Blitz!
The moment the ball was snapped, the Baltimore Ravens' defense launched an all-out six-man blitz without warning.
Only one middle linebacker stayed back to shadow Lance—
Mosley.
All other linebackers joined the defensive line, using twists and stunts in a chaotic but coordinated assault. With sheer numbers, they tore open Kansas City's pocket like a swarm of locusts ripping through a field—aggressive, sudden, and clearly premeditated.
Rip!
The pocket collapsed. Black jerseys closed in from all directions. Mahomes was under siege.
Now what?
Even if Marrone hadn't predicted Harbaugh's exact move, he was certainly prepared. He wasn't surprised.
Mahomes backpedaled.
Straight ahead—pitch black. Smoke everywhere. No chance to read the defense or find a receiver. A half-second too slow and he'd be swallowed whole.
But Mahomes didn't panic.
He spun and, without hesitation, handed the ball off to Lance. The motion was smooth. Clean. Confident.
A run play?
Baltimore was blitzing. Kansas City responded with a run up the middle.
The Ravens' defense adjusted quickly, redirecting their attack toward Lance—whether it was Mahomes or Lance holding the ball didn't matter. Either way, the locusts swarmed. Neither would be spared.
But—
Something felt off.
After taking the ball, Lance didn't act like a running back. He didn't cut upfield. Instead, he moved sideways.
Mahomes did the same.
They mirrored each other's steps—like synchronized short-track speed skaters. It became impossible to tell who had the ball.
Then—suddenly—they split.
One left. One right.
Blink and you'd miss it—realization struck a beat too late:
Mahomes still had the ball.
He'd faked the handoff from start to finish.
Lance was bait. Drawing the blitz toward him. Giving Mahomes precious seconds for a second read.
Play-action.
One word: Speed.
It was the perfect counter to Baltimore's ferocity. In that chaos, Mahomes carved out just enough breathing room.
He planted, ready to throw.
Now, a short pass here would be completely different from the earlier ones. Baltimore's defense had sold out on the blitz—leaving their secondary in one-on-one coverage. If a pass connected, the Chiefs' receivers would have room to run.
The Ravens' elite front adjusted quickly. They hit their third reactions in an instant—pivoting, stopping, and turning like dancers in a waltz—eyes closed, holding their breath, bodies tight. They lunged for Mahomes once more.
Close combat.
Clash imminent.
Two defenders surged straight ahead. Arms high, waving like windshield wipers—trying to block his view, ready to swat the pass.
Mahomes hesitated.
Then pulled the ball back.
He spun and lofted a gentle toss behind him—
The stadium froze.
Even the commentators—Nantz and Romo—were speechless.
The football danced like a playful sprite, bouncing into Lance's waiting arms.
Number 23 had slipped outside the pocket.
And ahead of him—
Wide open space.
Crap!
The Ravens' defense hit the panic button. They had sold out on the blitz and were now being toyed with. They'd overcommitted—and now couldn't catch up with the pace of the Chiefs' counter.
They couldn't react in time for a fourth adjustment.
Except—
Mosley: Watch me.
He had never taken his eyes off Lance. Locked in like a predator.
No matter how dizzying the fake, no matter how well Lance and Mahomes played their parts—Mosley stayed glued to Lance.
Step forward. Cut. Leap.
In one fluid motion, Mosley closed the gap. Number 23 was right in front of him.
Mosley: "Heh. Kid, if I knocked you down once, I can do it again. Sorry if I hit a little hard. Just hang in there."
Closer.
And closer still.
Then—Mosley realized something was wrong.
Lance… wasn't moving.
Normally, a ball-carrier would push forward—cut, accelerate, find an opening.
But Lance wasn't.
He was still.
Which meant… Mosley was the only one closing the distance.
Wait. What does that mean?
"Heh."
Under the helmet, Lance smirked.
Mosley's heart dropped—
A sudden thud in his chest. Crap. Is this… what a heart skip feels like?
Lance flicked his right wrist. The football flew.
What?!
Mosley froze.
He slammed the brakes and tried to stand upright, hands outstretched to deflect the throw. But it was too late. His momentum couldn't shift from lateral movement to vertical jump in time.
He stalled.
And stood there, helpless, as the ball soared over his head.
—Kelce.
Behind Mosley, Kelce had already shaken off Humphrey. The defender had guessed wrong—he'd expected a deep shot from Mahomes and had left Kelce behind.
Now Kelce was wide open.
Easy catch. And more yardage to boot.
Trick play. Kansas City had pulled a signature "Chiefs Special" without warning—using finesse to break Baltimore's power play. Harbaugh's bold gamble had opened the window for Kansas City's counterattack.
Kelce kept running.
Luckily for Baltimore, Humphrey recovered fast and got help from a teammate. The two of them forced Kelce out of bounds before he could do more damage.
Even so—
13-yard gain. First down.
An emphatic answer to Baltimore's earlier taunt.
The game wasn't over.
The Chiefs weren't backing down.
To be precise—they came here to win.
Roll!
Arrowhead Stadium erupted again. The crowd surged back to life.
Kansas City's most diehard fans had climbed back from despair—on the back of one perfect, signature play.
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Powerstones?
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