Thump. Thump.
His heart pounded uncontrollably.
Pederson struggled to keep calm—but it wasn't easy.
His head buzzed.
No-huddle offense. It was actually a no-huddle offense.
In the dying seconds of the first half, the Eagles had stunned with their "Philly Special" trick play—a miraculous 4th-and-1 touchdown. Now, the Chiefs were offering their own "Chiefs Special"?
Smith—Alex Smith? The supposedly inadequate Smith?
Yet here he was, deploying the no-huddle offense at the most critical moment of the Super Bowl?
Absurd.
And yet, the Chiefs held all the momentum.
1st and 10—Smith hit Hunt for 7 yards and stopped the clock.
2nd and 3—Smith found Kelce, who picked up 4 yards and got out of bounds.
Speed, tempo, explosiveness, control. Even though they'd lost some time with Lance's initial run, the no-huddle rhythm kicked in hard, making up for lost seconds.
The Chiefs had seized control.
The Eagles were reeling.
Though their defensive backs stayed locked in on man coverage, the Eagles' defense was on its heels. Smith kept launching lightning-quick short passes. The pressure the Eagles hoped to create? Nonexistent.
Step by step, the Eagles were unraveling.
Who could've seen this coming?
On the field, Smith was laser-focused, fully unleashed. His small universe was blazing. In his comfort zone, he maximized his short passing ability, building on the best game of his career to deliver his most brilliant two minutes ever.
Pederson—caught completely off guard.
At this rate, a Chiefs touchdown was only a matter of time. They might not even need a Hail Mary.
"Think! Doug, think!"
Pederson forced himself to refocus. What do you do against the no-huddle?
The answer lay with the quarterback.
The defense had to pressure the quarterback. They couldn't chase the football; they had to go after the man delivering it. If the defense was playing catch-up, they'd never win—because nobody can outrun the ball.
Was that the answer? Who could say?
But Pederson didn't have time to ponder. The no-huddle raged on. The Eagles had to act—or else.
Just earlier, Pederson had sensed something was off. He called for the defense to "spread out." Stop the bleeding. Let the Chiefs catch short passes but don't let them gain ground or drain the clock.
But now, that plan couldn't keep up. The Eagles had to adapt.
"Press up."
Pederson gave the order.
Everyone push up. From the defensive line to the linebackers to the corners and safeties.
Aggression. Pressure.
Play man-to-man from the snap. Press coverage on the receivers. Adjust the alignment—five defenders track five targets; the remaining two linebackers join the front line to blitz Smith and disrupt his rhythm.
"Attack!"
The Chiefs kept up their no-huddle blitz, refusing to give the Eagles a moment's breath. They held onto momentum with both hands.
But—it came at a cost.
As exhausted as the Eagles defense was, the Chiefs offense was burning fuel fast too. Their tank nearly empty after a game-long sprint, they now ran on adrenaline.
And just then—
Boom. Boom-boom-boom.
The Eagles' front erupted with power. A tidal wave of resistance bore down on Smith.
Smith: ...
His knees trembled.
He had already outperformed expectations tonight. Though sacked once, he'd dodged four others with pocket footwork that was anything but flashy—but absolutely effective.
At least four escapes.
Smith had given everything. And now, with the no-huddle reaching its peak, he was tapping into his final reserves.
Then the pressure hit him like a fist to the face.
Ugh.
A muffled grunt.
Smith's footing faltered. But he gritted his teeth, dipped low, and slipped past the first tackle. He could feel the wind of a defender's swipe across his cheek. He turned, lifted his arm, and flicked the ball.
Flick—
Damn!
The moment it left his hand, Smith realized it was off. His wrist lacked follow-through, the pass was too sharp, and the ball was diving toward the turf.
But Smith had no time to worry—Graham was on him. Though the defender tried to avoid a flag by twisting away, the two still hit the ground together.
Smith ignored the pain, craning to see.
Lance. Scooped it up just before it hit the ground, a desperation catch. But it cost him—the awkward motion slowed him down, and Bradham and Darby swarmed him for the tackle.
Three yards. Just three. And not out of bounds.
Smith cursed under his breath.
Timeout! Reid burned the Chiefs' last timeout without hesitation.
Panting.
Offense. Defense. Everyone red-faced, drenched, legs shaking. The no-huddle blitz had drained them all.
And not just on the field.
Everyone watching—at home, in bars, in the stadium—was breathless. The pressure had seeped through the screen. Hearts pounded. Minds reeled.
Smith cursed aloud. He knew. That botched pass broke the rhythm. It broke the no-huddle.
Game clock: 39 seconds.
Ball: Eagles' 33-yard line.
Close to field goal range—but that wasn't enough. The Chiefs needed a touchdown. A field goal wouldn't win it.
Now? The no-huddle was broken. Their last timeout was gone. The last chip in time management had been spent.
Timeouts:
Chiefs – 0
Eagles – 3
The tides had subtly shifted.
The Eagles defense didn't break. They held, and slammed the brakes just in time.
But there was no time for regret.
"Alex, this next play—"
A voice came through the headset. Not from the offensive coordinator, Nagy.
It was Reid himself.
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Powerstones?
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