled, a hollow, bitter sound.
"Why should we believe in you, Lance? Tell me, why?"
Before Lance could answer, Provos shook his head violently.
"No… No! It's all a lie. By the end of the season, we'll have nothing — just like always."
A shadow of sorrow flickered in Provos's eyes as he stared at Lance, his bravado giving way to vulnerability.
Lance wanted to tell him:
Sports aren't only about winning.
It's the fight that matters — the struggle, the perseverance, the refusal to give up. Victory isn't just about lifting a trophy. It's about the journey, the battle scars, and the moments that define resilience.
But before Lance could speak, Provos's expression twisted, and he turned abruptly to the railing.
He clung to the railing, retching, though his stomach was empty. The sour stench of alcohol and bile hung in the air.
Anderson groaned. "Oh, God. Chris!"
Inside the tavern, Charles West heard the commotion and hurried out.
"Lance." West raised a hand in greeting, but his smile faded as he noticed Provos's sorry state.
"Goddamn it, Chris," West grumbled, rolling up his sleeves before dragging the drunk man inside like a sack of potatoes. "You're a mess."
As the tavern door swung shut, Anderson sighed and turned to Lance.
Lance chuckled softly, waving off the apology.
"Yeah. It was my birthday. After the bar closed, a few friends stayed behind for a poker game. Chris… took advantage."
That explained a lot.
Despite being broke and unable to open a tab, Provos had found a way to drink himself silly.
"He's got no money," Anderson added, reading Lance's thoughts. "He just mooched off the others."
"Lance… I'm sorry. Chris doesn't mean half of what he says."
"I get it. I don't like it, but I understand."
Living without hope is cruel. But the pain of having hope only to see it shattered is far worse. That kind of despair cuts deeper.
The Chiefs' season had started with six straight wins — sparking dreams of playoff success.
Now, after six consecutive losses, those dreams had crumbled into ashes.
Chris Provos embodied that heartbreak.
"Chris never liked me," Lance joked, keeping a straight face. "We just don't get along."
Anderson blinked, then realized Lance was joking. He chuckled, shaking his head.
After a moment of hesitation, Anderson asked, "Do you have a few minutes?"
For 20 advance chapters: .com/michaeltranslates