American Football: Domination

"22:27." 

If Lance's touchdown stands, adding six points, the Chiefs will take a five-point lead, but the game will still have the potential for a comeback. 

Choosing a one-point conversion would make it a six-point lead; a two-point conversion would make it seven; failing the attempt keeps the lead at five. 

In other words, no matter what the Chiefs try, the Titans could still win with one possession. 

Though Mariota's "Hail Mary" attempt remains a long shot, the safest strategy is to deny the Titans' offense another chance and end the game with the Chiefs in possession. This makes the decision to attempt a two-point conversion a logical one. 

Seven seconds. 

Seven seconds remain in the game. 

"...After reviewing the play, the ruling on the field stands. Touchdown, Kansas City Chiefs, number 23..." 

Boom! 

After holding their breath for so long, after all the tension and uncertainty, Arrowhead Stadium erupts in thunderous celebration. 

But— 

The Chiefs have no time to celebrate. The offense stays on the field, and Smith signals to the referee that they will attempt the two-point conversion. 

Then, Smith gathers his teammates into a huddle. 

Smith lifts his head and instinctively glances at Lance. 

Lance is drenched in sweat, waves of heat rising inside his helmet, yet his eyes remain bright, showing no sign of exhaustion. 

Smith hesitates. "Rookie, how are you holding up?" 

"For seven seconds? I can barely manage. But if it's eight seconds..." Lance spreads his hands, feigning helplessness. 

"Haha." 

Laughter spreads through the huddle, easing the tension. 

Smith smirks but doesn't fully smile. "The rookie's right. Seven seconds. That's all we need to hold on." 

"Hey, guys, the finish line is right in front of us." 

Smith extends his right hand and looks at Lance. 

Lance's smile fully blossoms. "Remember? Fight to the end." 

Lance places his hand atop Smith's, then Kelce, then Hill, one after another until all eleven hands are stacked together. 

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" 

The Chiefs' offense lines up. They're ready. 

In truth, the Chiefs don't even need to convert. They just need to run out the clock. 

So the focus isn't on scoring—it's on ball security. 

If the Chiefs fumble, like Henry did earlier, it would give the Titans a last-gasp chance. That would be a nightmare. 

Reid decides to put the ball in Lance's hands. 

A running back is the best choice for ball security. 

Reid is aware of Lance's fatigue and briefly considers sending in Hunt to protect the ball instead. After all, the Titans know the ball will go to the running back, making him the prime target. The pressure will be immense. 

But the thought passes quickly. 

Reid trusts Lance. 

From the very beginning, he chose Lance because of his composure in high-pressure situations. 

Tension fills the air. 

The Titans know their chances are slim, yet their defense explodes with an all-or-nothing fury, throwing everything they have at the Chiefs. The line of scrimmage tightens like a coiled spring, suffocating. 

Until— 

"Set! Hike!" 

Smith's command shatters the tension, and in the next instant, the two teams crash into each other like tidal waves. 

As expected, Smith quickly hands the ball to Lance. 

Chaos erupts. 

The Titans' defensive front unleashes every ounce of energy, with Orakpo, Williamson, and Byard all charging in at full speed. 

They have nothing left to lose. Their only option is to go all out. 

Despite the Chiefs' offensive line bracing for impact, the Titans' sheer aggression forces cracks in their protection. 

The pocket collapses. 

Orakpo immediately locks onto Lance— 

Target acquired. 

Full speed ahead. 

In Orakpo's mind, even if they lose, he will make sure the rookie pays for it. 

But wait— 

Something's off. 

Lance, standing in the pocket, isn't making his usual move to break free. He isn't dodging or dancing to waste time. 

He's reading the defense, adjusting his footing. 

Like… a quarterback? 

What? 

Lance? A quarterback? 

Huh? 

Orakpo's mind short-circuits. Completely caught off guard, he sees Lance raise his right arm into a throwing motion. 

What? What?! 

The Titans had blitzed with everything, leaving their secondary exposed. 

Short pass coverage? 

Wide open. 

Underneath zones? 

Empty. 

It's a trap! 

Orakpo suddenly realizes—Lance is grinning inside his helmet. 

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it! 

Orakpo slams on the brakes and pivots, reacting instantly. Fueled by shame and rage, he won't let Lance get away with this. He rushes toward Kelce, who appears to be the target. 

He has no idea when Lance learned to throw a football, but it doesn't matter—this pass will not succeed. 

"Huh? Wait..." 

"Lance? Passing?" 

"The Chiefs just ran a trick play! My God!" 

"Lance is looking for a target—Kelce?" 

"No! Orakpo is all over him!" 

"But!" 

"Oh! Whoa, whoa, whoa!" 

"Was that a fake pass? A read-option? I—I don't know! Because Lance didn't give up on passing—he just decided to run!" 

"My God!" 

"Lance just fooled the entire Titans defense!" 

Plant. Push. 

Lance explodes forward through the slot, taking advantage of Orakpo's shift toward Kelce. 

It's not a big opening—but it's enough. 

Passing? 

Ha! Fooled you. It's still a run. 

Lance lowers his center of gravity and bulldozes forward, squeezing through the tight space. 

One step. 

Another! 

Ahhh! 

Power surges through him. 

Then— 

Like an avalanche, the Titans' defensive wall collapses, swept away in a sea of red. 

Lance, dragged by gravity, cradles the football tightly. His ears are filled with the deafening roar of the stadium. 

"Two-point conversion successful!" 

"The Chiefs just outsmarted the Titans' defense again, securing the two-point conversion while running out the clock!" 

"Game over! The game is over!" 

"Folks, the 2017 NFL Playoffs, AFC Wild Card Game One is in the books." 

"The winners: the Kansas City Chiefs!"

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Powerstones?

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