Twenty years ago, David Beckham was still playing for Manchester United.

Back then, this young, handsome rising star had burst onto the scene, drawing endless attention—every move he made could stir up waves. Sir Alex Ferguson, United's manager, worried his protégé might lose focus, and repeatedly reminded Beckham to keep his mind on the game.

Later, when Beckham met Victoria Adams, Sir Alex immediately rang the alarm bell, fearing that the noise outside the pitch might hinder Beckham's progress, quietly planting a seed of unease in the locker room.

As the years unfolded, Sir Alex's concerns were gradually proven right. But in the very beginning, Beckham and Adams hadn't done anything wrong at all.

Still—

When the tree wishes for calm, the wind does not stop.

Things may seem simple on the surface, but they often hide a complicated core. Even when nothing has actually happened, suspicion and worry begin to grow.

Now, Lance understood that truth deeply.

He hadn't done a thing—yet trouble still found him.

Glancing at the coaching staff, Lance saw Reid steady as ever, not a single clue to work with.

Burns seemed to notice Lance's gaze. With a belly like a smiling Buddha, he beamed and sent Lance a reassuring look—

No need to worry about the coaches.

Lance chuckled silently, pushed away unnecessary thoughts, and refocused on the light recovery session, joking with Houston as they crossed paths.

Burns watched him with an easy smile. With Burns there, Lance didn't have to worry.

In Burns' eyes, Hunt was ambitious but lacked wisdom—restless, impatient, able to spot a few threads but never the full picture.

Lance was different.

He was truly smart. Not without ambition or desire—he wasn't a saint—but he could see the big picture and the long game. He knew when to pick the watermelon and when to settle for the sesame seed.

So when Hunt claimed Lance was secretly in close contact with the Ravens and Jaguars and had shown interest in restructuring early, Burns didn't believe a word of it—

That would be far too foolish.

Burns didn't even bother to refute him, nor rush to defend Lance.

When Reid asked for his opinion, Burns simply smirked and said, "That sounds interesting."

Clearly, Reid felt the same.

There was no need to panic over one side of the story. In contract talks and the battle for leverage, you had to see through appearances to the essence—grip the key point, and you'd have the upper hand.

Reid wasn't so easily swayed.

Burns wasn't worried in the slightest.

Practice went on normally and ended without incident.

Then, as they left the field, Veach—who had been watching quietly from the sidelines—slipped over to Lance. Jones, standing nearby, wisely stepped away. Veach's eyes held a trace of satisfaction.

Lance thought Veach would invite him for a sit-down somewhere. But as they walked off the field, Veach began speaking casually, as if making small talk.

"Patrick—he all right? Looked a bit distracted today." Veach glanced toward Mahomes, though his tone held no real concern.

Lance smiled. "He just needs a little time."

Veach nodded, then abruptly shifted gears. "Have you started thinking about restructuring your contract? Salary, benefits?"

Straight to the point—

That was exactly the effect Veach wanted: to catch Lance off guard.

In moments like these, you could often see a player's true heart.

Lance was a little surprised, not expecting such bluntness. Then a smile spread across his face, and he shook his head. "No. It's not the time yet."

Veach looked at him. "You don't want a new contract?"

"Of course I do," Lance answered without hesitation. "But not now—because I'm aiming for a big one."

Veach's brow lifted slightly—

This was the second time Lance had repeated the same point: now wasn't the time.

Veach understood. He didn't fully believe Hunt's story—at least not completely. Setting aside the rumors swirling around the league, Lance's agent hadn't made a move, and that was proof enough.

Lance's agent also represented Brady, with plenty of experience in negotiating top-tier deals. He knew exactly when to strike.

Naturally, Veach could already imagine the man's plan—to take a serious bite out of the Chiefs when the time came. The talks wouldn't be easy, but such a strategist wouldn't harm himself just to hurt the other side. The game would be careful and calculated.

And Lance's reaction now confirmed Veach's suspicion—

Hunt was just borrowing the tiger's might.

Lance wasn't chasing short-term gain, lunging at every gap he saw. He was holding out for something that would truly shake the league. He was patient, building toward the storm.

It also showed his confidence. He didn't need to rush to seize the moment—he believed he could keep performing at a high level, this season and next.

If he stayed dominant, the Chiefs might be the ones to approach him first, restructuring before his value climbed any higher.

In contract talks, advantage and disadvantage were never fixed—they shifted constantly.

Hunt's move now was just too young, too hasty.

That was why Lance had said the time hadn't come.

As Veach felt a bit of relief, curiosity crept in. "How big?"

The contract—how big?

Lance grinned. "Big."

One word—no qualifiers—but it radiated ambition.

Veach understood immediately, a hint of admiration in his eyes.

But he didn't say more. After a few lines of small talk, he turned and walked away, attracting no attention.

It was all so simple, so ordinary—three to five sentences, nothing more.

Even Hunt, who had been watching Lance like a hawk, was baffled—

That's it?

He'd expected Veach to sit Lance down for a long talk—and this was all?

How was that any different from a casual greeting?

What was going on?

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Powerstones?

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