American Football: Domination

Revis hadn't expected someone else to share his thoughts. No hesitation, no second-guessing, and no concern about disrupting the team's positive atmosphere—just a blunt, straightforward remark thrown out in the open.

A kindred spirit?

But unlike Revis, there was a difference.

Lance's tone carried a touch of playfulness, effortlessly grabbing Houston's attention. That intrigued Revis. Why was it that when Lance said something, it was fine, but when Revis did, it usually pissed people off?

Lifting his gaze, Revis found himself locking eyes with Lance. Only then did he realize—Lance had not only captured Houston's attention but his own as well. Instinctively, he averted his eyes.

As if he'd been caught.

Revis was annoyed. It's just a rookie. Why the hell was he flustered?

Then, he heard Houston's steady, unwavering response.

"I know. You do your job. We'll take it from here."

No rallying cry. No dramatic speech. Just calm, unshakable confidence.

From offense to defense, Kansas City was ready to fight back.

And then—

Lance's gaze fell on him. Direct, unwavering.

Revis had assumed Lance would put on some leader's facade, try to rally the troops with some grand speech. He was ready to roll his eyes and shut it down.

You're not a quarterback. You're not a team captain. Stop playing superhero.

But Lance didn't say a word.

Just a look. A small nod.

That was it.

No fluff. No pretense. No over-the-top inspiration.

Just the simple, unspoken trust of warriors standing side by side.

Trust?

Revis hesitated. Did he just nod back?

Somehow, he had. And before he even realized it, he was watching Lance walk away.

This wasn't the first time.

The Wild Card game against Tennessee had been the same.

Revis had been the defensive breakdown that led to Mariota's insane self-pass touchdown. Afterward, while the rest of the team fumed or ignored him, Lance had been the only one to come over.

A small gesture. A simple acknowledgment.

And even though Revis hadn't wanted to admit it—

It mattered.

He cared.

He wasn't supposed to. He was a mercenary. A hired gun. A player who had spent years bouncing between teams, never truly belonging anywhere.

Win or lose, it didn't matter.

Take the paycheck, do the job, move on.

That's how it was supposed to be.

So why hadn't he retired?

After the Jets cut him, no team wanted him. Like he was some kind of virus, toxic and untouchable.

The entire league had branded him a cancer.

By all logic, he should've walked away.

Retirement was the obvious choice. The right choice.

But he refused.

Because deep down, he still gave a damn.

Because he still wanted to fight.

Because he still wanted to win.

Because he still wanted to feel alive on the field.

And somehow, Lance had seen that.

Everyone else kept their distance, wary of "Revis Island."

Lance didn't.

Lance treated him like any other teammate.

No fear. No hesitation.

Just acceptance.

That had never happened before.

Not once in his career had someone looked past his reputation and still welcomed him like this.

It wasn't over-the-top. It wasn't forced. It wasn't fake.

It was just… real.

Revis chuckled under his breath.

Alright, kid.

Maybe this game just got interesting.

Up ahead, Houston called out. Revis shook off his thoughts, falling in step as they jogged onto the field. His eyes found Brady.

"Hello, Tom. Let's play a game."

Looking back at the first half, New England had been dominant. Not just on defense—their offense had been just as relentless.

And at the heart of it all? Brady.

Lawson had warned that the Patriots were learning how to win with defense. That wasn't just speculation.

New England's offense had its own share of problems.

Injured receiving corps.

Brady was running out of targets. Only Amendola and Gronkowski remained as reliable weapons. Amendola had been a non-factor all season—until tonight.

Struggling run game.

The Patriots' rushing attack ranked 11th in the league. No dominant ball carrier. No short-yardage bruiser to grind out tough plays.

Inconsistent offensive line.

O-line play was often overlooked but crucial. This season, New England's line had been unstable.

Their run blocking had fallen off a cliff.

And 35 sacks allowed (16th in the league) meant Brady was under constant pressure.

Brady had already been pissed at his O-line during the season opener.

But all year long, nothing had changed.

Weaknesses?

Plenty.

And yet, New England's offense still ranked 2nd in the league.

Why?

Because Brady carried them.

Short passes. Play-action fakes. Defensive reads. Split-second adjustments.

Brady wasn't just playing quarterback.

He was holding the entire damn offense together.

Tonight had been no different.

And if Kansas City wanted to stop New England—

They had to stop Brady.

Kansas City's Defensive Adjustment

They couldn't just blitz blindly.

Brady's footwork in the pocket was slower than before, but his deep accuracy was still light-years ahead of Smith's.

One wrong move, and he'd make them pay.

So they needed a plan.

A strategy.

And patience.

Coming out of halftime, Kansas City dialed up the pressure.

They targeted New England's weak O-line.

But Brady still held firm.

Four third-down conversions later, and New England was already past midfield.

Brady could feel the heat, though.

Every snap was a war. Every yard was a grind.

And then—

"BLITZ!"

Kansas City attacked.

New England called a play-action fake.

It didn't work.

The Chiefs weren't fooled.

"Revis!"

"WOW!"

"DARRELLE REVIS! A CORNERBACK BLITZ!"

Revis joined Houston on a full-speed rush.

The pocket collapsed.

Brady was trapped.

Revis closed in.

Brady tried to escape.

Revis missed the first tackle—

But—

"Revis trips Brady up!"

Brady stumbles!

"HOUSTON IS THERE!"

Brady goes down!

SACKED!

"Kansas City forces a 4th down!"

Silence.

Kansas City's sideline erupted.

New England's sideline stayed quiet.

Brady sat on the ground for a moment, staring at the turf.

He slammed his fist into the grass, furious.

That was a sack they couldn't afford.

Revis, standing over him, smirked.

"Gotcha, Tom."

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Powerstones?

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