Everything unfolded in a flash.
The football—passed from Smith to Hunt to Lance—zigzagged backward like a juggling act, completely dismantling the defensive formation.
Pederson hadn't seen it coming; his heart stuck in his throat.
The Eagles' defense was caught flat-footed, reacting purely on instinct now, blindly following the ball.
But—
The blitz didn't stop.
Linebacker Kendricks, laser-focused, trailed closely behind defensive end Brandon Graham, breaking through the offensive line.
A pause in his steps—Kendricks spotted the ball.
He'd been nearly invisible all ga. As the middle linebacker, his ground defense hadn't been much help. Haunted by the mory of Lance in Week 2, he'd been seething for redemption.
This was his shot.
Kendricks shifted his weight with lethal intent, sweeping right to cut off Lance.
Step. Smash. Sack.
But—
Smith never looked away. Jaw clenched, he wouldn't falter, wouldn't give up. This quarterback—forever in the shadows, always burdened by the narrative—was now burning every last ember of himself.
He wanted to win, just once.
Smith pushed off, launched forward, collided—
A wall.
Kendricks hadn't seen it coming. A body blindsided him from the left—he had no ti to react, just—impact.
He reeled.
What the—?
"God. Oh my God!"
"Smith sets the block! Alex Smith delivers a perfect block on Kendricks—he buys Lance precious seconds!"
"Wait—is Lance passing?"
"Oh—Hunt! Hunt has Brandon Graham down! Now he's locked up Corey Graham!"
"Unreal!"
"The Chiefs offense has gone berserk."
"What am I witnessing? Jesus Christ!"
Lance adjusted his footwork.
Fully focused.
He saw the hurricane blocked off ahead, sensed the collisions to his left—but had no ti to look.
Smith had done his part. So had Hunt. Now it was his turn.
He kept backpedaling while scanning the field.
So this was what it looked like to read a defense as a quarterback—completely different from a running back's POV.
But Lance didn't panic. He was calm. Composed.
From up high, he could see: the Eagles' secondary was in disarray. They were supposed to be man-marking—one defender per target—but the Chiefs' dizzying trick plays had shattered that.
The defenders couldn't tell who was throwing or where the pass was going.
Their eyes were all on Smith. But he no longer had the ball.
That mont of hesitation—that flicker of doubt—was enough.
Left sideline: Hill had broken free. He was charging upfield, nearing the 10-yard line. Cornerback Mills was only now starting to chase.
Right sideline: Demarcus Robinson and Darby were tangled. Robinson, the team's fifth receiver, had barely played this season until injuries elevated him. Now, thrust into the Super Bowl spotlight, he was still locked in a struggle.
In the middle, safety Jenkins trailed Kelce.
But Kelce hadn't sprinted full speed. He drifted slowly through the slot, seemingly uninvolved. He wasn't deep. He wasn't central.
But Hill and Robinson were charging full speed.
What now?
Jenkins hovered near Kelce, unsure. He'd just crossed the 20-yard line but was clearly more worried about the two streaking sideline threats.
If Lance threw—who was the target?
Jenkins had a hunch: if this was a full-blown trick play, would Reid go all-in and target the most unexpected man—Robinson?
All this, Lance saw in a heartbeat.
Now he understood what Tomlinson ant by "real-view reading" in practice. Now he knew what Mahos ant by "seeing it all."
And then—
Danger.
Straight ahead: linebacker Bradham.
Bradham had been assigned to cover Lance. He had clocked the mont Lance took the ball but didn't run. This isn't a run, he'd realized.
Wait—this isn't a run!
Bradham broke through from the edge. No one stopped him. He charged.
Closer.
Closer!
Then—Lance gave a slight fake. A stutter step. A quick feint left then right.
Bradham lunged.
But it was a ghost.
He missed.
Lance had sidestepped just in ti.
Now—he had room.
Gasping for breath, knees shaking, Lance ignored the scrambling Kendricks behind him.
All of his attention stayed forward.
One fluid motion—
Push off. Step forward. Twist. Launch.
Like drawing a bow and shooting a hawk—every muscle aligned.
Release.
The ball left his fingers, arcing through the air, ripping through the suffocating tension.
Just a second too late—Kendricks tackled Lance. The two crashed to the ground, the world spinning, but Lance never took his eyes off the spiraling ball.
His heart soared with it.
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Powerstones?
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