"Rams!"
"Rams!"
The Los Angeles morial Coliseum thundered with roars—
For the first ti since relocating from St. Louis, the Rams had sold out every single seat. The stadium was packed to the brim.
Over the past three years, poor team performance and the endless entertainnt options in L.A. had kept attendance low; it was common to see swaths of empty seats during broadcasts.
Last season, the Rams finally found their rhythm, and fans slowly began returning.
Tonight—
For the first ti, the Coliseum was filled to capacity, and the fans got their money's worth, witnessing a peak showdown.
From the first second, the excitent and suspense never let up until the very last. The clash was fierce, the scoreline tight, offense and defense breathtaking—and in the end, the ho team claid victory with a perfect final note.
The crowd went wild—
"Rams!"
Wave upon wave of deafening chants, like a torrential sumr downpour.
On the field, coaches Reid and McVay, and quarterbacks Mahos and Goff, were surrounded in layers of reporters and caras exchanging postga handshakes, with TV caras hot on their heels.
Yet, the eyes of the crowd and both teams drifted elsewhere—
Aaron Donald. Lance.
Though the spotlight was elsewhere, the entire stadium's gaze gravitated toward them.
Then ca the chant—
"Aaron!"
"Aaron!"
The cries sliced through the air, devouring even Lance.
Donald extended his hand, flashing a Paddington Bear-like goofy grin. "Hell of a ga."
Lance clasped his hand, the two giving each other a shoulder bump amid the roar, needing to lean in close just to hear.
"Hell of a ga. You earned this win," Lance said.
"Hell of a performance. You made look like an arrogant rookie."
Direct, sincere, self-mocking without hesitation.
Donald chuckled. "I'll never tell you my knees are shaking right now. It's taking all I've got just to stay standing."
"But you're still standing. You went up against our whole team by yourself. Damn, I'm a little wounded," Lance shot back.
Donald burst out laughing.
Lance grinned. "Hey, man. You deserved this win. Next ti, I'll give everything I've got to flip it around. Count on it."
Upright, forthright, no flinching.
The conviction in those words stirred even Donald's blood. He gave Lance a hearty slap on the back. "I won't stand still either."
They exchanged a glance, then without lingering, released their grip and parted ways.
Donald stood watching as Lance strode away, head high, shoulders square. Sothing inside Donald surged to life—a new kind of exhilaration.
Even though they'd won tonight, more than the thrill of victory, Donald was already craving the next clash: with Lance, with Mahos, with the Chiefs. He was practically itching for it.
If they t again this season, it wouldn't be a "Midseason Super Bowl"—
It would be the real Super Bowl. And Donald was eager.
The Chiefs would need to push forward. The Rams couldn't afford to falter.
In that instant, Donald's chest burned with fresh ambition.
—
On the other side, Lance had slipped seamlessly back into his captain's role—
One by one, comforting and encouraging teammates.
Any loss stings. There's no such thing as a joyful defeat.
And for the Chiefs, this was the second bitter pill of the season: another heart-wrenching defeat in a clash of titans, watching victory slip through their fingers.
It was agonizing.
It didn't get easier just because they'd been through it once.
If anything, it was worse.
Defensive end Chris Jones was deep in self-bla, convinced he hadn't pressured Goff enough, that he'd let the Rams' QB throw too comfortably—especially compared to Donald's performance. Jones still felt raw, like he hadn't lived up to his own standard.
Cornerback Kendall Fuller, who had shone brightly early in the season, was struggling too. His weaknesses had been exposed as the season wore on, leaving him furious and frustrated.
One after another, these second- and third-year players were still learning.
Then, Lance saw Mahos.
After finishing an interview, Mahos stood alone, hands on his hips, gazing silently at the roaring Coliseum crowd, his silhouette faintly tinged with loneliness.
"Hey, Sherlock, not crying this ti, are you?" Lance teased.
Mahos turned—and his eyes were already brimming with tears.
Lance let out a helpless laugh. "Want my jersey to wipe your face? Blow your nose while you're at it?"
Pfft.
Mahos couldn't hold back a laugh.
Lance kept going. "Don't worry, the caras are still on Travis. Your tough-guy image's safe."
"Haha…" Mahos burst into laughter, blinking back the tears.
Lance patted his shoulder. "You do realize you were the MVP of this ga, right?"
Mahos let out a long sigh. "And yet I still couldn't bring ho the win. I think… I finally understand the pressure you're under."
From last season to this one, all the lights had been fixed on Lance—
The expectations, the criticism, the relentless pressure, both on and off the field.
Now, Mahos had gotten his first real taste.
"Rookie," Lance said softly, "I used to think going through it once would make it easier the second ti, that I'd handle it better."
"But it doesn't."
"I hate this feeling. I despise this feeling."
"God, it sucks so bad. Damn it."
The usually sunny, easygoing Mahos—finally, he couldn't help but spit out a curse.
Lance nodded. "Good. Hate it. That ans it matters. Burn this feeling into your bones—so you don't forget it when you heal. So you don't go through it again next ti."
Mahos sucked in a sharp breath. "Next ti?!"
"…Shit."
Just imagining it, Mahos couldn't stop himself from swearing again.
Lance grinned. "Of course. You saw for yourself—they're good enough to win the Super Bowl. One of the very best teams in the league."
"If we et again, they can beat us again. So if you don't want to relive this gut-wrenching pain, rember exactly how this feels right now."
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