"Damn it."
Mahos shot Bentley a deadly glare, watching him grinning arrogantly as he exchanged celebratory high-fives with his Patriots teammates. Rage erupted in Mahos' chest, an uncontrollable fire threatening to explode as his fists clenched with the urge to smash that smug face to pieces.
"Damn, damn, damn!"
No flags. Not even an ejection.
Because Lance had narrowly dodged disaster, Bentley never completed the dirty tackle, so the officials let it slide. Bentley walked away, scot-free.
Mahos could hardly believe it.
Over the years, the New England Patriots had beco the league's public enemy. Beyond their historical success, their reputation for unscrupulous tactics—Spygate, Deflategate, one dirty trick after another—was legendary. But until now, Mahos had never experienced it firsthand.
"Ah, ahhhh!"
The more he thought about it, the more furious and suffocated he beca.
That was until Lance snapped him back to reality.
"Sherlock, the ga's still on. You need to focus."
In such an intense, neck-and-neck ga, keeping your cool in critical monts was vital. One lapse in judgnt, one emotional reaction, could be all it took for mistakes to cascade.
Maybe Belichick's real goal wasn't just to injure Lance. Maybe it was to provoke the hot-blooded Mahos into losing his composure. With Belichick's cunning, nothing was off the table.
"Hey, Sherlock."
"It ans they're rattled. You see? They know if we play this straight, we have the upper hand. That's why they're stooping to this crap."
"They're losing their grip. We need to stay sharp and seize the mont, got it?"
"And hey, Bentley didn't get ejected—perfect. Gives the chance to strike back."
Mahos followed Lance's gaze and spotted Bentley.
Taking a deep breath, and then another, Mahos finally reeled in the reins on his boiling anger.
Conveniently, a brief disruption on the field bought them ti—the officials were reviewing the play.
When Lance went down, the ball had co loose. While Kansas City retained possession, the officials needed to confirm the spot.
That small window allowed Mahos to cool his head, his focus returning.
Second down, seven yards to go.
The replay confird Lance still had control when he hit the ground, with the fumble occurring after the play was dead.
A short-lived respite, but the Patriots tightened the screws—an incomplete pass as Mahos tried to connect with Kelce. Double coverage smothered Kelce, and the ball hit the turf.
Third and seven, at Kansas City's 48-yard line.
Once again, the fourth quarter revealed itself as a defensive battle. Offensive rhythm had faltered on both sides, the grueling first three quarters having drained the players.
The young, high-flying Chiefs offense was being tested under imnse pressure.
But the defending champs showed no fear, lining up in a shotgun formation.
Lance shifted wide as a receiver, joining Kelce on the strong side.
It was clear—the Chiefs' offensive explosiveness this season had leveled up significantly. Not just Lance's ground threat, but Mahos' deep passing and Hill's blazing speed made their shotgun formation lethal—a fact well demonstrated in the past five weeks.
Instantly, the Patriots defense snapped to attention.
How would Belichick counter?
The air practically froze.
Mahos read the defense; Lance did too.
At first glance, the Patriots' setup appeared unchanged—disciplined, composed, sticking to zone coverage, unaffected by Kansas City's formation.
But Lance spotted the subtle details.
The Patriots weren't all grizzled veterans; young blood like Bentley and McCourty were out there. Their slightly forward-leaning posture gave it away:
Man coverage.
Zone defense remains passive—man coverage requires aggressive engagent off the snap.
It wasn't an absolute certainty—but Lance trusted his read.
He suspected Belichick planned a blitz, targeting Mahos to disrupt the Chiefs at the source.
But Lance didn't imdiately alert Mahos. Right or wrong, he trusted Mahos' instincts too.
For now, his job was to stay ready, waiting for the signal.
Outwardly, Lance appeared relaxed, adopting a poised stance, ready to attack or retreat.
Internally, his muscles tensed like coiled springs, his breathing controlled, the mont slowed as if replaying in slow motion.
"Hut!"
Mahos' call cracked through the tension like a thunderclap.
Lance exploded off the line—not straight ahead, but diagonally, slicing toward the defensive line and linebackers.
The sixth offensive lineman.
Bentley's eyes widened—the rookie wasn't just a running back or receiver; he was also a blocking weapon!
Damn it!
Lance was already there, stepping into the line like one of the big n, shoulder lowered, crashing into defensive end Flowers.
Blitz confird.
The Patriots' deceptive formation morphed post-snap into a full assault—five-man initial rush, with two more delayed attackers exploiting timing gaps.
A classic Belichick tactic: discipline, structure, strategy—overwhelming pressure layered with precision.
But Lance was ready.
At this mont, it wasn't about athleticism—it was about sheer will.
Lance slamd into Flowers, shoulder to shoulder, absorbing the force like a crashing wave against rock.
Boom!
The collision echoed—a thunderous, jarring impact.
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Powerstones?
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