Shortly after 8:00 AM, Li Wei and the others entered, number cards in hand, for their physical measurements and bench press test. On the very first event, the bench press, he put on a performance so crushing it drove all the other participants to despair.

He bench-pressed 225 pounds (102 kg) for 32 reps!

"Fack!" a scout in the stands leaped to his feet. "Is that a fucking quarterback? Is he a fucking high schooler?"

Even the strongest quarterbacks in the NFL might not be able to put up numbers like that.

The dynamic tests were even more of a foregone conclusion.

For the 40-yard dash, Li Wei ran a 4.32 after just a light warm-up. For a quarterback, this meant that even in the NFL Alliance, no more than three players could keep up with him.

During the passing accuracy test, Li Wei stood at the line of scrimmage and nonchalantly launched a 78-yard bomb that landed perfectly in the receiver’s arms, shattering the NCAA record.

The current quarterback prodigy, Mahomes, was already giving other teams in the league headaches with his 65-yard long passes. Li Wei, however, had just obliterated that benchmark. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

No one dared to challenge him, as most of them had already been completely dominated by Li Wei back in the PSAL.

Without a single hitch, Li Wei broke high school and NCAA records in every test. Some of his numbers were even approaching NFL records.

While other high schoolers were starting high-dose drug cycles a week out, trying cocktails 48 hours before, checking weather and wind conditions, and praying to their superstitions for a good performance—all just to maybe snag a two or three-star rating—Li Wei had already rolled over them like a freight train. He didn’t even feel a bump. Because even doped to the gills, none of them—black or white—could offer him even a shred of resistance.

’What a joke. To him, they were just speed bumps.’

"Alright, alright, that’s enough," the camp director said, giving Li Wei a complicated look. "You can go home and wait for the results. They should be posted tonight."

"Thanks," Li Wei said, nodding politely. "Can I take these with me?"

He pointed to the complimentary T-shirt and towel he was holding.

"Uh... of course," the director said, taken aback for a second. "Help yourself—wait!"

As Li Wei gave him a puzzled look, the director jumped down from the platform, grabbed a fresh T-shirt still in its packaging, glanced around, and handed it to Li Wei, whispering:

"Could you sign this for me?"

...

"You were incredible!" Wen Si was still gushing as they left the training facility. "I’m telling you, you’re going to be the No. 1 high school prospect in the entire country! Ha! Just you wait! College recruiters are going to be coming after you like madmen!"

"What should we get to eat? Pizza? Chinese food?" Coach Miller was as giddy as a child. "It’s on me!"

The training camp was held in New York, so he’d seen plenty of coaches from rival schools—guys he couldn’t stand but had to be superficially polite to. Usually, when their teams were doing well, they’d lord it over him with a barrage of taunts and sarcastic digs.

But now, thanks to Li Wei, he’d gotten the chance to do some serious flexing of his own.

"How about some fried chicken? And watermelon on the side," Wen Si suggested. He and Coach Miller were a lot more familiar with each other now, so he felt bold enough to joke around. "There’s a new Jollibee up ahead that’s supposed to be really good. I’ll pay."

"Don’t think I don’t know that’s a racist joke," Coach Miller shot back, feigning outrage and flipping Wen Si the bird. "Besides, isn’t Jollibee a chain? You telling me you’ve never had it?"

"That’s not it," Wen Si Scout said, stroking his chin. "It’s because the girl working the counter there is a gorgeous blonde—"

"Say no more," Coach Miller said, waving his hand. "I suddenly recall that I haven’t had fried chicken in a long time."

However, Li Wei never got to have that meal with the coach.

Because just as the three of them were leaving the training facility, Wen Si Scout’s phone rang.

"This is Arthur Wens," Wen Si said, answering his phone. "Yes... Understood. Right, right, right."

He hung up and looked at Li Wei with a peculiar expression.

"What is it?" Li Wei asked. "Who was that?"

"Mr. Mara’s secretary," Wen Si said, giving Li Wei a complicated look. "It seems he’s already seen your test results. He wants to meet you—have a private dinner."

"Uh..." Li Wei paused. "Who’s Mr. Mara?"

When you talk about the NFL, there’s only one Mara that matters.

John Mara. The owner and CEO of the New York Giants, and the chairman of the NFL Management Council’s Executive Committee.

Half an hour later, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the entrance of a place in Manhattan called the Congress Steakhouse.

The attendant at the door was a handsome young white man. When he saw Li Wei arriving at the upscale steakhouse in casual attire, a flash of displeasure crossed his face.

’Another tourist in street clothes. An Asian who doesn’t know the rules.’

He plastered on a fake smile and stepped forward to block Li Wei’s path.

"Sir," he said, "we require formal attire here."

Before Li Wei could say a word, the driver who brought him stepped forward and announced that he was Mr. Mara’s guest.

The attendant’s expression faltered. He turned and led the way for Li Wei.

The tables inside the Congress Steakhouse were spaced wide apart; there were no more than a dozen or so in the main dining hall.

The attendant led Li Wei and his driver to a private room with a silver plaque on the door that read ’John Mara’ and pulled it open.