Berry noticed the look in Lance's eyes, and the bitterness welled up in his mouth.
He knew Lance was a sharp one. The VonDrick test was just the tip of the iceberg. Every bit of his performance in training and games proved he was a genius who played with his brain.
But he hadn't expected to be seen through so quickly.
Lance stared at Berry, silent, but his expression made everything painfully clear—denial, resistance, desperate hope:
Eric, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me it's all in my head. That I'm just an overly imaginative journalism major, and my guesses are completely off-base.
But...
Berry couldn't.
He met Lance's gaze, trying to uphold the dignity of a seasoned veteran. He wouldn't panic or fall apart over something small like that rookie would. No—he would face the storm with composure and strength.
But he failed.
"Rookie…" Berry called, his voice weak, the final syllable fading with a trace of helpless sorrow—like the trail of a jet across the sky.
Lance had his answer.
He stood there in a daze, the realization crashing down on him.
Kelsey noticed something was off, but couldn't place it. Jokingly, he threw out a line, "You're not trying to dodge the bet, are you? Rookie's the hero of Kansas City now—the whole damn city's backing him."
"Eric! Time for that dinner. Feast! Feast!"
"Wait, shouldn't the rookie be paying? He's Spider-Man now!"
"RAHHH! Feast! Feast!"
The mood suddenly turned festive again.
Berry forced a smile, though it was harder under Lance's gaze. Still, he shouted, "Feast it is!"
Cheering erupted again.
But Berry knew this wouldn't stay secret for long. He had come to the training facility today to cut the knot clean—to deal with it now so the team could focus on the Super Bowl.
Like ripping off a bandage.
He took a deep breath, smiled, and said, "Let's call it my apology meal. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to take the field with you in the Super Bowl."
Silence.
The mood flipped 180 degrees. The energy evaporated. Everyone froze, confused by what they just heard.
Houston tried to force a smile, but his face twitched, and he choked out, "Eric… what kind of joke is that? It's not funny."
"I went with you to the hospital a few days ago, didn't I? They said you were cleared. You said you were ready. You even threatened me—said if we lost the AFC Championship, you were crashing at my place all offseason!"
"You said we had a deal!"
Berry's smile was strained, tinged with pain. He tried to joke. "Guess I won't be freeloading off you after all. You can breathe easy."
Houston didn't laugh.
Berry sighed and muttered, "Damn, even my jokes don't land anymore."
Then, without warning, he spoke the truth.
"My ankle's fine. The doctors cleared me to play."
"But during the final checkup before rejoining the team… they found something else."
"Haglund's syndrome."
Players looked at each other, puzzled. The term was unfamiliar, and no one quite grasped how serious it was.
Except Lance.
Haglund's syndrome—a condition where abnormal bone growth at the heel causes painful inflammation. Common among runners and women who often wear heels.
Lance, a trail runner himself, knew it well.
It wasn't a terminal illness, but for professional athletes? That was a different story. If symptoms appear, it means the bone deformation has reached an extreme stage—sometimes even causing bone spurs.
It meant every step could feel like a knife.
The only real solution? Surgery. But that could mean never stepping on the field again.
Retirement?
The thought hit Lance like a hammer. Even the faint possibility seized his chest so hard he couldn't breathe.
Berry had spent the entire season battling through lonely, painful rehab—everything aimed at making a comeback in the Super Bowl.
Now the team had made it.
And this was what waited for him?
Berry would be turning 30 soon. For a safety, that's the tail end of a career. Even if he recovered, no one could say how much of his old self he'd get back.
Not even the doctors.
This diagnosis… it was a damn near final notice.
Lance couldn't begin to imagine what Berry was feeling.
It was unfair.
He'd always known how cruel the sport could be—how injuries spared no one, not even himself. But that didn't make it easier. You didn't get numb to it. It hurt just as much every single time.
And yet—
Berry was still smiling, still trying to play the role of captain.
"Just a small thing."
"I thought I could handle the pain. All of us do. We all play through stuff, right? I figured if the ankle was fine, I could go. No big deal."
"But I guess I overestimated myself."
"Guess I'm getting old, huh?"
"The doc says I need surgery. Recovery could take ten months."
Ten months.
That crushed what little spirit was left. One by one, the players fell silent, stunned.
He had just finished a five-month rehab, and now this? Another long, grueling recovery?
Careers in the NFL were as short and fragile as spring blossoms. How many more "recoveries" could a body take?
They wanted to offer comfort. But all words felt so... empty.
The silence stretched.
And then—Berry was the one who spoke, to comfort them.
"Haha, it's fine. Really. Ten months? That's nothing. Blink and it's over."
"This ain't my first rodeo. I know the hospital halls better than the nurses do. I'll be back before you know it."
"But hey—you guys better not slack off just 'cause I'm not suiting up. This is the Super Bowl. Give it everything."
"I'll treat you to dinner. But you all better fight your asses off and win. Win one for me."
"Let me win a ring lying down for once. I'd love to know what a championship tastes like."
"Boys—my life's in your hands now."
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates