Surging with emotion, vibrant and unrestrained—then, without warning, everything paused.
West fell silent, still flushed with excitement, but a hint of sorrow slipped through his eyes, dragged into the darkness by the weight of loss.
Just for a moment.
He quickly composed himself, shook his head, and took a deep breath.
"Sorry."
"It's just… ahem."
"That girl—she later accepted my proposal at Arrowhead Stadium, became my wife. We shared many, many years together. But in the end, we still chose to part ways—just last year."
"Whew."
"I don't blame her. I wasn't a good husband. I thought I could be, but life had other plans. That's just how it goes, right?"
"Maybe her leaving was for the best."
"It's just…"
"It's hard."
"We used to think, once we hit thirty, we'd have life figured out—that there'd be answers to everything. But it's still a mess."
"When I look at her, there's still a spark in my eyes. But sparks alone aren't enough to keep life going, right?"
His smile turned bitter, resigned.
"Unemployment, divorce, drinking… God, even I barely recognize myself anymore."
As he spoke, West suddenly grew flustered. He rubbed at his eyes and muttered, "Got some dust in them," then quickly looked up and forced a wide grin.
"Sorry. I'm not thinking straight. I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. Just ignore it."
"Where were we?"
Lance didn't press the obvious "dust" excuse. "We were just talking about how I arrived in Kansas City like Iron Man to save everyone from the flames."
Lance was so serious, so focused, that West blinked for a second.
A beat later, he realized Lance was joking, and burst into laughter—then nodded in agreement. "Right, right, right. Exactly that. Thanks, Mr. Tony Stark."
"Wait, I thought you were Spider-Man?"
New York roots, neighborhood hero? Really not Spider-Man?
Lance waved it off with mock authority. "Iron Man."
West couldn't stop grinning. "Alright, Mr. Iron Man. I just want to say thank you."
"I worry you haven't felt our gratitude—not just for the Super Bowl. Like today's game, you showed us hope. You showed us fight. When we close our eyes at night, we're not scared to fall asleep. And we're not afraid of waking up tomorrow still unable to see the future."
"You know? Mr. Anderson joined us to watch the game at the bar today. And Chris… Chris the idiot finally got a job."
Lance: "Chris?"
West realized he'd gone off track—again.
But he couldn't help himself.
It wasn't just that the Chiefs had started the new season as defending champions. Last season was the past; every new season is a clean slate. That's an unspoken rule in the NFL. No, it was because the Chiefs hadn't grown arrogant. They stayed grounded, united, and ready to fight anew.
Everything brimmed with hope.
As West had said, the team and the city were intertwined—not just in daily life, but in the very heartbeat of Kansas City.
After the Super Bowl victory earlier this year, young people began returning to the city. Tourism spiked. The service industry stirred to life. The economy began a slow, hopeful recovery.
From the championship parade to the preseason, the city had regained its spirit. Slowly, steadily, it was finding its rhythm again.
In the season opener, the Chiefs did not disappoint. From the first quarter's youthful energy to their resilient grit in adversity, and finally their explosive comeback—everything was perfect.
Arrowhead Stadium's sold-out crowd was just the tip of the iceberg. All across the city, bars, backyards, dorm rooms—every corner came alive. The once-lifeless land smelled faintly of spring again.
Kansas City was basking in long-lost sunshine. Its people were ready. They'd go all in with this team—win or lose. They'd leave it all on the field and accept the outcome with open arms.
This wasn't just about defending a title.
Tonight, West felt even more fired up than he had on Super Bowl night. His chest swelled with hope. So much so that when he saw Lance, his emotions overflowed.
Normally reserved, tonight he was a mess.
West suddenly remembered—how could Lance possibly remember every bar regular?
He waved his hands dismissively. "Chris—you know, that guy who used to always pick on you at the bar. But you've probably forgotten him…"
Lance wasn't great with names, but he had a sharp memory. "Oh, him. I remember. You all told me he was struggling with unemployment, right? So he found work?"
West was stunned.
Lance remembered Provost?
He needed to tell that guy.
"Yeah. He's painting."
"The city's got a project to renovate old neighborhoods. We can't attract new businesses yet, but we can spruce up the old areas and make them livable again."
The city was slowly reviving.
The pace was slow, but the heartbeat was returning. The long dark night of joblessness was lifting.
"He's painting walls now. And in his spare time, tearing down condemned buildings."
"Whatever it is, at least he has a job. He can pay rent again. If I hadn't taken him in, he'd probably be on the street by now. His landlord already gave him the boot."
Last Lance heard, Provost hadn't been evicted yet. Clearly, that had changed—but West gave him a lifeline, kept him off the streets.
Life is hard. Brutally hard.
Lance couldn't help but think of Alan and Sue. Honest, hard-working people, trying to build a life with their bare hands. A grain of sand from the times becomes a mountain on their shoulders.
Lance looked at West. "Is there anything I can do?"
West met his gaze, eyes brimming with sincerity. "Just keep doing what you're doing, rookie. You've already given this city more than enough."
"Ha."
Lance chuckled softly.
"Without fans, we're just a bunch of guys crashing into each other over a ball. The reason pro football is pro football—is because of people like you."
"So please, let me give something back to the community."
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Powerstones?
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