One-yard push!
Faced with fourth-and-one, the Kansas City Chiefs lined up in a shotgun formation, seemingly ready to risk it all with a pass. But it was all just smoke and mirrors. In the end, they chose the most conservative, simple, and safest route—a ground push to force their way forward through brute strength.
Baltimore Ravens' defense: Perfect. Just what we expected.
Mosley couldn't hide his grin. Harbaugh had prepared for exactly this from Reid—and more specifically, from Lance. Now that Lance had stepped in as the lead blocker, it made the defense's job harder, but not chaotic. The Ravens didn't panic.
Plant, step, launch—Mosley threw his body into it without holding anything back.
When defending a one-yard push, you can't hesitate. You commit fully.
But just as he stepped forward, something struck Mosley as odd.
Where was everyone?
In a typical one-yard push, it's a melee at the line of scrimmage, every body packed in tight trying to grind out the distance. Pure power against power—numbers win.
But... the Chiefs' line looked thin. Not crowded at all.
In that moment of chaos, a chilling premonition flashed through Mosley's mind.
Over there—Mahomes moved slyly, smoothly faking a handoff and shoving the ball into Hunt's arms, but never actually letting go.
He spun—eyes scanning the opposite side—and finally extended his right arm.
The ball was finally handed off, tucked into Lance's grip.
Brazen. Insane.
Right after Lance had fumbled on the previous drive, Reid handed him the ball again.
Staring down his demons.
This time, Reid had outmaneuvered Harbaugh.
Spin, adjust, move sideways—
Lance and Mahomes ran together like a pair of synchronized dancers. Even after handing off the ball, Mahomes didn't retreat. He shadowed Lance, step for step, on guard and ready to block.
Just as Urban broke through on defense, Mahomes tensed, bracing to engage—
And the Chiefs' offensive line stepped up.
They held Urban back—just for a moment.
That was all it took.
Mahomes and Lance slipped past the chaos at the line, crossed the scrimmage line, and surged forward together.
One yard—secured.
No hit. No resistance. Not even suspicion.
The Chiefs had stolen a yard from the Baltimore Ravens.
"Custom Chiefs Special" — once again.
They got the first down, but Mahomes and Lance didn't stop—they kept charging forward.
Just ahead—Suggs appeared.
Suggs couldn't believe what he was seeing: They'd all been fooled. Damn it!
Just a moment ago, they'd been smirking, thinking they'd taught Lance a lesson after his fumble.
Now, they couldn't even touch him. The defense was collapsing—and the shame was driving Suggs mad.
Grinding his teeth, Suggs went all in. His eyes burned as he locked onto Lance, charging like a beast down a mountain.
But—
BAM!
Just as he launched, Suggs was blindsided—smashed hard in the shoulder from below. Lance was still two strides away, untouchable.
"Shit. That quarterback…"
The thought flashed through Suggs' mind before the world flipped upside down.
He couldn't process it: The quarterback had become the lead blocker. What the hell?
Worse—his desperate lunge had been flattened like nothing. His body spun like a ballerina.
Utterly humiliated.
Mahomes didn't care. He had no time for Suggs' broken pride.
He unleashed everything from his core, flattening Suggs—and kept his eyes locked on Lance.
Run, rookie! Run!
Urban: Gone.
Suggs: Gone.
Mosley: No such person.
The entire right side of the field had cleared out.
Tap. Tap.
Five yards.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ten yards.
Lance's speed exploded. In the blink of an eye, the red blur streaked past the Ravens' 40-yard line—
Charging full steam ahead.
Cornerback Humphrey: Shit.
The moment Humphrey realized Kelsey's route was a fake—just a few strides forward then pulling back—his inner alarms screamed.
But he hadn't expected Lance's acceleration to be this fast.
He tore through untouched. The Ravens defense hadn't even brushed his jersey. If Lance hit top speed, there'd be no catching him.
Humphrey faked a retreat—Kelsey followed instinctively—then cut back in hard.
Kelsey: ??? What just happened?
Humphrey knew—by the book, he should drop back and cut off Lance.
But against Lance? It wasn't that simple.
So he flipped the script—gave up trying to stop him at the 35, and ran ahead to the 25 instead, lying in wait.
Sacrifice. Patience. No greed. That's how you snare prey—especially a predator like Lance.
Humphrey's gamble worked—Kelsey was out of the way.
Lance was accelerating. Humphrey accelerated too. He arrived just ahead, near the 25, and turned into a collision path.
He bent his knees, lowered his center of gravity, and braced.
Closing in.
Getting closer.
Like a train, full speed ahead.
But—
Lance didn't slow down. At the last second, he cut right, forcing Humphrey to shift slightly left—
Then spun.
A full 360-degree spin, chest-to-chest, brushing past Humphrey—who was now one step behind.
Humphrey became a statue, watching Lance curve around him.
So close. Just inches away. But too late.
The world slowed to a crawl.
Humphrey could see his arms reaching, trying to wrap Lance up—but they were too slow by a fraction.
Just a fraction of a second.
He pivoted, stepped, twisted—but the red figure danced ahead, always just out of reach.
When his balance returned, Lance had already pulled away.
Top speed. Unleashed. Gone.
Humphrey held his breath and gave chase, exploding forward—but his steps faltered. His footing was unsteady.
From start to finish, he hadn't even managed to touch Lance's jersey.
He watched the number 23 fade into the distance.
Further and further.
Hopeless.
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Powerstones?
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