Danger.
The tension in the bar reached a breaking point, and for a moment, no one reacted. The room fell silent, save for the sharp intake of breath as everyone watched the scene unfold.
Lance, however, instinctively stepped forward.
Hero time?
But just as he moved, Lance saw the blonde woman take the lead.
She stayed calm under pressure. With a swift motion, she raised her right hand and struck the man's wrist with a knife-hand technique. Then, using his momentum, she twisted his wrist downward and pushed him aside with a smooth Tai Chi-like maneuver. Every move flowed seamlessly into the next.
Her sharp features radiated an air of cool confidence. Her piercing blue eyes were unwavering, filled with determination, and unafraid of confrontation.
The man in the floral shirt staggered backward, caught off guard and off balance. He stumbled two steps, clearly weakened by an unhealthy lifestyle.
"You!" he spat, his face contorted in anger as he glared at the blonde woman.
She didn't back down. Instead, she glared right back. "My dad raised me like a son. I don't mind teaching a girl like you a lesson."
The man's expression shifted in an instant.
"Whoa-ho-ho!" The buzz-cut man at the bar whistled. "Hey Pete, she just called you a girl!"
Laughter erupted across the room. The patrons pounded their tables, clinked glasses, and howled in amusement, their attention fully captured by the scene.
Flustered, Pete glanced around the room. When his gaze landed on Lance, he froze.
Though Lance's lean frame didn't scream "football player," his tall stature and commanding presence were hard to miss. Pete gulped, his bravado quickly vanishing.
Lance smiled, flashing his perfectly aligned teeth, then stepped aside and gestured toward the door.
Pete got the message. He muttered under his breath, tugged at his nose in frustration, and slunk out of the bar. The sound of mockery and jeers followed him out.
With the tension dissipating, Lance turned his attention back to the two women.
The dark-haired woman stood quietly, tears streaking down her face, though she held herself upright with determined dignity. She rubbed at her cheeks, trying to clear the tears away.
The blonde woman, unfazed, grabbed their bags and firmly took the dark-haired woman's hand, guiding her out of the bar.
As they passed Lance, the blonde gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, her expression polite but restrained. She didn't linger or speak further. After the brief exchange, the two women disappeared into the night.
The commotion faded quickly, leaving behind the murmurs of bar chatter.
Lance finally remembered his original purpose for entering the bar and approached the counter.
The greasy-haired man who had been ranting earlier seemed entirely unfazed by the recent events. He resumed his monologue, seemingly fueled by frustration.
"...Man, I've had it, I've really had it!"
"Every year, we build up hope, only to get disappointed again and again. It's like clockwork."
"And now we're supposed to believe in this rookie running back? Jesus Christ, the kid doesn't even look like he's old enough to drink! He's basically a child laborer!"
"Great. Another wasted season. Thank you, God, for this 'wonderful' year."
As the greasy-haired man continued his tirade, he suddenly noticed Lance approaching the bar.
His jaw dropped. His eyes widened. A flurry of thoughts ran through his mind, none of which he could articulate.
"Jesus H. Christ."
Before anyone could react, the greasy-haired man leaned too far back and toppled off his stool.
Startled, Lance moved to check on him, but the bartender—an older man with a calm demeanor—peered over the counter and waved it off with a chuckle.
"He's fine. Don't worry about him."
The door to the bar creaked open again, and a long-haired, scruffy man in a leather jacket hurried in. He quickly helped the greasy-haired man back to his feet, apologized for being late, and made his way behind the bar.
The newcomer spoke quietly to the bartender, "David, sorry I'm late. I'm the one who asked for extra hours, and then I go and show up late. Clearly, I'm an idiot."
The bartender, David, gave the young man a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it. It wasn't busy earlier. I handled it just fine."
The young man exhaled in relief. "I owe you one."
He didn't dwell on the mistake. Instead, he scanned the room and locked eyes with Lance, the only person without a drink.
"Hey there," he said. "You look new in town. What can I get you?"
Lance was about to respond when the man tilted his head.
"Wait a minute... I know you."
His eyes widened.
"Lance? You're Lance? Oh man, welcome to Kansas City!"
In an instant, all eyes in the bar turned toward Lance. Even the people playing pool and fiddling with the jukebox stopped to stare.
The greasy-haired man, now back on his feet, pointed an accusing finger at Lance.
"You—you're Lance?"
The room erupted.
Lance raised his hand in a polite wave, offering a small smile. "I'm one hundred percent sure I'm not a child laborer."
Laughter and applause broke out simultaneously.
"Welcome to Kansas City!"
"Holy crap, you're at the Old Oak!"
"We've been waiting for you, man!"
"Take us to the Super Bowl, kid!"
The atmosphere was electric.
The bartender, David, didn't say much. With a grin, he slid a pint of beer across the bar to Lance.
"This one's on me."
The entire bar cheered in unison.
Lance, swept up in the warm reception, raised the glass and downed it in one go.
As the empty pint hit the counter, the crowd erupted again.
Lance finally managed to explain his predicament. "My car broke down. I could use a phone."
The long-haired man furrowed his brow. "That car across the street? The engine's smoking."
Lance winced. "It's not going to explode, is it?"
The man chuckled, as did everyone else.
"Nah, it's not that bad," he reassured him. "I'm handy with cars. If you don't mind, I can take a look at it."
Lance hesitated and glanced at David.
David clapped the young man on the back. "It's an honor to help a Chief. Go on."
As the mechanic headed out, the crowd clamored around Lance for another moment before David stepped in to restore order.
"Next time, go watch practice at the training facility," David joked. "You'll get a better view there."
Escorting Lance to the door, David leaned in slightly before Lance stepped outside.
"By the way, I apologize for Chris's earlier comments. He doesn't represent all of us."
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Powerstones?
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