Another training session had just ended, but the players of the Crimson Tide didn't leave right away. Instead, they gathered together in a lively discussion, their faces red with passion, seemingly on the verge of rolling up their sleeves to settle things physically.
Upon closer listening, the truth became clear—
They weren't about to start a brawl; they were standing up for Lance.
This season, Lance's stellar performance had been undeniable. As a dark horse that burst onto the scene, he dominated the Crimson Tide's ground game, standing toe-to-toe with last year's star, Derrick Henry.
However!
Because a running back had just won the Heisman Trophy last year, this season the scrutiny on running backs was unusually harsh. Even now, Lance's odds of winning the Heisman still trailed behind Jackson, putting him in second place.
The players of the Crimson Tide were enraged, one after the other fuming with righteous indignation.
"Let's settle this with a game!"
Humphrey was the first to throw down the gauntlet.
"We'll play Louisville. Lance against Jackson, head-to-head, so those so-called experts will have to shut up once and for all."
"I'll give that Jackson guy a warm welcome, introduce him to the defensive techniques our Crimson Tide has been perfecting for over a century. It'll be an unforgettable experience, body and soul."
Roll!
Laughter erupted around them.
Then, Humphrey noticed Lance, jersey number 23, slowly walking away. He called out, "Lance, what do you think? Want to go for it?"
Humphrey had intended to ask Lance if he wanted a direct showdown with Jackson.
To his surprise, Lance paused, blinked a few times, and lazily began rolling up his sleeves. He looked at Humphrey with sleepy eyes, "Gloves on or off?"
Humphrey's muscles tensed, his grin freezing on his face as he quickly waved his hands, "No, no, wait! Let me explain…"
But the other guys, always up for some chaos, began chanting, "Humphrey! Humphrey! Humphrey!"
Humphrey's face turned pale, and he shot desperate glances at his teammates:
Had they forgotten that Lance used to train in mixed martial arts?
"Lance, we were just discussing the Heisman Trophy. What are your thoughts on it?"
The teammates who had been teasing Humphrey now pushed each other, smirking, but none dared to make eye contact with Lance. Even though Humphrey had backed down, his gaze challenged anyone brave enough to step up in his place—
No one did.
Lance was a beast, a true alpha.
In the daily training routines, players were divided into groups and rotated through different drills. Sometimes, internal competitions were held to see who could do more, who could last longer, and who could perform better.
Over the past three months, Lance had tried every drill, competing in each one, and some he'd done repeatedly.
Despite his always sleepy demeanor, once Lance was locked into training, he transformed completely.
It wasn't that Lance won every time—after all, everyone had their strengths and weaknesses, and different drills required different skills. Lance, while incredibly capable, wasn't a master of all trades—at least, not yet. But what set Lance apart was his fierce determination.
He always pushed just a little harder.
Every time a training session ended, it didn't matter whether he won or lost. His opponents always felt spent, either getting crushed by Lance or forced to their limits.
Just look at the defensive line guys.
Though strength and power had always been Lance's weak spots, after a practice run of head-on drills with the defensive line, even though Lance himself was battered and bruised, those giant linemen were left lying on the ground, staring into space like 200-pound babies.
A beast!
One glance from Lance was enough to quiet the banter around them.
Lance seemed oblivious to their exchange of glances. "No thoughts."
Humphrey didn't believe him, "What do you mean, no thoughts?"
Lance glanced at Humphrey again, and Humphrey immediately backed off with a nervous smile. Lance, slightly disappointed, unrolled his sleeves and said,
"I mean, I have no thoughts. It's just betting odds, not the actual voting."
"The most interesting thing about sports is defying the odds, turning the impossible into possible, and driving everyone crazy in the process."
Humphrey blinked, feeling like Lance's statement became stranger the longer he listened. Was it just him?
Without stopping, Lance continued walking toward the locker room, casually tossing a final remark over his shoulder, "Instead of wasting time reading supermarket tabloids, maybe you should hit the library. Are you sure you're ready for final exams, my dear university students?"
One second, two seconds—
A collective groan echoed. Don't bring that up!
One key feature of the NCAA is that academics can't be neglected.
First, outside of training, student-athletes are required to attend regular classes with a minimum attendance requirement. To ensure there's no conflict between training and academics, every university schedules specific study sessions for players. They must attend, no exceptions.
Second, there's a minimum GPA requirement of 2.0—basically, a passing grade in every class. For some players, that's no easy task.
With the end of the NCAA regular season approaching, and finals looming before Christmas, players were now forced to remember their roles as students.
Compared to training, this was the real nightmare.
Lance had just hit them where it hurt the most.
Of course, not all players struggled academically, but that didn't mean they were thrilled about sitting in a library to study.
It was a brutal scene.
Before Lance could walk away, he spotted a few figures hiding awkwardly behind the stands like groundhogs.
Did they not realize the stands were hollow and see-through? And really, how could these big guys even try to squeeze in there?
Lance sighed inwardly—
After the game against LSU, Lance had noticed the progress bar on his training system had nearly reached 100%. Sure enough, today's practice had filled the bar completely, granting him another chance to flip for a reward. He was eager to see what he might get.
So, should he humor the group of "groundhogs" by pretending not to see them and just move on? Or should he check out his reward first?
"You go,"
"No, you go,"
"I don't know him well enough…"
Lance could hear their anxious whispers. Clearing his throat, he made it obvious they'd been found out.
Thump.
Someone was pushed out from behind the stands—
It was Howard.
The tight end, a dreadlocked giant, stood there awkwardly in front of Lance, like a kid who needed to use the bathroom but was too shy to ask.
"OJ," Lance greeted him with a smile.
Howard's nickname was one of the few Lance could remember. Everyone called him "OJ," short for Orange Juice. No one even remembered his full name anymore.
Taking a deep breath, Howard shut his eyes as if bracing for the worst. In a booming voice, he blurted out, "Please, help us with tutoring! Thank you! And… sorry!"
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Powerstones?
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