"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere, he's the Edge Walker—Lance, Lance, Lance!"
The chant echoed across Arrowhead Stadium, a deafening roar that lingered in the air.
Up in the Chiefs' war room, Kansas City's General Manager Brett Veach stood with his arms crossed, quietly taking in the scene before him. His expression was contemplative, neither worried nor smug, as his thoughts drifted back to draft day.
He could still rember Andy Reid sitting in front of the monitor, replaying footage of Lance over and over again.
Reid's voice rang clear in his mind:
"Lance could be a once-in-a-decade talent. He could be the leader this team needs."
Veach had hesitated. He'd questioned. He'd paced back and forth, weighing his options. But in the end, he chose to trust Reid. He chose to gamble.
Now, as the chants of the fans reverberated through Arrowhead, Veach realized that Lance's Asian heritage and the potential expansion into the Asian market were just bonuses. Lance was worth it for his on-field talent alone.
This draft had been Veach's first as GM. It had been a trial by fire, and his bold moves had the potential to reshape not only his career but the NFL landscape itself.
And now, the entire league had their eyes on Lance—
Fans. Analysts. Scouts. Coaches. GMs. Experts.
And, of course, his opponents.
One of them, Solomon Thomas, sat on the turf like a discarded teddy bear, his shoulders slumped, his eyes hollow. Sha didn't even register. His mind was filled with confusion.
He couldn't fathom what had just happened. He'd read Lance's move perfectly, executed the tackle with precision, and had the clear physical advantage in size, weight, and strength.
Yet Lance had slipped through his grasp, leaving him flattened.
"Solomon… Solomon!"
A voice called out, snapping Thomas back to reality. The special teams unit was heading onto the field, and he needed to move.
Dazed and disoriented, Thomas shuffled off, removing his helt to let the cool air hit his face. As clarity returned, frustration bubbled to the surface.
"Damn it!"
Thomas spat the curse through clenched teeth. Far from discouraged, his competitive fire reignited. He glanced back across the field at the laughing and relaxed figure of Lance, clenching his fists.
Next ti. Next ti, I'll bring him down.
But today, that wish was unlikely to co true.
When the Chiefs' offense and the 49ers' defense returned to the field, Saleh finally managed to decipher one of Reid's plays, perfectly timing his call to stuff a rushing attempt.
A run up the middle.
The 49ers sniffed it out, and Lance was stopped before he could even build montum. Once again, Thomas was the first to break through the pocket.
If anything, Thomas had consistently proven he could beat his man off the line. But he struggled to convert that into aningful pressure or decisive plays.
This was his chance.
Thomas closed in, his stance low, cutting off Lance's escape route. The scene was set for a textbook tackle.
But then—
Lance didn't evade. He didn't pivot. He lowered his shoulders and charged straight into Thomas, his helt like the horns of a raging bull.
The impact was bone-jarring.
Thomas was caught completely off guard by Lance's sheer power—
Wasn't he supposed to lack strength?
Wasn't he supposed to struggle in head-on collisions?
Thrown off balance, Thomas was sent flying onto his back, landing flat on the turf.
Lance broke through.
Of course, the effort ca at a cost. Lance's balance wavered, and fatigue set in. After a few more yards, he was sward and brought down by a group of linebackers.
The gain? Five yards.
But the manner in which Lance achieved it—using brute force to bulldoze his way through Thomas—set Arrowhead Stadium ablaze. It was raw, it was gritty, and it embodied everything fans love about football.
In that sa drive, the Chiefs ate up five minutes and thirty-seven seconds of ga ti, capping it with another touchdown.
Thomas?
He was left staring at the turf, his confidence shattered. He couldn't tackle Lance. He couldn't stop him. He couldn't do anything.
Thomas felt like a training dummy—a re prop for Lance's highlight reel. He bore the brunt of the collisions, yet received none of the glory, his efforts lighting a fire that only fueled Lance's ascendancy.
Worse, the next ti Thomas lined up against Lance, his hesitation betrayed him. Not out of fear, but confusion—he simply didn't know how to counter Lance.
The result?
Lance executed a move reminiscent of a football-style Marseille turn, spinning past Thomas and surging ahead for a 23-yard gain. The 49ers' secondary needed three defenders to wrestle him down, preventing another touchdown by the slimst of margins.
Once again, Thomas was humiliated.
Back on the sidelines, Thomas was left questioning himself. Am I really that easy to take down?
anwhile, in the broadcast booth, the comntators barely ntioned him, just as they had overlooked him during the draft. Thomas had faded into the background, reduced to a nonentity.
Do I want them to acknowledge … or not?
Fortunately for Thomas, Lance's night ended early. After just one quarter, Lance removed his helt and pads, settling on the sidelines. Laughing and chatting with teammates, he radiated a carefree energy, as if he'd just enjoyed a casual day at the park.
Watching Lance's relaxed deanor, Thomas's teammates exhaled in relief. Lance's combination of speed and strength had left them gasping for air, but they were unsure—
Was Lance truly that good? Or was Thomas simply that bad?
Thomas: ???
Noticing the subtle glances from his teammates—glances that seed to say, "So that's the difference between a first-round pick and a third-rounder"—Thomas swallowed his bitterness. He glanced at Lance once more, sitting there effortlessly as if the NFL posed no challenge.
Thomas muttered under his breath, retreating to a quiet corner of the bench to nurse his bruised pride and scribble invisible curses.
Lance, just you wait. Go to hell, go to hell, go to hell.
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