Dominate the Super Bowl

"One. Two. Three. Four."

Physical trainer Barry Rubin didn't use a whistle, relying solely on his raw voice to roar out commands, coarse and explosive, covering the entire training field. Every player, without exception, had to follow the cadence, each command prompting a specific movement.

The basic stance was marching in place, toes had to constantly touch the ground lightly and nimbly as the feet alternated touching down, and then corresponding actions were completed according to the commands.

One, keep the upper body still, swivel both knees to the left, then return to the original position.

Two, keep the upper body still, swivel both knees to the right, then return to the original position.

Three, lie down.

Four, push off the ground with the legs in a planking position, with the left knee raised toward the stomach.

Five, same position, with the right knee pushing toward the stomach.

Six and seven, repeat the movements of four and five.

Eight, stand up.

Nine, jump with legs apart.

Ten, return to the initial movement.

From one to ten, each command triggered a movement, engaging all the muscles in the body in exercises that improved on the foundation of the burpee, intended as a simple warm-up to get the body moving as much as possible.

It looked simple, but the focus was on—

Persisting for a full thirty minutes?

In fact, nobody needed thirty minutes; around the ten-minute mark, the players from the offensive line and defensive line started to falter.

The linemen often were the heaviest and slowest players on the team, like mountains of flesh, and they had very poor endurance. This kind of physical training was sheer torture for them.

One mountain of flesh removed his helmet, looking as if he had just been fished out of water, steam rising from his head, directing angry eyes toward head coach Reed at the front of the line, silently protesting with his gaze.

Then, several more flesh mountains likewise removed their helmets and joined the ranks.

However, Reed remained expressionless.

Rubin's rebuke was swift to follow, "What the hell are you doing? Put your helmets back on right now, and keep moving! Or else, after training is over, you'll do an extra thirty minutes, I mean what I say, do it immediately!"

Spittle flying, in the sunlight you could clearly see Rubin's saliva spray onto the face of one of those mountains of flesh, with a ferocious expression that seemed ready to devour him whole, the atmosphere instantly becoming tense—

And the other players couldn't rest, they still had to keep the position of constant foot-tapping in place, the feeling of tension extending from the calves all the way up to the thighs, hips, and waist, an unforgettable sensation of burning soreness.

The linemen could feel the death glares from their teammates. They cast another look at Reed, who was still indifferent and without expression, resentfully put their helmets back on and rejoined the training before incurring the wrath of everyone else.

"Five. Six. Seven. Eight."

Rubin's hoarse screams continued to circle above the training field, like vultures.

Nevertheless, the continuous high-intensity training inevitably couldn't last, and it was clear the flesh mountains couldn't hold on any longer, their rate of pedaling in place decreased significantly—

It looked as if they were about to pass out.

Assistant coach Brad Childres watched with concern and said to Reed, "Coach, is this really okay?"

In truth, Reed was more concerned than Childres. He wasn't known to be a hard-as-nails coach; he was strict but not ruthless. However, he had his own worries.

It was less about his own position as head coach and more about external factors.

Including the criticism that Kansas City Chiefs couldn't advance further in the playoffs, the doubts over their draft choices this year, and the scrutiny on the League's first Asian first-round pick among other things, the disturbances off the field had become a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment.

The training at hand wasn't about discipline; it was about eliminating distractions to stay focused.

They needed this process; the players needed to cast aside extraneous influences and truly concentrate on the training.

"Look," Reed said without a response, only gently lifting his chin to signal.

Finally, someone couldn't hold on any longer. His calf spasmed as if electrocuted, and he howled as he fell to the ground.

Medical staff immediately rushed to the scene.

Rubin glanced at the figure, shaking his head lightly. These stars, with their million-dollar salaries, had been pampered for too long. One by one they were spoiled, with no fighting spirit or tenacity, and it was no wonder that they always failed to hang on during the critical moments of the playoffs.

If the Kansas City Chiefs had money to build a team of mercenaries to charge for the championship, the lack of fighting spirit and bloodshed wouldn't be a problem. Just like Real Madrid, the Galactic Battleship, luxury would suffice; but the problem was they didn't have that. The team in front of him wasn't a band of mercenaries, but a real team, which needed to rely, support, and help each other.

"Humph!"

"Imagine it's the playoffs, fourth quarter, two minutes remaining in the official timeout. You're tired, the opponents are tired, victory could go either way, it could be yours or theirs. You all have no energy left, no strength left, it all depends on who can grit their teeth and hold on a little longer."

"So?"

"What are you prepared to do?"

"Are you going to lie down whimpering, hugging your knees? Or are you going to stand tall, take the field with pride and keep fighting? Do you think the opponents will hand you the victory on a silver platter? Why? Do you have treasures, or unparalleled beauty? On what basis?"

"Victory has to be fought for by oneself."

"The question is, are you ready?"

"One! Two!"

Thud, thud, thud thud thud.

There was no other sound on the training field except for the disorderly footsteps and heavy breathing. Rubin's cold and rough voice did not falter, mercilessly dragging all the players towards hell.

"Three! Four!"

Sweat boiled; muscles burned.

Li Wei was extremely focused, a hundred percent so. He thought his physical reserves were sufficient, but clearly, he had underestimated professional competition—

One by one, most players had already fallen and were being dragged off the field by medical staff. Surrounding the center, the field gradually emptied. Unexpectedly, Smith stayed behind.

Alex Smith, the quarterback.

Smith had always appeared "mediocre," whether it was his lack of toughness in critical moments or his absence of killer long throws, he never stood out as a superstar yet never seemed awful.

But deep down, Smith had his perseverance.

Clenching his teeth tightly, a rare flash of ferocity sparked in his eyes.

Unfortunately, he ultimately didn't last. His knees gave way, and he fell forward onto them.

"Alex!"

Someone exclaimed. Smith, however, lifted his head and refused the help of the approaching medical staff, forcing himself to stand on shaking legs. Although he was trembling all over, he eventually stood up, unsteady, to a surrounding gaze of admiration, and made his way to the side to grab a water bottle and start guzzling it down.

Before long, only three people remained on the training field—

Li Wei. Hunter.

Travis Kelce.

Two rookies and one veteran.

Actually, Mahomes had also held on until the very end, but he lacked a little something, falling just a bit before Smith did. It was less about his physical ability to endure and more about not being mentally prepared, leading to slight deviations and his knees not holding up.

After falling, Mahomes still appeared energetic, relying on himself to get to the sideline where he sat with the other rookies, cheering energetically.

Unintentionally, this training session had evolved into a competition between rookies and veterans, and the situation subtly became tense.