The game was tight and tense, with every ounce of energy drained—physically and mentally. Whether it was the battle-worn Revis or Sue, watching her first game live, no one was spared from the sensation of being utterly spent. Hearts thundered at the edge of explosion; no one could take much more.
Suspense hung, balanced on a knife's edge. Everyone watching, inside the stadium or out, held their breath. Minds went feverish. Muscles throbbed with lactic acid. Palms were slick with sweat, fists clenched tight without even realizing.
No one was in control—not of body, not of spirit.
Except for Lance.
Loose-limbed, smiling, as if sipping tea in a sunlit garden, he gently pulled his focus back.
"No confidence—but we'll win."
A flicker of determination and resolve burst into energy.
At some point, Berry had silently walked up beside him. He said nothing. Just clenched his right fist and pounded it against his chest—feeling the heartbeat beneath.
Simple. But powerful.
Then—
Kelce answered first. He stood tall, clenched his fist, and thumped his chest.
Thud-thud.
A heart-stirring rhythm. His eyes reignited with fire—fatigue and tension became fuel.
One glance, and Smith followed, matching the motion with swelling spirit.
Then—
Houston. Revis. Hill. Mahomes.
One after another.
They all rose. Shoulders squared. Chests out. Fists striking sternums.
He, he, they—from Berry to Smith—they truly, deeply wanted to win. Not to prove anything. Not for glory. But to embrace the game. To push themselves. To fight without holding back. To leave no regrets.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
Ripples of power surged across Bank of America Stadium.
The scene triggered a memory for Veach—
He remembered draft day, when Reid sat glued to his screen, replaying last year's NCAA championship. In the dying seconds, Alabama's Crimson Tide gathered around Lance, joking, relaxed, exuding an almost mythic calm—unshaken even at the brink.
Now, it was the same.
Reid and Nagy shared a glance. Reid turned toward the offense and bellowed:
"Fly-fly?"
The offensive squad exchanged glances. Grins slowly bloomed.
Smith looked back at Reid and clenched his fist.
"Fly-fly."
Then, he turned—and took the field.
Only 25 seconds passed, though it felt eternal. Both teams returned.
Seven seconds. Thirty-yard line. First and ten.
Everything was set.
On the line, offensive and defensive fronts stood poised at the 30. Eyes sharp with bloodlust. Coiled with energy, waiting for the signal to spend the last of their strength—
For one final clash.
The air was still. Time seemed to freeze.
The Chiefs showed shotgun formation again. Hunt and Lance both on the field, one left, one right, lined up just behind the wide receivers—clearly as passing targets.
The Eagles responded predictably. Safeties moved up. Corners pressed. The secondary tightened to within ten yards of the line. Every receiver had a defender. Man coverage.
Adapt to nothing. Stay steady.
At first glance—no one had changed anything.
Smith inhaled deeply. His eyes hardened.
"Attack!"
The word sliced the air.
Instantly, chaos exploded.
Boom.
The Eagles blitzed.
Six-man rush.
Four linemen. Two linebackers. No hesitation. No reserve. They threw everything into one final desperate gamble. Pressure closed in on Smith like an avalanche.
The ball had barely brushed his fingertips when the pocket already caved.
His knees trembled.
Backpedal. Backpedal.
Smith gritted his teeth, straightened up, and retreated fast—buying time. The Eagles, in full red-zone defensive form, pressed hard. They ignored the threat of a Hail Mary. They were all-in.
The Chiefs were unified. The Eagles were relentless.
Danger!
Smith's mind flared. He turned and gently pitched the ball to Hunt, wide left and behind.
Pederson: ??
What kind of play was this?
Smith didn't throw deep. He didn't throw outside. He tossed it backward to Hunt. So—was this a run play? A pass play?
It made no tactical sense.
Had the Chiefs lost their minds?
Even as a coach watching from the sidelines, Pederson was baffled. The players on the field? They could only act on instinct—
Follow the ball.
Tear! The pocket collapsed.
Safety Corey Graham closed on Hunt from the left.
Defensive end Brandon Graham burst through the middle.
Both Grahams locked onto Hunt.
He looked like a rabbit caught in a trap—white jerseys closing in from ahead and the side.
Hunt's feet faltered. He zigged and zagged. Lost.
Brandon Graham smiled. He stepped in for the kill.
But then—he saw Hunt grin.
A sly smile.
What…?
No time to think.
Hunt turned and pitched the ball again, this time diagonally right and back.
Wait—was the ball going back to Smith?
In football, only one forward pass is allowed. But lateral or backward passes? You can do them as many times as you want.
Pederson gasped: a trick play!
The same trick that had won the game against the Titans.
But!
No time to react—he watched helplessly as a figure darted from the right, took the ball cleanly in stride—
Lance.
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Powerstones?
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