The two-running back formation?
It was a smokescreen. The real purpose was to mislead and confuse the defense, using the formidable reputation of the "Chiefs Special" to strike fear into the Patriots. That tiny hesitation or over-cautiousness in their reaction?
That was Kansas City's window of opportunity.
Lance, fully focused.
At the mont Mahos called the snap, Lance charged straight at the offensive line, once again playing the role of the sixth lineman, directly engaging defensive end Flores.
If New England opted for man-to-man coverage, there was a high chance they'd attempt a blitz—
Sure enough!
Reid was one step ahead, predicting Belichick's defensive sche to perfection.
Boom!
The instant Lance stepped forward, Flores lunged. The collision was on.
First contact, Flores held his ground, teeth clenched, every muscle taut, summoning every ounce of strength in his body—
"Ahh, ahhh!"
Second contact, Flores went head-to-head again, but Lance's brutal, overpowering, and explosive force directly flipped Flores onto his back.
Violent. Dominant. Relentless. Savage.
Kansas City's offensive line seized a numbers advantage in the trench battle.
But Belichick revealed his own genius. Flores was rely bait—the real killer blow ca from the other side.
Two linebackers, Dont'a Hightower and Bentley, simultaneously broke through on a blindside blitz.
Did Reid win?
Not entirely—Belichick countered beautifully.
Beyond the five defenders in man coverage, every other Patriot surged forward in an all-out blitz, maximizing pass rush pressure, overwhelming Kansas City's protection with sheer numbers.
Amid the collisions and grappling, Hightower and Bentley sliced through the pocket's edges.
Hightower ca up the middle, like the crazed ax-wielding maniac from The Shining, snarling as he ripped through the line toward Mahos.
Bentley, on the blindside, encountered no resistance, circling cleanly into the pocket, eyes locked onto Mahos like easy prey.
Bentley: "Heh, sorry kid… this'll sting a little."
Digging in, surging forward, lunging.
Bentley spread his arms wide—the quarterback had no clue the danger was coming from his blindside, making the sack child's play.
But—
Suddenly, Mahos and a flash of white lightning switched places, Mahos drifting right, Lance charging straight at Bentley's trajectory.
In an instant, Bentley's smirk contorted to panic—
Lance?
Wait, why was Lance here? Shouldn't he be downfield? Isn't he the primary receiving target?
There was no ti to understand—the collision arrived.
Crouched low, knees bent, center of gravity dropped.
In a perfect MMA takedown posture, Lance wrapped Bentley at the waist, unleashing explosive strength and speed, slamming Bentley to the turf like a sack of rice.
Bentley hit the ground hard, his back going numb, the pain replaced by deafening buzzing, his mind slipping briefly into darkness.
Only now did Bentley understand what Loki must've felt when Hulk rag-dolled him in The Avengers—
Have so sympathy for Loki, okay?
Before sha overwheld him, Bentley lost sight of Lance entirely:
Damn it!
Where was Lance?
Light-footed. Graceful. Floating like a butterfly.
Pushing off with his right foot, Lance spun clockwise, graceful as a dancer, catching sight of the nacing mask of Hightower bearing down.
Already exhausted from pancaking Flores, Lance's muscles scread. Yet, his instincts flared—sensing the pocket collapsing, he reacted instantly, saving Mahos once, but now faced another storm—
The Patriots' blitz was like the relentless waves of the Pacific, crashing in again before the last had even receded.
No ti to breathe—Lance spun like a top.
His strength fading, speed compromised.
So Lance simply hurled his body weight toward Hightower.
A thunderous clash.
Boom!
Lance went airborne, but gravity yanked him down violently—shoulder and torso crashing into Hightower at the last possible mont.
The hit staggered Hightower, sweeping him into a vortex. His footing lost, his eyes never wavered, still locked on Mahos.
Relentless, experienced, a battle-hardened veteran since being drafted 25th overall in 2012. Hightower had survived New England's upheavals for a reason.
Stumbling from Lance's impact, Hightower pressed forward, recalibrating on instinct, vision fixed on Mahos, and leapt.
Danger!
Mahos sensed it—planted his foot, pivoted, spun 180 degrees clockwise.
A sharp U-turn.
In that movent, Hightower's body beca a barrier, blocking Van Noy's pursuit.
Van Noy's mind was racing—
A second ago, he'd braced for Lance to hit him, ready for the collision.
Instead, Lance never looked his way, slipping back into the pocket, vanishing into the crowd, becoming Mahos' final line of defense.
Damn it!
Belichick sched against Reid. Reid sched right back.
For now, it was impossible to say who held the upper hand.
Van Noy, caught off guard by Lance's absence, nearly tripped over his own feet, recovering half a beat later.
Pass play—this has to be a pass. Should Van Noy drop into coverage? Or blitz?
Belichick didn't specify that.
Split-second decision—Van Noy attacked.
But in football's chaotic ballet, even that brief hesitation was costly.
By the ti Van Noy vaulted over the stumbling Hightower, Mahos had already created separation, eyes scanning downfield, reading the defense, seeking his target.
Damn it!
Van Noy cursed, but there was no ti for regret, only action—vaulting forward, scrambling toward Mahos.
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