Originally, JuJu had planned to toss a jab at Lance and walk off quickly, giving him no time to respond.
What he didn't expect was that Lance had no intention of chasing him. One casual sentence stopped JuJu in his tracks—and then he saw Lance stroll calmly past, fist raised in a smile of encouragement:
Nightmare—revived. From NCAA to the NFL, this shadow was inescapable. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how well he performed, Lance always seemed to stay just ahead—and still had time to turn back and cheer him on. That feeling—
Absolutely miserable.
JuJu's chest felt like it might explode.
That red No. 23 was walking away. JuJu, after holding it in for so long, finally blurted out a retort like steam escaping from a kettle.
"I don't need your blessing!"
Even he was baffled by what he'd just said. Why did that sound a little… bashful?
Lance kept walking, unfazed. These Steelers players were too enthusiastic—almost as hyped as Arrowhead's home crowd—but he had no time to engage. A storm of reporters was already waiting at the post-game press conference.
And just as expected—
"Lance, how did today's game feel…"
"…How do you view the win?"
"How would you rate your performance?"
"Were you surprised by the Steelers' play?"
"Was this outcome expected?"
"Rookie! Rookie! Over here!"
Click click click. Flashes rained down in a blinding wave. The moment Lance walked into the press room, the frenzy erupted—cameras flashing, voices shouting, lights flashing.
Lance didn't even try to speak. He just smiled, standing there as flashes lit up his face like a red-carpet premiere.
Indeed, a rare NFL scene unfolded—
Like a Hollywood movie premiere, the star walked the stage in silence, while cameras flashed like galaxies bursting. Thousands of photos clicked into existence by the second.
Lance played along, flashing his teeth and rotating slightly so each camera angle could get a clean shot. He looked every bit the A-list celebrity.
All that offseason work—ads, magazine shoots—had paid off.
Gradually, the reporters caught on. They were shouting questions, hammering shutters—and Lance wasn't answering at all.
Finally, reason returned, and the room calmed a bit.
Then Lance grinned with a perfect row of teeth—like a shark.
"No wonder everyone wants to be a Hollywood star. That was fun. Can we keep the flashes going?"
Laughter burst through the room.
Some reporters, playing along, clicked again. Lance even waved like a pop star greeting fans.
Back and forth, the atmosphere lightened.
Finally, the near-useless host stepped up just in time to salvage the press conference.
Most of the questions were expected, just repeated in different forms—
How it felt to start a new season as defending champs, whether the Chiefs' performance was anticipated, thoughts on Pittsburgh's play, and expectations for the season.
The bombardment went on, but Lance stood firm—unfazed, composed, never rushed.
Eventually, the big question came, as expected:
"Do you think Bell's absence affected the Steelers' performance?"
Blunt. Sharp. No holding back. But Lance countered with grace:
"Are you asking if one man is more important than a whole team? Every football player knows the textbook answer to that."
He didn't engage directly. Unlike Hunt, who would have exploded, Lance deflected effortlessly.
But the reporters didn't let up.
"In the game, you used many of Bell's signature moves to score—were you sending a message? Were you defending Bell and criticizing the Steelers' decision?"
Sharp. Tricky. Direct.
Everyone leaned in. This was the moment the league had been waiting for.
But Lance only smiled wider.
"Are you questioning my professionalism in doing everything I can to help my team win?"
Just like that, the spotlight shifted. The trap collapsed.
Of course no one could challenge that.
"In my game, there's only one mode: 'Rookie Mode.' I'm still learning, still growing. I just want to improve. Winning this game is the best reward."
"I believe the game speaks for itself."
What could they say? Nothing.
He raised the stakes. They backed off.
But one reporter pushed further.
"What's your opinion on Bell's holdout and public dissatisfaction? Do you support his decision?"
Ruthless. Direct. No sugarcoating. The kind of question meant to draw blood.
The room went silent. All eyes locked in. They were ready—one slip, and the backlash would be instant.
Lance smiled again—this time, a cold, fake smile laced with sarcasm.
"I hope to compete against the league's best on the field. That's what we love about this sport."
"This season, I know I'll face more challenges. I'm ready. I hope to grow through competing with great players."
"But—I respect personal choices."
At first glance, it sounded like he was defending Bell. But listen closer—he never said Bell's name. Never endorsed the holdout. There was no direct quote to twist.
Then, think again. Was his "respect for personal choices" actually a jab at Tomlin's decision?
Oho. Now it was interesting.
Just like during the offseason, Lance deftly shifted the narrative. And "poor" Tomlin once again became the professional scapegoat.
As the saying goes—if you want the crown, you bear its weight. And Tomlin? The Steelers' chosen one… and designated fall guy.
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