A hearty, almost bashful laugh accompanied the curly-haired young man's introduction. As he spoke, he gestured toward the back of his jacket, as though to display his name—though the problem was that he was wearing a baseball jacket.
"Hawkins?" Lance read the name aloud. "I thought you were Mahomes?"
Mahomes looked down at his jacket and snapped out of it. "Ah! I forgot I was wearing this. It's my godfather LaTroy Hawkins' jacket—he used to play in the MLB, and both he and my dad were on the Minnesota Twins."
Lance nodded slightly. "So, you didn't end up going with baseball?"
Mahomes scratched his head. "In high school, I played both football and baseball, but I ended up picking football. Like you did. Not that I can compare myself to you; everyone says you're from another planet. Haha."
"Me?" Lance was taken aback.
Mahomes managed a shy smile. "Everyone in the NCAA knows who you are now. I watched the National Championship game, and what you did at the end there was unreal. I couldn't do that—not yet, anyway. I still have a lot to learn."
"Not yet doesn't mean you never will. We're still college kids, right?" Lance replied with a smile, looking over at Mahomes.
Mahomes blinked, then nodded enthusiastically. "Right! Absolutely!" he said, clenching his fists in silent determination.
Mahomes' high school and college performances had been solid, but not eye-catching. Though his play was respectable, his school wasn't a traditional powerhouse—Texas Tech, part of the Big 12, but hardly known for domination. Mahomes himself had shined in his last season, yet Texas Tech had finished with only a 6-7 record, placing them in the lower mid-tier of the NCAA.
As for the Heisman Trophy? Mahomes had never even been in the conversation.
Currently, scouts expected Mahomes to go somewhere in the second round, though there was a glimmer of hope he might be picked late in the first round—particularly given this year's shallow pool of quarterbacks, with many teams focusing on defense in their draft strategies.
Standing now with the top prospect of the last NCAA season and the recipient of a sweep of major awards, Mahomes couldn't help but feel a bit jittery. But Lance's easygoing attitude helped him relax.
"Oh! Sorry, I forgot to properly introduce myself: Lance, running back."
His tone was friendly and sincere.
Mahomes could tell Lance had no idea who he was, but his openness and lack of pretense were disarming. "Mahomes. Quarterback."
"Quarterback, huh?" Lance smiled. "I can practically hear the dollar signs on your paycheck already."
"Haha, are you jealous? Wow, Lance, the great Heisman winner, jealous of me. Let me just pretend for a second that I've already signed the biggest contract in league history."
"So, what's the league's highest contract these days?"
"Oh, let's say…fifteen million a year?"
"C'mon, Sherlock. If you're dreaming, dream big!"
"Hey, I said 'a year,' didn't I? Fifteen million annually!"
Chatting excitedly, they crossed the street toward the designated hotel for the combine, only to be hit with a rush of warmth as they entered the lobby.
The place was packed. Wall-to-wall, there were people—athletes, scouts, agents—filling every corner. It was overwhelming, especially with these towering, muscular rookies crowding the space. The long line of cars outside seemed unimpressive compared to the scene inside.
A quick scan of the crowd revealed several recognizable faces.
There was safety Jamal Adams from LSU, cornerback Tre'Davious White, running back Leonard Fournette, edge rusher Myles Garrett from Texas A&M, and Washington wide receiver John Ross, among others.
Just two months ago, many of them had been rivals on the field; now, standing on the threshold of the NFL, they could end up as teammates—or lifelong competitors. This combine was their collective starting line.
Ideally, old rivalries would be set aside, but not everyone saw it that way; the draft was, after all, another battle. Case in point: Fournette glared at Lance with a stony expression, his gaze piercing and unyielding. As a fellow running back, Fournette was clearly determined to get drafted ahead of Lance, and this combine was his final opportunity to make his case.
Myles Garrett shot a glance in Lance's direction too. As a favorite for a top-three draft position, Garrett had seen his performance waver after their matchup, resulting in swirling rumors about his draft prospects.
And then there was USC's wide receiver JuJu Smith-Schuster, who looked at Lance as if he'd love to devour him whole, his expression brimming with undisguised hostility.
"Look! That's Dalvin Cook from Florida State—a running back. Scouts are calling him the fourth-best running back this year," Mahomes babbled, his voice brimming with excitement.
"Ah, and that's Joe Mixon—another running back. And there's TJ Watt—his brother is the famous JJ Watt! Oh, look over there—that's Cooper Kupp, wide receiver. I'd love to throw to him."
Mahomes was practically a walking encyclopedia of this year's draft class, rattling off names with ease, unable to contain his enthusiasm.
But their conversation was abruptly interrupted.
A towering figure stepped directly into their path. Though only a bit taller and bulkier than they were, the newcomer loomed over them with an expression straight out of a children's storybook giant, his head tilted in arrogance as he looked down at Lance.
"So, you're Lance?"
"Only one Asian face here, so you're hard to miss."
"This is it? You look like a matchstick. I could snap you in half, no problem."
His tone was taunting.
Mahomes instinctively moved to stand up for Lance, but Lance beat him to it. "Wanna test that theory?"
Calm and collected, Lance smiled and looked his challenger squarely in the eyes. His expression, far from alarmed, was closer to that of an adult watching a child's tantrum. He seemed utterly unbothered by the watchful eyes around them.
The challenger opened his mouth to speak, but Lance was quicker.
"If you still think football is all about size, strength, and height, maybe you shouldn't bother with the draft at all. Save yourself the embarrassment."
There was a burst of laughter from the crowd.
The large man's face darkened with embarrassment, clearly angered. He was about to respond when another figure emerged, rushing over to pull him away.
"God, Solomon, what are you doing?"
"Sorry, Lance, really sorry. Solomon didn't mean anything by it."
"I loved watching you in that LSU game—phenomenal work!"
The whirlwind apology left as quickly as it had come, leaving Lance no chance to respond. But he recognized the second figure as Christian McCaffrey, one of the top three running backs in this draft class. Lance didn't know his name but recognized his face.
As for the giant in front, Lance had no idea who he was.
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Powerstones?
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