The entire stadium roared with celebration, a rolling wave of heat and noise.
Yet—
Nick Foles seemed like an outsider, curled into a tiny ball on the grass, hugging his knees tightly, drowning in regret and despair.
If only he had completed that final connection.
If only he hadn't stubbornly challenged Lance Reavis.
If only they had chosen the "Philly Special"…
Would the result have been different?
Countless "ifs" filled his mind, swelling until it felt like his head would explode.
Foles knew he wasn't a genius; otherwise, he wouldn't have spent so many years struggling in the league. Last year, he had seriously considered retiring—maybe becoming a real estate agent.
But this year, everything had finally clicked: the coach, the teammates, his form. All the gears aligned perfectly, his confidence soaring until it peaked at the Super Bowl.
Everything was perfect.
And yet—
Just one more step, one tiny step short, he fell at the finish line. All lost.
Maybe this had been his only chance, his last chance. And he missed it.
Next season, his fate was no longer in his hands.
He had believed he might still fight for it. Now, not even that seemed possible.
It wasn't just the Super Bowl championship that slipped away—his entire career now hung in limbo.
After burning everything, after giving it his all, there was nothing left but a deep, hollow void.
A free fall into endless darkness.
Confusion. Bitterness. Helplessness.
Foles' world was frozen.
Until—
"Congratulations."
Through the clamor and chaos, a voice reached him. A shadow fell across the field. Foles lifted his head in a daze—and saw Lance.
Smiling warmly, poised and open, without the slightest trace of arrogance.
That posture, that presence—it cut through the gloom and let a ray of sunlight break through.
Then Lance extended his hand.
Foles blinked, instinctively reaching out. Lance pulled him up. His mind was still a mess. He didn't even know what was happening.
Other Eagles players had also noticed, casting their gaze toward them.
If memory served right, this was probably the first time Lance ever approached an opponent after a game. He hadn't even acknowledged Brady before—but today, he came to Foles.
Brady had questioned his defeat.
But Foles—Foles earned this respect.
Everyone watching this game, anyone who lived through it, could feel it: the battle had spilled beyond the field, vibrating into their hearts.
"Congratulations," Lance repeated.
"That was an incredible game. My God, we fought till the last second, gave it everything we had. My knees are still shaking even now. It was a hell of a fight."
Foles blinked, glancing instinctively at Lance's knees.
Lance teased, "You can probably see the struggle all over me."
Foles couldn't help but laugh, nodding, "It's obvious."
Lance tucked his grin back in, his voice turning serious as he looked Foles straight in the eye:
"It was an honor to fight against you tonight."
Foles felt a heavy thud in his chest.
Lance continued:
"Everyone says we're just a flash in the pan—bright for a season, then gone. That next year, we'll vanish without a trace."
"But that's not for them to decide, is it?"
"Last time, I made a promise to Carson: to meet again on the field for a real battle. It didn't happen. But tonight, we fought, we gave everything, and there's no regret."
"So can I look forward to seeing the Eagles again?"
Next season?
Foles' thoughts drifted like tea leaves swirling in hot water:
Maybe it would be Wentz leading the Eagles next time.
Maybe it would still be him.
No one could say.
Clearly, Lance was well aware of all the rumors—but his words were not just encouragement, they were a challenge too. An invitation: let's both grow, let's prove ourselves, let's meet again.
In that moment, Foles' heart roared.
Maybe they'd have to keep proving themselves. Maybe controversies and obstacles would haunt them forever.
So what?
That's what competition was. That's what life was.
One mountain after another, waiting to be climbed. When there seemed to be no way forward, there was always a hidden path beyond the darkness.
Just like this entire season—his persistence had brought him to the Super Bowl stage.
Just like tonight—through persistence, they had fought the greatest battle in Super Bowl history.
And Lance's persistence had changed everything at the very last second.
Maybe no one understood Foles better than Lance at this very moment.
So—
Foles straightened his back, rekindling a faint fire of confidence in his eyes, and smiled.
"I have no confidence," he said, "but we will meet again."
One second. Two seconds.
Then Lance burst out laughing.
They shook hands again, firmly.
A handshake fueled by soul-deep determination, burning hot.
"Lance! Lance!"
A shout came from behind.
Lance turned—there were Mahomes, Kelce, and the others, jumping and waving toward the players' tunnel where a crowd was gathering.
Families of the championship team were entering.
Staff members were streaming in.
The whole stadium was transforming into Chiefs' territory—the start of the victory party.
Lance's heart lifted.
He turned back to Foles and shouted:
"Until next time!"
Foles, his gloom swept away, shouted back:
"Until next time!"
This time, Lance didn't turn around—he just waved casually, leaving behind a brisk, confident back view as he trotted toward Kelce and the others.
The Chiefs players erupted into another round of wild cheers.
The atmosphere—utterly joyous.
Foles lowered his gaze—and caught another.
Across the field, Carson Wentz stood, smiling warmly, meeting Foles' eyes without a hint of awkwardness.
Foles didn't look away.
He lifted his chin.
Smiled back.
Super Bowl LII had ended.
But their battle was only just beginning.
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Powerstones?
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