American Football: Domination

Exhaling lightly, standing tall, Lance took in the defensive formation before him. The chess match between offense and defense had reached its peak, the air so thick with tension it felt frozen in place, time seemingly standing still.

On the surface, everything was calm.

Beneath it, a storm raged.

Neither side had changed their approach:

The Patriots' defense remained spread out, guarding the three boundary lines while leaving space in the middle.

The Chiefs' offense stuck with a shotgun formation, fully committing to the passing attack.

Then, Lance slowly bent forward—

"Attack!"

Smith called for the snap.

Lance took a step forward, feinting inside, momentarily assuming the stance of a sixth offensive lineman, as if preparing to block for Smith. But then—a sudden shift. He pivoted laterally and accelerated into the slot.

Right at that moment—the pressure hit like a tidal wave.

A blitz?

The Patriots were blitzing?

At this critical moment, Belichick revealed his killer instinct, dialing up an unexpected pass rush, using brute force to shatter the balance. A five-man rush threw the Chiefs' offensive line into chaos.

Pressure.

Layer after layer.

Crashing down.

Danger!

The Chiefs' offensive line wasn't ready.

Caught off guard, they crumbled under the Patriots' ferocious front. The pocket collapsed instantly.

One second, Smith was preparing for a quick throw.

The next, he felt the weight of the world crashing down on him.

But Smith didn't panic.

He calmly pivoted and tossed the ball lightly.

"Lance?"

Romo: ???

Even he was caught off guard.

He hadn't expected Belichick to blitz, nor had he expected Reid to call a run play.

Both coaches had thrown conventional wisdom out the window.

Yes—a run play.

Lance was still inside the pocket, and Smith, unshaken by the pressure, smoothly handed off the ball.

Belichick had gone crazy.

Reid had gone crazy.

Everyone was losing their minds.

Even Romo felt dizzy.

"Lance has the ball!"

The football felt stiff in his hands.

Foxborough's temperature had dropped even further. The night had grown colder, and while adrenaline dulled the players' awareness, the conditions still mattered.

Lance hadn't forgotten the multiple times he had slipped earlier in the game. The ball's leather felt slicker, making control harder.

The more urgent the moment, the calmer he needed to be.

Lance didn't rush forward.

Instead, he took two quick adjustment steps, ensuring a firm grip before accelerating.

And in that fraction of a second, he caught sight of defensive end Flowers lunging toward him.

A sharp push-off with his left foot sent Lance gracefully dodging past Flowers' outstretched arm, shifting back inside the slot—

Because the defense was spread out wide, leaving the middle exposed.

One step.

Two steps.

Lance crossed the line of scrimmage in an instant, leaving Flowers in the dust.

The next second, Van Noy came charging in.

Van Noy had been focused on sacking Smith. He hadn't expected the ball to be in Lance's hands.

Lance. Again.

Not just Van Noy—Harrison saw it too.

Both reacted at the same time, twisting their bodies to give chase.

Van Noy led the charge.

Holding his breath, Van Noy surged forward. With just two giant strides, he closed in—Lance was within reach.

Opportunity.

Van Noy lunged.

Even though he was off balance, his eyes locked onto Lance, and he channeled every ounce of strength into his core.

Got him!

But—Lance didn't evade.

Not only did he not dodge, but he also stepped forward to meet him head-on.

Left arm extended.

A stiff-arm.

In a blink, Lance planted his foot and unleashed his full force, transferring his entire body weight into his arm—

Boom!

Power met power.

Van Noy grunted in pain.

A heavy thud echoed through his chest—he barely had time to react before his balance was completely upended.

The world spun.

His mind went blank.

Lance felt the recoil, but instead of resisting, he rolled with it, using the momentum to shift diagonally right.

Feet stumbled.

Balance wavered.

Through the chaos, Lance gritted his teeth, continuously driving forward, using his core strength to regain control.

Out of the corner of his eye—Harrison was closing in.

Push. Push. Keep pushing.

Boom!

Explosive speed.

Harrison lunged, arms outstretched.

He touched Lance!

But—just barely.

Harrison only caught air.

The next second, he hit the frozen ground, the bitter wind swallowing him whole.

Missed.

F*. F***. F***.**

"Lance!"

"Oh my God, Lance!"

"An incredible stiff-arm and a burst of speed—Lance found the gap in the Patriots' defense and shot through!"

"Five yards!"

"Harrison's tackle threw Lance off balance, but he's still moving forward. Like a bayonet, he's cutting through the Patriots' core!"

"Speed!"

"Lance is at full throttle!"

"Ten yards!"

"Wow! The Patriots won't make the same mistake as the Steelers—Patrick Chung, McCourty, and Gilmore close in fast!"

Lance didn't resist.

He went down voluntarily.

Reid called the final timeout.

"Brilliant!"

In the broadcast booth, Romo couldn't contain himself.

"With everything on the line, the Chiefs stole 15 yards on a desperate run play, not only converting third down but also crossing midfield!"

"Yes, they've burned their final timeout."

"Yes, Smith still isn't ideal for a Hail Mary."

"But the Chiefs' momentum has changed everything. They might not even need a Hail Mary—Smith could still lead them to a game-winning touchdown."

"They're now at the Patriots' 39-yard line. They have Lance, Kelce, Hill, and Hunt—an explosive young offense."

"Anything is possible."

"My God, anything is possible!"

Belichick had taken a risk.

Reid had taken a risk.

But in the end—it was Lance's individual brilliance that had turned the tide.

And suddenly, the Patriots' defense was in trouble.

Just as it seemed the scales were tilting toward Kansas City—

"Incomplete on third down! My God, the Chiefs are back on the edge of the cliff!"

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Powerstones?

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