American Football: Domination

Carson Wentz, of course, hadn't forgotten that Lance was his opponent. Facing the Eagles, Lance had once again delivered a spectacular performance.

But as the final whistle sounded, Wentz couldn't help but replay the moment of the onside kick in his mind. Lance's calmness and determination had left a deep impression.

Before he realized it, Wentz was already standing in front of Lance.

It was an impulsive decision, and Wentz hadn't thought through what he would say. As the words reached his lips, hesitation crept in, leaving him looking awkward and unsure—an amusing sight to anyone watching.

Lance paused mid-step, glancing at him. "So, if you're planning to throw insults, go ahead. Just know I'll clap back so hard you'll regret starting."

Despite the words, his tone carried no malice, only a playful teasing that softened the tension.

Wentz couldn't help but laugh. "Lance, can we swap jerseys? It was an amazing game."

Lance shook his head dramatically. "I'm disappointed, but... fine. A jersey swap it is."

He pulled off his jersey and handed it over. Then he paused, smirking. "Are you sure we can't trade a few insults first? Just for fun?"

Wentz burst into laughter. "No, no! I'm sure."

After they exchanged jerseys, Wentz watched Lance turn to leave. A burst of determination welled up inside him, and he couldn't help but call out, "Next time we meet, I'm going to beat you."

Lance spun around, raising an eyebrow. "Then you'd better train hard—very, very, very hard."

His confidence and good-natured humor were infectious, sparking a competitive fire in Wentz.

As Lance walked away, Wentz felt something click within him—a flash of inspiration, perhaps, or a seed of understanding. Lance was younger and had spent less time in the football world than almost anyone in the league, yet Wentz realized he could learn so much from him.

The idea wasn't entirely clear yet, but it ignited a spark of motivation.

Wentz was serious. He genuinely looked forward to meeting Lance again on the field.

After the exchange, Lance turned toward the players' tunnel, heading back to the locker room.

He was planning to check on something in the system—he thought he had heard the notification sound of a reward. But before he could take more than a few steps, someone else called out to him.

Lance stopped, a hint of exasperation crossing his face, and turned to see the Eagles' kicker, Jake Elliott, hurrying over, out of breath.

"Lance, can we trade jerseys?" Jake asked.

Lance glanced down at his fitted undershirt, confusion plain in his expression.

Jake quickly caught on and explained, "Your gear, even just the pads. I know you already gave your jersey to Carson."

Seeing Jake's sheepish expression, Lance couldn't help but smile. He removed his helmet and handed it over instead. "Your onside kick was incredible—so close to working."

Jake's eyes widened in surprise.

"I know fans don't usually pay attention to kickers—just like they don't always notice running backs—but we're all part of the team. Win or lose, we're in it together, right?"

"That's why I respect what you just did out there. And I gave it my all in return."

Jake stared at the helmet in disbelief, momentarily speechless. Lance's words resonated deeply, shedding light on the unspoken battles fought outside the spotlight.

"Here's how this works," Lance said with a light laugh, interrupting Jake's reverie. "You're supposed to hand me your helmet too. That's what makes it a trade."

"Oh!" Jake blushed, fumbling to pass over his helmet. "Sorry—I mean, thank you. Really, thank you so much."

"Looking forward to our next matchup." Lance tapped Jake's helmet with his own before continuing down the tunnel.

Jake looked down at the helmet in his hands, his heart swelling with newfound determination.

He was eager to face Lance again, but even more so, he was excited to grow and improve in his role.

People said running backs were disposable—that they didn't matter. But Lance was proving otherwise, carving out a new path, one game at a time.

People also said special teams were just a sideshow. But when the game was on the line, they could make or break everything.

Jake lifted his head, watching Lance's silhouette fade into the distance. His towering frame seemed to carry the weight of the Crimson Tide's roaring fans and the electrified energy of Arrowhead Stadium.

Jake took a deep breath and shouted after him, "Looking forward to it!"

This time, Lance didn't stop walking. He kept moving forward.

He had been hoping to save a jersey for his parents.

Two games into his professional career, and he hadn't managed to keep any memorabilia for his family. It was starting to feel like negligence.

Now, his first-game jersey was gone. The second-game jersey was gone. Even his helmet was gone. At this rate, if he stuck around any longer, his cleats and socks might not make it back either.

Better to retreat to the safety of the locker room before he ended up leaving in just his undershirt.

Thankfully, he made it to the locker room without incident. The roaring fans lining the tunnel cheered wildly for the Chiefs' 2017 home opener victory. Though the atmosphere was electric, Lance avoided any further delays and slipped inside.

At last, some peace and quiet.

As other players filtered in, some stopped to give Lance high-fives or shoulder bumps in celebration.

It was clear that Lance was at the heart of the team's success. Under immense pressure, the Chiefs had opened the season with two wins—a strong start that had everyone optimistic.

But Lance still couldn't catch a break.

"Lance! Lance!" Patrick Mahomes called out, his voice full of admiration. "I just heard you've never lost a game since you started playing football! Did you know fans are calling you our lucky charm?"

Lance blinked in surprise. His first thought was, Didn't we lose two preseason games?

Then it clicked—those weren't official games.

From the Crimson Tide to the Chiefs, an entire year had passed, and Lance had yet to taste defeat in a regular-season game. It was a rare streak.

No wonder fans had been chanting "Lucky Charm" in the tunnel earlier. Some had even tossed folded paper stars his way.

He hadn't understood it at the time, but now it all made sense.

Spencer Ware, returning from a shower, paused to comment. "Guess you've got a good luck charm on your side."

But before Lance could respond, Travis Kelce burst into the room with a mischievous grin. "You've just played too few games."

The locker room erupted in playful boos and laughter.

"Travis!"

"Shut it, jinx!"

"Whose side are you on?"

A barrage of towels flew toward Kelce.

Raising his hands in surrender, Kelce laughed, "Hey, hey! Relax, guys. I'm just saying, don't put too much pressure on the kid. Winning and losing—it's all part of the game."

Kelce's concern was genuine. With the team riding high on Lance's performances, the weight of expectations could easily become too much to bear. And Lance, after all, was still a rookie.

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Powerstones?

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