Collision. Jostling. Disruption.
Lance was like a small skiff on a raging sea, battered and thrown by wave after wave of stormy interference—the entire world spinning and pitching violently around him.
He felt like throwing up.
There was no denying it: Bradham was in a blind rage.
If it had been a rushing play, Lance could have relied on his strengths and familiar tactics. But this was a pass play. He had to establish position, make the catch mid-motion—and it meant he couldn't use his usual methods to shake the coverage.
And yet—
Lance held his ground.
His legs dug into the turf like steel pillars. He absorbed the hit with his back, clenched his jaw, and weathered the chaos.
With a quick glance, he sized up the field—
The ball. Bradham's interference.
An opening. A window.
Without warning, Lance erupted. He drew strength from the ground, unleashing a tidal wave of power as he thrust backward into Bradham.
Boom!
Lance vs. Bradham.
A head-on collision.
Bradham, still busy trying to disrupt, hadn't braced for impact. The full-force blow caved in his chest, paralyzed his limbs, and before he could even gasp, his body crumbled like a marionette with snapped strings—
He went flying.
Technically, he didn't leave the ground. But his feet staggered, backpedaling wildly as his strength drained and balance faltered.
One step. Two steps.
Then his legs gave out. He crashed backward, tumbling in an awkward somersault like a circus acrobat.
On the other side, Lance surged forward with all that built-up momentum. He stepped into the clear, snagged the football cleanly—and didn't immediately head out of bounds.
Because this was a five-yard pass. The point was surprise.
But five yards alone wouldn't move the chains.
So—
One quick pivot. Lance turned 180 degrees and locked eyes with cornerback Darby charging straight at him.
No hesitation. No room for second-guessing.
Lance crouched low, tightened his center of gravity, and collided head-on.
Thud!
A brutal impact.
Darby hadn't expected it. The sheer force knocked him off balance, sending him stumbling backward.
But before he could catch his breath—
Lance attacked again. Like a Super Saiyan reborn, he planted and exploded forward. There was no time to react. A tidal force crushed down on Darby.
Desperate, Darby dropped into a defensive stance.
BAM!
Another direct hit.
Lance, from low to high, launched Darby into the air. The cornerback's upper body snapped back. For a moment he floated—free from gravity—before crashing to the ground, gasping.
It was raw, explosive power. The crowd went wild.
But Lance was at his limit. Every muscle fiber screamed. The recoil rocked his balance, threatening collapse.
Crisis—his body wavered.
But he didn't resist it. He flowed with it, used the momentum. On his toes, he danced the sideline—on the edge like a blade.
One step. Two steps. Three.
Wobbling, tipping, reeling— but he kept going. Until that final surge of breath left him, and he dashed out of bounds to stop the clock.
"Edge-walker!"
Collinsworth leapt to his feet, face flushed, voice trembling. His eyes sparkled with disbelief.
"Unbelievable!"
"Absolutely unbelievable!"
"Fourth and seven! The Chiefs set up a fake Hail Mary and hit a short pass instead. Lance made the five-yard catch despite double coverage and pushed it another two yards to move the chains. Now they're at Philly's 30-yard line!"
"Seven seconds left!"
"Everything's still possible!"
"Oh God. Oh God!"
"We marveled at the Eagles' miracle season and playoff magic—but the Chiefs have matched it with ice-cold patience and surgical execution. They saved their most brilliant, most mysterious tactics for the very end!"
"It's not that Pederson made mistakes—it's that Reid simply outplayed him."
"This game isn't over."
"What will the Chiefs do next? One more play? Two?"
"The Eagles must beware of penalties—after a full game of clean, controlled football, fatigue makes mistakes much more likely. And right now, they can't afford even a single one."
Tension blanketed the stadium. Sue couldn't breathe.
And then—
"Timeout!"
"Pederson calls a timeout!"
"Clearly, he realized he was losing control of this drive. Reid had taken the initiative on every front."
"Though the timeout might give the Chiefs a breather—it's a lifeline the Eagles defense desperately needs to regroup."
On the field, things boiled over.
Assistants rushed in with towels and water. Captains hurried back to the coaches. Every second was a battlefield.
On the Eagles' sideline—
Foles stood frozen. Just moments ago, had they converted that pass… the championship would already be theirs.
But there are no ifs in football.
"NICK!"
Carson Wentz called out.
Though injured and inactive, Wentz had been on the sideline all game, supporting the team. Every offensive series, he joined the huddle, lending his voice, his experience.
He desperately wanted to be on the field—not just for the trophy, but to battle Lance head-to-head.
Sadly, he couldn't.
But he wouldn't miss this showdown.
Wentz's gaze steadied Foles. They'd given everything—there was no room for regret.
Now, the defense needed their strength.
Foles exhaled and turned to join them.
On the Chiefs' side—
Smith wavered. Again.
Once, twice, three times. Always the same story. He gave it everything, reached the cusp… only to fall short.
This nightmare haunted his career.
And now—it was happening again.
The finish line was within reach, but unease clouded his mind.
Not just him—the whole offense. Their legs wobbled. Their lungs burned. They couldn't even stand up straight.
"Captain!"
A voice.
Smith looked up—Lance again, that signature grin, squirting water into his mouth.
"Remember?" Lance said.
"No confidence—but we're going to win."
"Trust me. We're going to win."
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Powerstones?
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