Huff.
Ti seed to freeze for a fleeting second.
Jas Harrison lunged through the air—
Missed.
Malcolm Butler braked sharply, only to have his path blocked by Harrison mid-leap. Forced to adjust on the fly, Butler lost his footing and went down, sprawling across the field.
One flying high, one falling low, two blue jerseys collided and tumbled out of the play.
The roar of Gillette Stadium was cut off mid-cheer. Even gasps of shock didn't co imdiately. The scene was so shocking, so surreal, that the tens of thousands in attendance stared in stunned silence.
And Lance?
His feet stayed light and nimble, barely passing the 35-yard line.
Even after four consecutive cuts and dodges, Lance maintained his balance. Though his body was beginning to feel the burn—his lungs blazing like a furnace—his focus only sharpened. His eyes darted across the field, taking in every detail, scanning for the next challenge.
Who was next?
From the corner of his vision, Lance spotted the incoming storm.
On his right, chaos unfolded—a mass of white and blue jerseys clashing violently. Those who had been tied up monts before were now breaking free, scrambling to converge on him.
Leading the charge was Devin McCourty.
The safety deftly broke free of Tyreek Hill's block. With the precision of a heat-seeking missile, McCourty zeroed in on Lance, perfectly predicting his path.
Thud. Thud. Thud-thud.
Lance's steps echoed faintly in the chaos. His legs churned forward, but his chest heaved harder with each step. His oxygen was running out, his muscles screaming for relief.
Yet he didn't stop.
He couldn't afford to.
Lance had no ti to search for Chung, the other safety, who might be lurking out of sight. He had no choice but to act now.
Lance made his decision:
No dodging. No tricks. Go straight through.
Push off the ground. Drive forward. Full speed.
Two freight trains—one moving vertically, the other horizontally—hurtled toward the sa intersection.
Lance didn't flinch.
Instead, he made his move first.
He extended his right arm—his stiff arm—preparing for impact.
Smash!
The collision was seismic.
McCourty, who had braced himself for contact, staggered but managed to maintain his balance. Gritting his teeth, he surged forward, refusing to give up.
But Lance wasn't backing down either.
He adjusted his stiff arm, planting his palm against McCourty's shoulder and pouring every ounce of strength into a second push.
Crack!
The force reverberated through McCourty's chest, rattling his entire fra.
In an instant, McCourty's balance gave out. His feet lifted off the ground, and his body twisted midair. For a brief mont, he was completely horizontal, like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane.
He hit the turf hard, sliding several yards before coming to a stop.
Gone.
McCourty never even had the chance to reach for Lance's jersey.
"Oh my God! A stiff arm!"
"Lance just flattened Devin McCourty! My God, this rookie is a wrecking ball!"
The comntators erupted into shouts. Michaels' voice cracked as he struggled to keep up with the action.
Beside him, Cris Collinsworth's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. He couldn't utter a word.
Lance didn't look back.
The 30-yard line was already behind him.
No one—absolutely no one—expected this.
What had started as a desperate attempt to convert a third-and-long was now on the verge of turning into sothing extraordinary.
Then, Patrick Chung appeared.
The safety, wearing the sa number 23, was barrelling toward Lance from the side.
Eyes locked, face set like stone, Chung charged with the precision and determination of a seasoned predator.
Chung knew Lance was running on fus. The rookie had already danced past Flowers, spun away from Harrison and Butler, and bulldozed McCourty. His gas tank had to be nearing empty.
This was Chung's mont.
His only focus was to cut off Lance before he reached the red zone.
Chung hit full stride, closing the gap in seconds. He lowered his shoulder, aiming for a clean horizontal tackle—no frills, no hesitation.
Boom!
Chung's shoulder smashed into Lance's side. The impact sent Lance reeling, his body tipping precariously toward the sideline.
For a mont, it seed like Lance would collapse, his balance shattered by the crushing blow.
But he didn't.
Through sheer willpower, Lance managed to keep his feet under him.
His body wavered, but he pushed off with one last burst of energy, stumbling forward.
The 25-yard line fell behind him.
Then the 20.
Finally, the first-down marker.
Lance had done it.
He'd fought through wave after wave of defenders, overpowered McCourty, and even survived Chung's brutal hit. Against all odds, the Chiefs had converted a third-and-16.
The broadcast booth fell silent.
In living rooms, bars, and stadium seats across the nation, jaws dropped.
How was this rookie still standing?
How?
On the sidelines, Tom Brady rose to his feet, his expression unreadable. For the first ti, he seed to truly study Lance.
The field around Lance erupted into chaos.
Chiefs fans at the Old Oak Tavern scread themselves hoarse, chanting in unison:
"Rookie! Rookie! Rookie!"
Even Patrick Mahos couldn't help but yell along, his voice straining from excitent:
"Rookie!"
Lance stumbled forward a few more steps before finally stepping out of bounds.
He collapsed to the ground, his chest heaving, as the echoes of the crowd filled his ears.
From behind, Chung hovered over him, also catching his breath.
And then, against all expectations, Chung extended a hand.
Lance looked up, then took it.
Chung pulled him to his feet, his grip firm.
"I'll admit it," Chung said, a faint smirk on his face. "You're tough, Rookie. But that's all you're getting today."
Lance grinned back, his exhaustion montarily forgotten.
The fight wasn't over yet.
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