Damn!
The moment Humphrey realized that Mahomes had successfully linked up with Lance amid the chaos, he knew the defense was in serious trouble—
Because he knew what Lance was capable of. You could never let your guard down.
Without hesitation, Humphrey broke off to pursue.
But Kelce cut him off, trying to block his path.
Collision. Grapple. Shove.
Humphrey didn't waste time. He didn't get tangled up with Kelce—just used his footwork to weave past the bulky tight end and break free. The field opened up before him—but so had Lance.
Plant, burst, contact.
Humphrey played it smart. He didn't dive for a tackle or try to end it in one go. He pressed in close, staying hip-to-hip, using his body weight to keep pushing—
The goal? Break Lance's speed and rhythm. Knock him out of bounds.
You had to be patient with Lance. Focused. Calm. That's how you show respect: by giving your all.
He got close.
One shove.
Then another.
They clashed like bumper cars at the sideline. Lance had just started accelerating, only to get caught in the swirl.
And then—
Lance slammed the brakes.
No warning. In the middle of the physical mess, he stopped cold. Sudden. Sharp. Disruptive.
Humphrey's third push went wide. Off-balance, he tensed every muscle to keep from falling out of bounds. He had no other choice—he had to wrap Lance up and drag him with him.
But—
A hand slammed between them.
Lance's left hand, planted on Humphrey's right shoulder. Even before contact, Humphrey sensed something was wrong. He held his breath, but his forward momentum couldn't stop in time.
Boom.
A grunt. Lance's left hand exploded with force—like a crashing wave.
Humphrey's footing was already unsteady, and Lance sent him flying.
Out of bounds. Off balance. Disoriented.
Still, even in that chaos, Humphrey managed to grab a bit of Lance's jersey. Just a tug. Not enough to stop him, but enough to nudge him toward the sideline.
—Danger.
Lance watched the white sideline rush up like a cliff edge.
He skidded, wobbled, kept going.
Tiptoe. Push.
Jump. Sway.
He couldn't unleash his full speed now. It was like walking a tightrope in a hurricane. The rope shook violently, and Lance's balance teetered. He twisted and swayed, barely holding on.
His footwork danced—like a blade on edge. Death-defying. Barely staying up.
Ten yards.
He'd burst ten yards past the line of scrimmage. Deep into Baltimore's red zone.
Surrounded again—but still on his feet.
And somehow—still speeding up. Twenty-yard line, gone.
Tap tap. Tap tap.
Like he was sprinting across water, riding the waves. A second's hesitation would get him swallowed whole—but Lance moved like he had wings on his cleats.
Fifteen-yard line. Jefferson appeared.
But Lance didn't slow.
He accelerated again—somehow. A blur, slipping past Jefferson's hit zone. Too fast.
Jefferson was late by a quarter-second. Barely anything.
He brushed Lance's back. Felt the jersey's fabric. But he whiffed.
He stumbled, spun out.
Ten-yard line. Now Windell stepped up.
Veteran safety. Calm, despite the crisis. He didn't gamble—he mimicked Humphrey.
Got close. Planned to use force to push Lance out. Lance was near the sideline anyway—should be easy.
Step up.
Contact.
Windell: "Ugh—"
He didn't expect it.
Lance struck first. Left arm extended—
Stiff-arm block.
Before Windell could brace, Lance's left hand pressed against his shoulder. They stalled—briefly.
But Lance's footing was off, his balance fragile. The block wasn't clean—it was more like a weak shove.
Did Lance misjudge it?
No. He knew.
The block was just a stepping stone.
As Windell reflexively leaned in, Lance bent his elbow and closed in. Denied Windell any leverage. Shoulder to shoulder, he used Windell's body for momentum—
Spin.
360 clockwise. Right up against Windell's chest. A seamless switch.
Next second—
Lance was in front. Windell behind. Positions reversed.
"A Marseille Turn!"
Sudden shouts erupted in the stands. Nance leapt up, eyes locked on the No. 23 jersey now in full God Mode.
Windell realized the trick too late. He spun around, hands out, grabbing for Lance's shoulders—
Got him!
Gritting his teeth, Windell braced.
But—
Lance was already slipping away, like water through his fingers. Accelerating again.
Windell was left grasping air.
Damn.
Lance launched forward. In what felt like two steps, he hit the five-yard line.
Windell chased reflexively—but couldn't keep up. His body tilted, lost rhythm. He reached for a fading red blur.
He tripped—face first.
His vision spun. Green everywhere. Dirt in his mouth. The only thing he saw was Lance's cleats pulling away.
Farther. Farther.
He looked up, dizzy.
And saw that towering figure—No. 23—stampeding into the end zone like a conquering king.
Five-yard line.
Goal line.
End zone.
Lance stood tall. Alone. Dominant. Roaring like a god ascending his throne.
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Powerstones?
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