American Football: King of the Bay Area

Lech Steineberg's right hand gripped the head of his cane, tightening, then tightening again. He squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white, and the muscles all over his body trembled faintly.

The composure he had cultivated over a half-lifetime in the professional world kept his emotions locked down tight, showing no outward sign of panic. But a suffocating feeling, like lake water, crept slowly over his ankles and calves, gradually leeching all the warmth from his body. It was as if he were watching himself sink into a catastrophe, utterly helpless. Fear and panic seized his lungs and froze his mind.

Even after watching hundreds, even thousands of games, he still wasn't used to seeing players get hit so hard, or get injured.

The reason Lech had abandoned the typical agent's style of managing a roster of players, choosing instead to focus all his energy on a single client, was because of one player—a player who had suffered four concussions.

The player, usually as strong as an ox and full of life, lay listlessly in a hospital bed on the verge of paralysis. But when facing the man's wife and son, Lech felt nothing. 'He just thought about how many games this concussion would cost, how much bonus money would be lost, and how he should get the player to start rehab and return to the field.'

Unfortunately, that player never returned to the field. He even came close to losing his life.

Lech could never forget the son's eyes, filled with confusion and worry, as he asked helplessly, "Sir, will my father be able to stand up again?"

Football is incredibly important, and so is winning. For some people, it's their entire world. But in reality, beyond football and victory, beyond money and honor, there is so much more to life, and life itself is long.

So, Lech changed. He changed completely. He didn't want to answer that same question from another child, nor did he want to face another broken family. And so, step by step, he had arrived at where he was today.

In fact, Lech hadn't watched a game live in years.

Because the players on the field were no longer just symbols representing money, victory, and fame. They were real people with names, lives, and souls. He could watch the live broadcast on TV, but he couldn't bear the tense atmosphere of being at the stadium. He was getting older, his heart was getting weaker, and he'd gotten soft-hearted.

Ben Roethlisberger had already matured; he'd be fine even if Lech wasn't there to watch in person. But Lu Ke was a rookie, a rookie of only twenty-two. Lech had to be here to watch over him. It was his responsibility and his duty.

He thought he had gotten used to it, but clearly, he hadn't.

"Lu Ke is getting up! Number fourteen for the San Francisco 49ers is getting up..."

The commentator's passionate shouts from the TV behind him reached his ears. In his line of sight, he could see Lu Ke slowly getting to his feet. Lech's fingers suddenly loosened their grip. He let out a long breath, and oxygen flooded back into his lungs, stinging his chest sharply. In the aftermath of the intense emotion, he still couldn't control the slight trembling of his muscles.

"God, he's a real pleasant surprise, isn't he?" In the VIP box, Jed York—the chairman of the San Francisco 49ers—stood beside him and exclaimed with a broad smile.

Lech felt as if he had just survived a near-death experience, but he let none of it show on his face, simply replying, "Isn't he just?"

At that moment, it wasn't just Lech, nor was it just Kirk and Teddy in the broadcast booth. In Joe's Bar, Chris, Jeff, Cliff, and the others were all howling like wild animals. They jumped, hugged, and high-fived in celebration, as if they were the ones who had just endured the collision and emerged unscathed, not Lu Ke.

"Go! Bambi!" Jeff roared wildly at the TV screen. "Go! Show them what you're made of! Damn it! You're not someone who goes down that easy! You're not!"

The irrepressible excitement was almost suffocating, but Jeff didn't care. He just kept roaring. Then it was Danny Rice, then Nate Chandler, then Cliff Hart and Chris Wilson. Like survivors who had just escaped death, they cheered and screamed with abandon.

"Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!"

It was just a simple chant, but it bound them all together as one, feeling the same emotions, riding the same highs and lows. They huddled together, jumping up and down as if they had already won the game—or even more frenzied than that. The jubilant noise reverberated throughout the room, vibrant and exhilarating.

Sitting in his seat, Jonathan Baldwin was overcome with emotion. He could clearly feel the intense, ferocious joy; it seemed his blood was singing in his veins. A deep envy showed in his eyes, and he could barely stop himself from standing up and joining the celebration.

But at the last second, he sheepishly stopped himself. He glanced around at the other fans in the bar. Everyone avoided eye contact, looking guilty and awkward, lost and resentful. They couldn't even meet each other's gazes. 'This is so damn frustrating!'

