Staggering. Unsteady. On the brink of collapse.
Unbelievably, Lance had only crossed five or six yards past the line of scrimmage, yet he was already at his limit. Even as he held his breath, refusing to relent, his stumbling footsteps could barely carry him forward.
Intensity, off the charts.
His knees trembled. His calves shook. His center of gravity wavered.
And yet—Lance remained locked in.
If the first part of the play had been a battle of wits against the Jaguars' defense, then the mont he escaped that five-yard death zone, it beca a battle against himself.
No surrender. No retreat.
Fight to the end.
He lurched forward, his upper body tipping dangerously far ahead, balance completely lost—about to hit the ground.
At the last second, his left hand slamd into the turf.
With what little energy he had left in his chest, he pushed off.
Only one thought echoed in his mind—
Step.
Step, step, step.
One step. Another.
His feet slipped slightly. His knees refused to straighten. But the constant drive forward kept him moving.
His lower body caught up to his upper body.
Balance, restored.
Then, one more deep breath—
Push off. Accelerate.
Sprint.
A sequence of near-disasters, strung together into an incredible escape.
Sohow, Lance had crossed the ten-yard line. Sohow, he had found his footing.
And most importantly—he was picking up speed.
Wind howled.
EverBank Stadium froze.
They couldn't believe what they were seeing.
Even Jim Nantz doubted his own eyes.
"LANCE… OH MY GOD!"
A chill shot up his spine.
"JACK! MYLES JACK IS IN PURSUIT!"
"The linebacker realized Smith didn't have the ball. He never stopped moving—he peeled away from the pocket and is closing in on Lance!"
"Lance hasn't fully opened up his stride yet—Jack is gaining!"
"Number 44! Myles Jack, closing from behind!"
"JACK! LANCE!"
"LANCE! JACK!"
"Stiff arm!"
"Lance isn't fully at speed—he stiff-arms imdiately!"
"Jack won't let go—he's hanging onto Lance!"
"Clearly, Lance is exhausted. The stiff-arm doesn't fully shake him!"
"Flag!"
"Holding on Jack!"
"Lance—another stiff arm!"
"A third stiff arm!"
"Lance just tossed Jack aside! UNBELIEVABLE! He's free!"
"BUT—"
"RAMSEY!"
"The Jaguars' defense just keeps coming!"
"Ramsey sohow caught up at the 15-yard line!"
"RAMSEY!"
"AH—"
Nantz choked on his words.
Lance had no breathing room.
One wave barely subsided before the next crashed down.
A raging storm.
The mont he shook off Jack—Ramsey was there.
Compared to defensive linen, Ramsey's speed was elite.
And after the stiff-arm battle with Jack, Lance's balance was montarily off.
What now?
No hesitation.
Lance slamd on the brakes.
Completely unannounced—he stopped dead.
Ramsey—caught completely off guard.
He had been sprinting at full speed. He knew he couldn't let Lance get to top gear.
He was closing in fast—
And then—Lance stopped.
Ramsey flew past him.
Damn it!
He reacted a half-step too late—slamd on his own brakes and spun back around.
But—
Just as he turned—
Lance charged.
Full-speed, straight-on collision.
Ramsey barely had ti to react.
Darkness.
Next thing he knew—he was flat on his back.
Grass.
Grass, grass, grass!
A brutal bulldozer hit.
Lance steamrolled Ramsey.
For the second ti in seconds.
And then—
The path ahead was clear.
That stop-and-go had allowed Lance to regain his rhythm, his balance.
Now—his speed unleashed.
"LANCE HAS BROKEN FREE!"
At Old Oak Tavern, the entire crowd held their breath.
Silence.
All eyes locked on the TV screen.
Not a single person dared to make a sound.
As if even the faintest noise could interfere.
Provos clenched his fists in prayer.
"Twenty yards!"
"Twenty-five!"
"Thirty!"
"The Edge Walker is lighting up EverBank Stadium!
"After shaking off five different defenders, **Lance is finally at full speed!"
"GIPSON!"
"The safety arrives! The Jaguars' last line of defense!"
"Not just Gipson—Church, linebackers, and corners are all closing in!"
"BEAUTIFUL BLOCK BY KELCE! HE TAKES OUT GIPSON!"
"LANCE! LANCE IS NOW THE LONE ARROW!"
"HE'S GONE!"
"JACKSONVILLE'S NIGHTMARE IS BACK!"
"FORTY YARDS!"
"CHURCH! LANCE!"
"LANCE! CHURCH!"
"They're neck and neck—Church is waiting for his mont!"
"ACCELERATION!"
"Lance explodes forward!"
"Church tries to match him— but he can't!"
"This **undrafted 2013 safety just doesn't have the wheels to keep up!"
"Oh—Church!"
"Poor Church! He pushes his top speed to the limit— but his body fails him! He lunges—and misses!"
"LANCE IS STILL FLYING!"
"HE JUST CROSSED MIDFIELD!"
Forty-yard line—
Provos muttered a silent prayer.
His heart pounded against his ribs.
The Jaguars chased. Surrounded. Closed in.
But Lance—
Like the wind, cut through them all.
Thirty-yard line.
A lone arrow. An unstoppable force.
Lance was gone.
His body an arrow, slicing through the Jaguars' defense.
His movent—art in motion.
Even Nantz had lost words.
He could only shout.
"TWENTY!"
At Old Oak Tavern, no one could hold back anymore.
One by one—
They stood.
Voices rged.
A low, rolling roar filled the room.
"TEN!"
"FIVE!"
And then—
That No. 23 jersey crossed the goal line.
A dagger to the heart.
The raging storm, unstoppable.
BOOM!
Lance spun.
Turned back to face the pursuing defenders.
And—slamd the football into the ground.
Fists clenched.
A Hulk-like roar erupted.
"AAAAHHHHH!"
Pressure. Frustration. Restraint. Suppression.
Balancing on a razor's edge.
And now—the Kansas City Chiefs had broken through.
Finally—
Everything. Let. Loose.
A tidal wave of fury crashed down.
The beast awakened.
Their dominance declared.
EverBank Stadium, silenced.
And then—
At Old Oak Tavern—
Provos threw his fists into the air—
And the whole place erupted.
"AAAAHHHHH!"
Powerstones?
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