Lance held his breath—
In the dizzying whirlwind of the moment, he tracked the high-arcing parabola of the football as it sailed into Kelce's arms. Only when it landed safely did he finally exhale. He didn't even try to stand. Having shaken off Kendricks, Lance collapsed flat on his back, utterly drained, physically and spiritually emptied. Every ounce of effort expended. Every drop of willpower burned.
The long, bumpy, perilous season—had come to an end.
Victory.
Champions.
They did it. They actually did it.
Relief after complete exhaustion, the satisfaction of pushing beyond the limits—it bloomed inside him like fireworks, flooding his mind. The world spun wildly.
Then—
"We won."
Smith stood over him, sweat pouring, face flushed with disbelief and exhilaration. He'd stopped short, just barely restraining himself from tackling Lance in joy. But the emotions were too intense to contain.
"We won."
"We WON!"
Over and over again, the words stumbled out—trembling, choked, overwhelmed with emotion. Tears streamed down his face before he even realized.
"We actually won."
Lance slowly forced himself to his feet, facing Smith's teary, smiling face. Words weren't enough to capture the moment. So he punched his captain gently in the shoulder, gave him a hug, and grinned wide.
"I told you," he said. "No confidence. But we were going to win."
Smith couldn't help it—he laughed, a raw, open laugh. But the tears wouldn't stop. They poured like a snapped string of pearls. He tried to wipe them away but failed. Eventually, he gave up, arms wide, crying openly.
He'd waited for this moment far too long.
Once upon a time, he would daydream quietly—imagining what it might feel like to win a championship, pretending to lift the Lombardi Trophy while brushing his teeth. But over the years, even those dreams faded. He stopped allowing himself to hope—because hope led to pain.
And pain… he'd had enough of that.
But now.
Now, they'd climbed to the top. They'd made history.
Smith thought he'd be overjoyed—but instead, he felt wrecked, tears ripping through every wall as images from all those crushing seasons flashed before his eyes.
Then—
A roar, like a wave crashing ashore.
"Lance! Lance! Lance!"
"Champions! We're the CHAMPIONS!"
"You're a lunatic! A complete lunatic!"
Face after face, twisted in giddy joy. Bodies leaping. Arms flailing. They all surged toward Lance.
One after another. No space to breathe.
And then—
Someone barreled through, yelling, "MAKE WAY, MAKE WAY!" Spotting Lance through the chaos, the figure launched into a full-body collision. Chest-to-chest impact sent Lance stumbling back, knees buckling.
Kelce, ever alert, grabbed him before he could fall.
Laughter exploded around them. "Hey, Travis just knocked out our MVP!"
Kelce chuckled sheepishly, scratched his head—and spotted Smith sobbing nearby. "Lance, what'd you do to our captain?!"
Everyone turned to look.
Smith, caught in the moment, didn't flinch. He spread his arms wide, eyes red, face wet. "Hey—WE'RE THE CHAMPIONS!"
Instantly, the team erupted, fists pumping, jumping up and down.
"CHAMPIONS! CHAMPIONS! CHAMPIONS!"
…
Flight. Descent. The catch.
At Old Oak Tavern, not a single soul moved. Time had frozen.
The moment Kelce made the grab, the bar inhaled to cheer—but then Jenkins' tackle knocked the air right back out. Breathless. Speechless.
Until Kelce rose.
And then—it erupted.
AHHHHHHH!
Wester threw up his fists and screamed, brain blank, no thoughts—just pure, raw release.
He screamed at the screen.
He screamed at Anderson.
AHHHH!
The bar shook as the crowd leapt and roared, the energy volcanic. Words were useless.
Anderson, trembling, turned away—walked into the kitchen.
Lit a cigarette.
He couldn't help but think back to childhood, when he'd watched the Chiefs win their first Super Bowl with his family. He hadn't understood it then. Just cheered because everyone else did. He remembered his grandfather sobbing into his hands and wondering why.
Why would someone cry when they're so happy?
Half a century later, Anderson was now his grandfather's age. Watching a new miracle unfold.
But this time… his grandfather was gone. And his father, too—slipping into Alzheimer's.
But the Chiefs did it.
Despite everything. Against all odds. Despite doubt, despair, and darkness—they kept fighting. They kept believing.
Even when their own fans began to give up—when hope felt like a lie used to sell popcorn and dreams.
The Chiefs didn't quit.
They kept grinding. Kept dreaming. Kept living every moment to its fullest.
Because hope made life bearable.
Tomorrow morning, Anderson would tell his father. His father would be thrilled, even if he couldn't remember why. Even if the disease kept winning.
But it wouldn't win everything.
Anderson still believed—just like he believed in the Kansas City Chiefs.
Dawn would come again.
And the Old Oak Tavern would still be here.
The last miracle had lasted half a century. Maybe this one would last longer.
He wasn't greedy.
This… was enough.
He took a deep drag, savoring it. The bar behind him roared and shook with joy.
And Anderson—stood alone in quiet, with a full, peaceful heart.
A moment of purity. Of completeness.
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Powerstones?
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