Jonathan picked up his beer and took a huge gulp. But the beer, usually so refreshing, now had a bitter taste.

In Lincoln Financial Field, even the Philadelphia Eagles fans let out a long breath of relief. Nobody likes to see an injury. Nobody. When Lu Ke stood up, the fans began to applaud warmly, cheering him on. They weren't mortal enemies; there was no hatred between them. In that moment, they were all just pure lovers of football.

They hoped for a victory, but not one won because an opponent got hurt. They wanted a hard-fought, honorable win. So now, they applauded Lu Ke's tenacity, showing their respect.

The sudden applause and cheers took Lu Ke by surprise. After getting to his feet, he looked up and saw fans all over the stadium with their hands raised, clapping in support. The sea of navy blue, which had shown its ferocity, was now showing its beauty.

A chuckle escaped Lu Ke involuntarily. He raised his hands and gave the fans a thumbs-up to show his thanks. Then, he lowered his head again and began to check his condition. 'Respect is respect, but the game is the game. I definitely won't go easy on them in the upcoming matchup just because the fans were polite.'

The best way to respect an opponent is to give it your all and face them head-on.

Lu Ke jumped in place a few times, swung his arms, and stretched his limbs, using the most basic checks to assess his physical state and feel out his muscles.

On one hand, he needed to put on a bit of a show for the crowd. After such a violent collision, even if he wasn't injured, he'd be affected to some degree. He wasn't the freakish T-800 from *The Terminator*. On the other hand, this was also to test the effect of his Special Skill.

"Copper Skin Iron Bones." This was the newest Special Skill Lu Ke had acquired.

Although the description sounded impressive, how it would actually work was a complete unknown. Today was the first time he'd ever used it. Now, it seemed the effect was just as expected.

The so-called Copper Skin Iron Bones showed no external changes; everything looked normal. After the violent collision, the physical phenomena of free-falling and accelerated impact were all objectively present, and Lu Ke himself could feel all of it happening. But the internal change was incredibly obvious: he felt nothing. No pain, no soreness, no shock from the impact.

The feeling was a bit strange. He had clearly seen the world turn upside down, but he wasn't even dizzy. It completely defied the normal physical reactions of the body, and he actually felt a bit disoriented, as if his feet were stepping on cotton. Only after jumping forcefully in place a few times did the pull of gravity feel distinct again.

It was unbelievable. He had just gone through a violent collision, yet his body felt nothing. He was still at one hundred percent, without even a hint of muscle tightness. From that perspective, the skill's effect was extremely satisfying.

Once he was sure he was fine, Lu Ke finally noticed his teammates standing around him. They weren't huddled tightly; Logan and Marcus were the closest, while the other players were spaced out a little, scattered in different spots.

With a quick glance, Lu Ke could see the five players of the Offense Line.

Mike Lupati was fuming at himself, muttering curses. Chilo Rachal had his head completely bowed, his helmet pressed against his chest as if his neck was about to snap. Joe Stanley and Anthony Davis were exchanging glances, not speaking, but clearly blaming each other. In the end, they both looked away at the same time, dejected and annoyed.

A listless mood permeated the entire offensive unit. Worried eyes were cast his way, but when Lu Ke looked back, they quickly averted their gazes, not daring to meet his.

The momentum from the locker room at halftime had completely vanished, as if it had all been an illusion.

"Hey, guys!" Lu Ke called out loudly. "I'm fine, I feel great!" As he spoke, he jumped twice and flexed his biceps to show he was okay. But the team's mood remained sluggish and somber. Even Logan and Marcus lowered their heads, avoiding Lu Ke's eyes.

Lu Ke opened his mouth to say something, but after a moment's thought, he spoke into the built-in intercom in his helmet. "Timeout, Coach. I need a timeout."

So, Lu Ke had to request a timeout from the coaching staff. Brian Hampton's confused voice came through the earpiece. "Why? There's no problem on the field. What's wrong? Was the play call not clear?"

"I need a timeout!" Lu Ke said firmly. "Coach, I'm telling you, the team needs a timeout right now!"

"Bambi, you're not hurt, are you?" Jim Hubble asked worriedly.

"Jesus the Christ, no, I'm fine, but I need this timeout!" Lu Ke felt a surge of frustration, but he held his temper and said firmly, "I'm serious."

"..." Jim was silent for a moment—one second, two seconds—then his voice came over the headset. "Referee, timeout!"