Hunt held his breath, frustration boiling inside him.
Why was there such a huge gap in treatment for running backs like him and Lance?
He couldn't deny Lance's talent—being drafted in the second or even third round would have made sense. But Hunt didn't see himself as being any less capable, nor did he believe Lance was more deserving than Fournette or McCaffrey to warrant such a high draft pick.
In Hunt's mind, Lance's standout performances in the NCAA had more to do with Alabama's unmatched offensive line and Nick Saban's tactical schemes that emphasized ground game dominance. Anyone could have excelled in that system, given the same setup.
As for the NFL Draft?
Hunt saw it more as a commercial spectacle than a pure assessment of ability, where the narrative often trumped merit. Lance going in the first round and Hunt in the third? That wasn't reflective of the real skill gap between them.
Hunt had made up his mind.
He would prove himself.
He would outperform Lance.
He would earn the starting running back spot.
The thud of cleats echoed across the field, rhythmic and unrelenting.
"One!"
The muscles in Hunt's calves tensed, the strain obvious. He noticed it immediately but stole a glance at the two other figures still moving steadily beside him. Taking a deep breath, he gritted his teeth and pushed on.
"Two!"
A fleeting moment of stiffness shot through his body, but Hunt's mind screamed a singular command: Keep going.
His resolve deepened, eyes fixated with burning intensity.
From the sidelines, a mix of cheers and jeers erupted, spurred on by the tension. New players rallied behind Lance and Hunt, while the veterans roared in support of Kelce.
It was clear to all onlookers—Hunt and Lance were squaring off.
Though the Chiefs roster featured three other running backs, the team's draft decisions spoke volumes: one of the two rookies would claim the starting job.
Initially, everyone assumed Lance, the more high-profile pick, had the edge. But Hunt's relentless drive sent a message: the battle was far from over.
As the competition intensified, the field erupted into chaos, part of the high-spirited atmosphere typical of training camp.
"Three!"
Hunt locked his jaw and clung to his objective. It wasn't about beating Kelce or showcasing himself to the veterans. It was simple: last longer than Lance.
Just a little more. Just a bit longer. There was no way that skinny twig could outlast him.
But then—
Before Hunt could register what was happening, his legs betrayed him. His body pitched forward, collapsing abruptly out of sight.
Pain surged through his right calf, the muscle locked in a vicious spasm. His knee refused to bend, and a wave of excruciating discomfort washed over him.
Groaning, Hunt heard murmurs of disappointment from the crowd—a collective sigh of regret for his early exit. The sound hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Cramp! Quick, it's a cramp!"
Medical staff rushed onto the field, working efficiently to address the situation. Within moments, order was restored.
"Four!"
But Rubin didn't pause for a second.
Hunt, now recovering on the sideline, attempted to stand, driven by sheer stubbornness to return to the field. But the staff restrained him, forbidding further participation. While dehydration had caused the cramping, any further exertion risked a more severe injury.
Lying flat on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky, Hunt muttered a low curse under his breath. Frustration churned in his chest as he struck the ground with his fist. There was nothing more he could do now but watch.
"Five!"
The field grew quieter. Fewer footsteps. Only two figures remained.
"Lance versus Kelce."
Kelce, the veteran tight end, was drafted by the Chiefs in the third round of the 2013 NFL Draft, sixty-third overall. His older brother, Jason Kelce, also an NFL player, was a center for the Philadelphia Eagles.
Kelce's career had started modestly. Despite his potential, his first three seasons were solid but unspectacular. It wasn't until last year that he truly broke out, recording his first 1,000-yard season with 1,125 yards and four touchdowns. His ability to gain yardage after the catch made him a standout and earned him All-Pro honors for the first time.
Yet the shadow of postseason struggles loomed large. Two consecutive disappointing playoff performances weighed heavily on his mind, especially after signing a five-year, $46 million contract extension.
Kelce knew he had to prove his worth.
And what better time to start than now, on the very first day of training camp?
He hadn't expected to find himself squaring off against Lance in this endurance drill. At first, he was caught off guard. But as the moments ticked by, Kelce felt a surge of pride and determination. He couldn't lose to a rookie.
"Six!"
Rubin noticed the rising intensity on the field.
Kelce began pushing harder, increasing his pace even as fatigue crept in.
What caught Rubin's attention, however, was Lance's response.
He matched Kelce's tempo. Step for step.
"Seven!"
Rubin picked up the rhythm.
"Eight!"
Under the scorching sun, sweat poured in rivulets, soaking the ground below. Kelce and Lance were both nearing their physical limits, their movements fueled purely by willpower. The sight was grueling yet mesmerizing, leaving onlookers wincing in secondhand exhaustion.
For Lance, the challenge wasn't about besting Kelce or Hunt. It was about pushing himself to new heights.
Athletics thrived on moments like this—when everything seemed impossible, and your mind screamed for relief. These were the moments that defined greatness.
Every fiber of Lance's being burned, his vision blurred by salty sweat. But his determination never wavered.
This was the NFL. This was what he'd been waiting for.
Kelce pushed harder, finding an extra gear.
Lance responded, matching him stride for stride.
Their steps quickened, driving each other to the brink. The air buzzed with tension as both men fought to outlast the other.
Then—
A guttural groan escaped Kelce's lips as his body gave out. He collapsed to the ground, utterly spent.
But Lance?
He kept going.
Silence fell over the field, broken only by the steady rhythm of Lance's steps.
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Powerstones?
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