As Brittany spoke, her emotions began to slip further out of control.
She rose on tiptoe and shouted into the space behind Lance.
It was hard to tell whether she was speaking to him or to someone else entirely—her anger bubbling over in short, sharp bursts before she managed to rein it in again.
Lance didn't interrupt. He could see she was in the heat of the moment. She needed to let it out. They were both young—youth makes it easy to lose your temper, easy to get carried away. Only after the storm passes can you speak calmly. Trying to have a real conversation while drowning in negative emotion never leads anywhere.
And she needed this moment.
The more she shouted, the more her eyes began to glisten.
She realized it, too.
Not wanting to show weakness in front of him, she turned her head stubbornly to the side, took a deep breath, and rubbed her eyes hard with the back of her hand.
Lance knew Brittany wasn't wrong—this was a common thing in the league. But that was exactly why the old guard, led by Houston's veterans, went out of their way to shield Mahomes from all that glittery pink nonsense.
Some things really were rare and worth protecting.
Brittany's unease and worries were real. The Chiefs' locker room truly wasn't trying to corrupt Mahomes—in fact, they were trying to keep him safe. Those two truths didn't contradict each other.
But how could Lance explain that to her?
Some things belonged to the locker room. They couldn't—and didn't need to—be shared outside.
After a moment of thought, Lance looked at her. "Do you not trust me… or do you not trust yourself?"
She'd expected him to ask whether she didn't trust him or didn't trust Mahomes. Her answer was already on her tongue—
Of course she didn't trust Lance.
But this? This question stopped her cold.
What was that supposed to mean?
Was it that Lance and his so-called bad influences were the greater danger to Mahomes… or that her own bond with him, formed back in their school days, was the stronger force?
Was that what he meant?
Brittany's thoughts churned, but she didn't have time to untangle them.
She simply shot him a glare. "I don't need your inspirational pep talks."
Lance raised both hands in surrender, his expression perfectly earnest. "I just want you to tell the difference between an enemy and a friend."
He was not the enemy.
But Brittany's mind was too tangled right now to think it through. All she saw was another snake in the same pit as Mahomes.
In the end, she couldn't hold herself back—she tossed the small travel bag at his feet. "I don't care what he's doing. Give it to him, don't give it to him, I don't care. I really don't care."
Then she spun on her heel and stormed away.
Lance watched until she reached the next room and slammed the door hard, then picked up the bag, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
When he turned around—
Mahomes was standing there, looking like a man who'd just lost everything. His gaze was hollow, unfocused, staring into the void.
What is love, that it drives people to live and die for it?
Mahomes and Brittany—they were tearing each other apart, and themselves along with it.
But right now, both of them needed distance. Space to breathe. Time to think before they said things they couldn't take back.
If Lance was right, this was the first real test of their relationship—and Mahomes's first taste of the price of fame. The once-simple love they had in school had suddenly become complicated.
This wouldn't be the last time. Probably not even the second-to-last. These storms would come again. The only hope was that they'd take this as a lesson and grow from it—otherwise, the future would be even rougher.
Lance didn't say much more. He stuffed the bag into Mahomes's hands, gave his shoulder a firm pat, and let the gesture speak for itself.
While Mahomes's personal life was going up in flames—turning what should've been a sweet anniversary into a spark for disaster—he barely slept that night.
Meanwhile, back in the Chiefs' locker room, a strange, heavy atmosphere hung in the air. No warning, no reason anyone could see.
By rights, they should've been celebrating—they'd just beaten the Baltimore Ravens in overtime at home. But something was… off.
It wasn't the players. Mostly the coaches. Distracted. Somewhere else in their heads.
Lance was just about to dismiss it as overthinking when Clark pulled him aside.
"Rookie, you're not planning on starting contract talks anytime soon, right?"
That sudden? And in the middle of the season?
Then it clicked. "Don't tell me… Hunt brought it up?"
Clark sucked in a sharp breath. "So you do know?"
Lance's eyes narrowed with recognition. "He mentioned it during the bye week, but I told him now's not the time."
Clark exhaled in relief. "Good. Just keep your guard up. The coach might ask you about it—Hunt's trying to drag you into it too. Remember, this is the pros, not college."
The whole thing was chopped up, half-explained, and all over the place.
Lance was about to press him when Clark's eyes flicked past him.
Clark gave Lance a quick look of warning, straightened up, and strolled deeper into the locker room like nothing happened.
Hunt had noticed. He smiled brightly at Lance, a faint edge of challenge in it—but his mood seemed sky-high. Without another word, he headed for his locker. "So, ready for practice?"
Lance gave him a second, longer look.
This year, with Le'Veon Bell's holdout, the league felt… different. Teams were putting on a brave face, but everyone knew—
No one is truly indispensable. Not even quarterbacks.
The team always comes first. That's the iron rule.
But without Bell, the Steelers' struggles were plain to see.
Sure, they were technically sitting atop the AFC North. But the Ravens and Browns were right on their heels, the division a chaotic mess, and Tomlin's job hanging under constant fire.
Whether people wanted to admit it or not, the running back's importance was back in the spotlight.
And in a way… Bell's holdout had worked.
That's why Hunt saw this as their moment.
The springtime for running backs was coming.
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