If each player's position were introduced one by one, Lance might be completely lost. Not only would the positions mean nothing to him, but the players in front of him wouldn't either.
At least, Lance knew one thing: these four in front of him weren't pushovers. The whistles and jeers from the other onlookers made that clear.
Reuben Foster, a sophomore, first-round pick in 2017.
Marlon Humphrey, a sophomore, first-round pick in 2017, three-time Pro Bowler, and First-Team All-American.
Eddie Jackson, a sophomore, fourth-round pick in 2017, two-time Pro Bowler, and First-Team All-American.
Jonathan Allen, a sophomore, first-round pick in 2017, two-time Pro Bowler.
Even setting aside their future performances in the pros, these players were currently among the top in the NCAA at their positions, and in the upcoming September season, they were undoubtedly key players in the Crimson Tide's starting lineup.
Oh, and Jonathan Allen was the defensive team captain.
Burns was full of expectations for Lance, and Saban was the same. They didn't hold back, sending out the main lineup right away to test Lance properly.
Saban glanced at Burns, noting that Burns showed no worry or objection at the sight of these four players, remaining calm. This only heightened Saban's curiosity. Could Lance really bring a surprise?
With just one look, Lance could feel the pressure from Allen.
On one hand, there was the psychological pressure from Allen's sheer confidence, and on the other, the physical intimidation due to their size difference.
It was direct and fierce.
—Jonathan Allen stood at 6'3" (191 cm) and weighed 300 lbs (136 kg).
Like a black bear, Allen loomed before Lance. Lance had initially thought that his new body was already tall and strong, a stark contrast to his former cross-country runner self. But standing in front of Allen, Lance suddenly felt dwarfed.
Allen deliberately tilted his chin slightly upward, adopting a condescending posture, looking down at Lance through his nose, with a particularly friendly smile on his lips.
"Hey, kid, are you sure that gear's enough? You sure you don't want to suit up in some armor? Careful, you might just fall apart."
Football is a sport with intense physical contact. Even in regular training, players must wear protective gear, and in games, helmets are a must.
There have been fatal incidents in the early days of football—not just rumors, but actual events. Though modern football has modified the rules, added more protective equipment, and restricted certain tactics to ensure player safety, deaths haven't occurred in over half a century, but injuries are still commonplace.
For this reason, both the NFL and NCAA have strict regulations on player equipment, not just for games but for regular training as well.
Lance had already put on his gear in the locker room earlier, but to be honest—
He wasn't used to it.
Cross-country running is a sport that requires minimal gear, where any extra weight is a hindrance. The same goes for mixed martial arts, where aside from gloves, there's no other equipment.
But now, he had to wear "armor"—which, to Lance, really felt like armor, with padding protecting his body's critical areas. It felt as if he was being restrained.
Lance wasn't sure how he would perform, much like the day he first crossed over into this world. The fit between his soul and this body clearly wasn't perfect, but no matter what, he had to try and see what he could do.
Staring at Allen's short, bristly hair, which looked like tangled steel wool, Lance responded earnestly, "So, have you ever fallen apart?"
Allen: …
For a moment, Allen was stunned, then he burst into laughter. "This kid's got some spirit." He turned to look at his teammates standing a short distance away, shouting something to them across the field before turning back to Lance. "What, you want me to give it a try?"
Lance humbly shook his head, "No, not at all. Look at our size difference—there's no way I could make you fall apart."
Allen laughed heartily.
Lance continued, "I'd just have you spin around, do a little dance, then take a tumble, you know, like in a circus act."
Keeping his smile.
Allen looked at Lance, whose mouth had just curled into a slight, mischievous grin. Allen's smile faltered for a second, and he froze. But a moment later, he laughed even harder, more loudly, and more boisterously.
"Hmm, hmm, hmm, I'm looking forward to it. Don't disappoint me."
Then, in an instant, his expression hardened.
He transformed into a fierce, menacing figure, glaring at Lance, hot breaths flaring from his nostrils.
"I don't know how you managed to get in with the coach, but this is the Crimson Tide. Not just any stray dog or cat can become part of this team."
"I'm telling you, if you let me down, the consequences will be severe."
And with that.
Without waiting for Lance's response, Allen turned around and took a few steps back, standing three steps away from Lance, getting into a ready position.
But after a glance at Lance, Allen stepped back again, increasing the distance, and made an inviting gesture, his smile especially bright:
Giving you an extra step.
This extra step was to give Lance more room to build up speed.
Lance wasn't going to be polite about it, after all, the rookie benefits couldn't be wasted.
Whoosh.
Lance exhaled softly, adjusting his gear. He used this brief moment to take in the positions of the four defenders on the field.
But how was he supposed to start? Just a sudden attack?
Lance hesitated, "Coach, do we just start like this?"
Ha!
A wave of laughter erupted, the other players laughing openly and without restraint.
Even Burns couldn't help but chuckle. After the noise died down a bit, he raised his voice and called out, "Attack. You shout 'Attack,' and then you can start."
Lance immediately understood—so the offense had the initiative in starting the play. It was easy to imagine that this would lead to all sorts of sneak attacks.
Refocusing, Lance calmed himself, his concentration sharp. He glanced at Allen, and without hesitation, he loudly called for the play to start.
"Attack!"
Lance didn't know the proper stance for starting a football play, so he simply used a sprinting start. The moment the word left his mouth, he was off.
Pushing off.
Starting.
The muscles in his calves unleashed their full power, propelling him forward like an arrow shot from a bow.
Although Lance's background was in cross-country running, which didn't emphasize explosive starts, the burst of speed from this body was remarkable. Over the past ten days, Lance had gradually gotten used to it, and this tryout was also a way for him to explore his body's capabilities—
These guys were his proving ground.
Push.
Lance didn't hold back. The moment his power was unleashed, he felt an explosive force pushing against the ground, rebounding with lightning speed, sending him flying forward.
Step, step, step.
Not just once, but repeatedly, with high-frequency strides. The scenery on both sides blurred into streaks as they flashed past his peripheral vision.
Here it comes!
His pupils caught sight of Allen lunging at him from the left, arms wide for a horizontal tackle. Allen's massive frame blocked out the light, his jaws open wide as he crashed down, a wave of force slamming toward Lance's face.
But then, a push-off, a sprint, an acceleration—
Whoosh.
Lance sped up even more, darting past Allen as if he were a gust of wind, overtaking him in an instant.
-----
Powerstones?