American Football: Domination

Mack widened his eyes in disbelief. Step by step, he had shadowed Lance, carefully mirroring his every move. Yet, against all his meticulous effort, Lance had led him straight into a trap—and buried him there.

Mack tried to stretch his right hand to grab Lance, but his rigid muscles locked him in place. The calm composure he had maintained a moment earlier disintegrated. As panic set in, he desperately twisted his upper body, attempting to match Lance's movements. Instead, he flailed about awkwardly, like R2-D2 malfunctioning in Star Wars.

Twist. Turn.

His body failed to keep up with his brain. The next moment, Mack found himself falling backward, flat onto the turf.

Flat on his back.

Humiliation. Utter humiliation.

As Mack tumbled onto the ground, his world turned upside down. Even then, his eyes remained fixed on Lance, hoping to catch a glimpse of that smug grin beneath the helmet. But all he saw was the number "23" retreating into the distance.

"Lance!"

"Lance just faked Mack out of his cleats! The reigning Defensive Player of the Year looked like a traffic cone out there—completely fooled by Lance's deceptive moves!"

"Wow!"

"But Lance isn't done yet!"

"Kerry and Bowman are closing in for a pincer attack!"

Lance didn't have time to spare for the fallen Mack. While Mack's relentless pursuit had earned the Raiders precious seconds, the cavalry was closing in. The open lane ahead was shrinking with every heartbeat.

No time to lose.

Plant. Step. Accelerate.

With just two strides, Lance transitioned as smoothly as a sprinter rounding the curve onto the straightaway. His pace exploded.

On his right: cornerback Kerry.

On his left: linebacker Bowman.

The pincer was closing in.

Without hesitation, Lance veered toward the right, directly into Kerry's path.

Kerry: ???

Unlike Bowman, Kerry lacked the same level of experience. Reacting instinctively, he charged in to block Lance head-on.

Lance didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, shoulder first, and collided with Kerry.

Kerry felt the impact like a sledgehammer. His chest tightened, and his breath caught in his throat. He tried to wrap his arms around Lance for a tackle, but his limbs felt like overcooked noodles—limp and useless. All he could do was watch helplessly as Lance powered past him.

Struggling to give chase, Kerry's vision blurred. His legs refused to cooperate, and he stumbled, falling farther and farther behind.

What's happening? Why does it feel like I want to cry?

Lance, however, was already moving on.

The collision with Kerry had served its purpose. Using the rebound for momentum, Lance adjusted his trajectory and cut back along the sideline.

"Wow! What an adjustment!"

"With a calculated hit, Lance neutralized Kerry, evaded Bowman, and reclaimed the sideline—the route he knows best!"

Five yards.

The Chiefs had secured a fresh set of downs, entering the red zone.

From here, it was a pure race of speed and determination.

Lance and Bowman sprinted side by side along the sideline. Bowman, leveraging his veteran instincts, angled inward to cut off Lance's path to the end zone. Meanwhile, Lance pushed his body to its absolute limit, attempting to outrun the seasoned linebacker.

Ten yards.

Bowman gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of energy into his stride. Though Lance had youth and speed on his side, Bowman relied on experience, positioning himself perfectly to deliver the decisive blow.

Closer. Closer.

Just as Bowman stretched out his hand to grab Lance, the rookie found another gear.

A sudden burst of speed.

Bowman lunged but came up empty, clutching at thin air as Lance surged forward. His fingers brushed against nothing but a fleeting blur.

Ahead, the end zone loomed.

"Touchdown!"

"Lance just powered through! Bowman's diving tackle came a moment too late, and Lance crossed the goal line along the sideline!"

"Touchdown! Without a doubt—Touchdown!"

"Wow!"

"On 3rd and 5, the Chiefs delivered a dazzling play. The Raiders' defense had no answer, despite Mack and Bowman's valiant efforts. Lance came out on top yet again."

"Faking Mack out of his shoes, breaking through Kerry's tackle, and outpacing Bowman—Lance turned this play into an unforgettable highlight. He wasn't just running for yards; he was running to dominate."

Salt in the wound.

The Raiders' defense had finally begun to find their rhythm. They had started building momentum, only for Lance to dismantle it completely.

"It's unbelievable. Truly unbelievable!"

"Few could have predicted this outcome. Just six weeks ago, the Raiders handed the Chiefs a heartbreaking loss and seemed poised to ascend. Meanwhile, Kansas City spiraled into a six-game losing streak, plunging into despair."

"But that's the magic of divisional rivalries."

"You can never underestimate the energy and determination these games bring out in the Chiefs and the Raiders."

As Lance crossed into the end zone, the aftermath of his run left a trail of destruction.

Mack? Flattened.

Kerry? Collapsed.

Bowman? Flung out of bounds.

Behind Lance, the field looked like a battlefield.

"Who could've foreseen this turn of events? Six weeks ago, the Raiders celebrated victory over the Chiefs, only to see their fortunes reversed here. Kansas City is staging a powerful comeback, fueled by vengeance and determination."

"Fly! Fly! Fly!"

The chants echoed through Arrowhead Stadium as fans erupted into a frenzy. Thousands of fists pumped into the air as the sea of red bounced and swayed in euphoria.

At the Old Oak Tavern, the celebrations mirrored the stadium's energy.

Provos was the first to leap from his seat, arms raised high in the touchdown signal, tears of joy welling in his eyes.

Watching from the bar, West couldn't help but reflect. For weeks, Provos had been a shadow of his former self, weighed down by the Chiefs' slump.

Yet here he was, alive with hope and passion once more.

Sometimes, life felt like a dead end, with no escape. But if you held on just a little longer—just a moment more—things could change.

Even standing in the mud, you could still lift your gaze to the stars.

On the screen, the crimson waves of Arrowhead roared.

"Fly!"

Provos shouted louder than anyone, his voice hoarse but unyielding.

Because as long as that number "23" was on the field, he knew the fight wasn't over.

And neither was their journey.

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Powerstones?

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