Choking on a mistake.
Anyone with common sense knows not to let a single failure paralyze them.
And yet, reality often isn't so rational. A critical error can make people timid, afraid of repeating the same misstep—and in that fear, they lose the courage to break through.
But: no destruction, no creation.
Only by confronting their flaws and embracing the risks can one learn, grow, and evolve from mistake after mistake.
No one is perfect. No one is immune to errors. In sports especially, even the greatest legends are still human—they, too, make mistakes.
To imagine otherwise is foolish.
Mistakes. Failures. They're terrible—but not terrifying. The fear of repeating them is what truly holds people back.
Breaking through that fear takes guts—and grit.
Clearly, Mahomes was trying.
And once again… he threw an interception.
But Lance wasn't worried. Quite the opposite. In the last game, Mahomes had made a reckless decision that led to an interception and doubted himself afterward. Yet here, in another crucial moment, Mahomes didn't hesitate. He took the risk again.
That—that is what true heroism looks like.
Lance gave Mahomes a big thumbs-up, cheering his friend on.
Mahomes was dumbfounded—
Interception? Thumbs-up?
Seriously?
Just a second ago, he was kicking himself over the pick.
Quarterbacks are like goalkeepers. A goalie can make three or five brilliant saves and still get crucified for one mistake that costs the game. A QB is no different—no number of touchdowns can erase the shadow of an interception, especially one that defines the game.
And now it was back-to-back games with picks.
Meanwhile, Lance was still shining, carrying the "Twin Stars of Kansas City" into the new season.
And here Mahomes was, floundering again.
Then he saw Lance's big grin and that raised thumb, and it was so absurd, so jarringly offbeat… Mahomes couldn't help but smile.
And then—everyone else on the offense joined in. Thumbs up all around.
When Kelce walked over, he glanced around in confusion, looked at his own thumb, and asked, "Are we doing ET now? I thought aliens used their index fingers?"
The whole group burst out laughing.
The scene was oddly warm, oddly strange.
By all logic, things should've been tense.
Cincinnati had finally snapped awake in the second half, firing on both ends. They looked like the team that had gone 4–2 to start the season, forcing the Chiefs into mistakes. The gap was still large, but suspense had returned.
Arrowhead should've been buzzing with anxiety.
Instead—it was chill. Light-hearted. Almost cheerful.
Lewis: …What is wrong with you people?
Were the Chiefs mocking the Bengals? Laughing at their desperate struggle?
Lewis was furious—his jaw clenched so tight he almost cracked a tooth.
He felt utterly humiliated.
Across the field, it was plain to see.
Chiefs players coming off the field gave each other casual high-fives. Joking, relaxed, not the least bit rattled by the Bengals' resurgence. As if they didn't see Cincinnati as a threat at all.
Thud. Thud-thud.
Lewis's temple throbbed. His chest burned with rage.
He turned to Dalton.
The opportunity had come. If they could capitalize on this turnover, score a touchdown—
"14:31."
Just a 17-point gap. Three possessions. A full quarter and a half to go. The Bengals had a real shot at flipping the script.
And if they did, it would be historic—one of the greatest comebacks in NFL history. A triumph that would silence doubters and elevate the team to legendary status.
Lewis trembled just imagining it.
This was the moment he'd been waiting for.
Lewis: Ha! You all thought the Bengals were broken in the first half? This was all part of my plan. A smokescreen. A chess match. I was just waiting to make history. None of you mere mortals can understand me.
Then—
"Interception!"
A thunderclap.
Lewis was yanked from his daydream in total shock, heart racing. He blinked wildly, trying to focus, trying to confirm what he'd just heard.
Wait. What?
"Interception!"
Arrowhead erupted like a volcano.
Lewis felt his heart plummet. Through the chaos, he found clarity.
—Interception.
This time, Dalton wasn't at fault.
Receiver Tyler Boyd was too eager. He saw Chiefs corner Fowler closing fast, and tried to catch and pivot in one motion—before he even had control of the ball.
His brain moved faster than his body. The ball slipped free.
Fowler didn't even need to try. Just a light jab from underneath, and the ball popped loose—right into his hands.
Boyd: Shocked.
Lewis: Stunned.
It happened so fast—no one saw it coming.
Not even Fowler.
Fowler: That's it?
He barely had to do anything. It was instinctive—just a monkey-snatch—and suddenly he had the ball.
He didn't even need to turn around. Just pivoted 30 degrees and saw an open half-field ahead.
He planted his foot—and took off. Boyd couldn't keep up.
Before the Bengals could even react, Fowler was sprinting away.
Lewis: Stop him!
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Powerstones?
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