"Stiff-arm block!"
"Lance! Lance just flattened Bentley with a stiff-arm block, regaining precious ground—unbelievable!"
"Lance is on the move again, still pushing forward!"
"McCourty and McCourty are closing in, the Patriots' twin brothers are trying to surround Lance!"
"Twenty-five-yard line!"
"Devin McCourty has cut off the lane—"
Straight ahead.
Patriots safety Devin McCourty had taken the ideal position, standing firm like an immovable wall blocking Lance's path; the other defenders on both flanks rapidly closed in to form a collapsing pocket.
Lance, nowhere to run.
A Deadlock.
Just like the entire game, every time Lance had possession, he was smothered by a multi-layered defense. His earlier bursts of brilliance had drained him; now, he was holding on by sheer willpower.
But that single breath of energy was enough.
Hyper-focused, every fiber of his body and soul burned like wildfire.
In a flash, Lance took in the collapsing blue wave before him—but rather than slowing down, he accelerated, surging forward with the momentum from his stiff-arm.
Lance and Devin McCourty closed in on each other like runaway trains, no hesitation, no pause—they collided near the twenty-yard line.
Devin braced himself, knees bent, core locked tight, ready for the hit—prepared for a bone-crunching impact.
But at the last split second, Lance spun away with a fluid, lightning-fast 360-degree turn.
Too fast. Too unexpected.
Devin couldn't react. A gust of wind slammed into his chest like a slap in the face, knocking him off balance.
From the corner of his eye, Devin caught the streak of white that was Lance, effortlessly gliding past like a phantom, leaving only a trailing echo of turbulence.
Damn it!
Lance had no time to care about Devin's crushed ego; he knew he was on the verge of collapse—drained, shaky, seconds from falling. He couldn't rely on brute strength—only cunning. The graver the danger, the calmer he became.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap.
His legs hammered the turf, shaking off Devin, and he surged straight ahead. But his depleted energy reserves meant he could barely maintain his speed, like a model held together by sheer momentum alone.
In his mind, only one thought remained:
Run.
Suddenly, Jason McCourty closed in from behind.
This time, Jason finally maximized his speed, sticking to Lance like glue.
Two figures, one blue, one white, sprinted neck and neck.
The end zone loomed ever closer.
Jason couldn't wait—he lunged, shoving and pulling at Lance, trying to break his balance.
Fifteen-yard line.
Lance's footing faltered, teetering on the verge of collapse, reduced to tapping the ground with his toes, pushing himself forward through sheer willpower.
Accelerate. Grit teeth.
Accelerate. Bite down harder.
Ten-yard line.
The end zone was within arm's reach.
Jason abandoned caution—he grabbed Lance's jersey, clawed at his helmet, yellow flag be damned. His sole mission was stopping Lance.
In that instant, Lance's body lifted off the ground—no traction left—but he leaned into it, hurling himself into Jason.
No strength left?
Then use body weight.
They collided, tangled, stumbled, whirling together in an awkward, chaotic spin.
Lance clenched his teeth, digging deep for one final surge from his core, shoulder driving forward, harnessing the last vestiges of energy and launching Jason skyward.
Jason flew.
Gasps filled the stadium.
Lance, momentarily free, staggered but adjusted his steps, fragile bones barely holding together as he reoriented toward the end zone.
Step.
Another step.
Lance leapt, soaring through the air, vaulting into the end zone like a pole vaulter chasing a world record.
For a fleeting second, time froze.
Bang.
Crash.
The broadcast booth erupted—mics, equipment scattered—but the roar of commentary drowned everything else out.
"Touchdown!"
"Touchdown, touchdown, touchdown!"
"Incredible! Absolutely incredible! Wow! What are we witnessing here?!"
"Oh my God!"
"From Mahomes to Lance, the Chiefs' offense delivers once again, under immense pressure from the Patriots, Mahomes creates space with nimble footwork and launches a 25-yard pass to Lance!"
"Perfect connection—a first down, a crucial third-down conversion!"
"But not just that."
"Despite relentless coverage all game, Lance finds the gap, burns every ounce of energy, and turns a third-down conversion into a touchdown pass!"
"Unbelievable!"
"Lance! Lance again! Always Lance! Of course, it's Lance!"
"Breaking through the Patriots' suffocating defense with sheer speed, strength, agility, and determination—this is elite-level football at its finest."
"Touchdown!"
"The Chiefs strike first in the fourth quarter, seizing the lead on the road with under five minutes left to secure their third straight win over the Patriots."
Thud.
Lance climbed to his feet, slamming the ball to the turf—no roar, no boastful yell—just a bloodied warrior, standing tall in the Patriots' end zone as the home crowd fell deathly silent.
Nightmare, revived.
That chilling, suffocating fear swept across the stadium—the ghosts of last season's two painful losses to the Chiefs gripped every Patriots fan's throat.
A shiver ran down their spines.
Then came an overwhelming, seething storm of boos and abuse, crashing down on the white-clad number 23.
Aaah! Aaah!
Mahomes clenched his fists, roaring with abandon, frustration and exhaustion erupting in a cathartic scream.
In his eyes burned an unyielding resolve:
"Let the storm rage on."
45:38.
The Chiefs break the fourth-quarter deadlock first.
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Powerstones?
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