A standoff.
This was still a strategic standoff.
The Baltimore Ravens had been pressuring all ga long, forcing Mahos out of his comfort zone of mid- and long-range passing and into the ssy mire of short throws. The Kansas City Chiefs never quite found their rhythm.
But in this decisive mont, the Chiefs flipped that relentless pressure against Baltimore—taking the initiative with one word: speed. It shattered their rhythm and brought chaos to the field.
Both sides were fighting for control, but this ti Mahos showed his composure under fire—calm, calculated, daring. With a fake so clean it could pass for real, his puppet-master execution misled the entire Ravens defense—
Including Urban. Including Suggs. Including Humphrey.
No exceptions.
A feint, a pivot, and Mahos glanced at Kelce, raising his arm to throw. Even Mosley, glued to Lance all drive long, stuttered in his steps.
Mosley knew Kelce was a nightmare matchup. If Mahos went to him, Humphrey alone wouldn't be enough—Mosley would have to help.
That hesitation was all it took.
Mosley clearly saw the football leave Mahos' hand—undeniably real this ti. But then…
Where was the ball?
No arc. No spiral in the air. Nothing.
Mosley froze. What the hell? Did Mahos just yank it back like a damn yo-yo?
A trick? A magic show?
Then—out of the corner of his eye—Mosley caught a flash of red-brown in motion.
There it was.
Mahos had thrown it—but not to Kelce. The angle was off. A sharp curve, maybe 45 to 50 degrees, arcing toward the sideline.
Only about five yards.
The target?
Mosley's breath caught. He cursed aloud.
Lance. Goddamn Lance.
That split-second pause was all it took.
Lance was already sprinting into the open. A completely uncovered pocket, five yards of clear space in every direction.
Effortless and fluid, Lance dashed diagonally. As if plucking a star from the sky, he reached out, twisting sideways to snatch the spinning ball—
Fast, tight, clean.
Mahos had fired like a bullet, and Lance received it like a pro. Perfect form, hands poised, no bobble—secure, turn, and go. No slowdown. No hesitation.
In his peripheral vision, Lance saw a black storm flying in—Mosley again, snarling, baring his teeth, diving full-force like a blade.
A killer wind.
Mosley lunged, aiming to crash in from a tighter angle—
If Lance pushed forward, they'd et at the crossroads.
If Lance stopped, Suggs and Urban were right behind him, closing in.
In a flash of brilliance, Mosley positioned the perfect triangle trap. His eyes glead with mockery:
"Scared yet? You should be. Most rookies would've been wrecked from that last hit. You're soft—just hype and headlines. This is where the mask cos off."
And if Lance was scared?
Good.
Mosley wasn't going to hold back. One hit? He'd do it again. And again.
Every opponent got the sa from him—so why should this flashy rookie be treated like fine china?
No rcy. Just violence.
And this ti, Mosley aid directly for the knee.
So what did Lance do?
Clash head-on to return the favor?
No. Of course not.
Lance was too smart, too focused for that. He wasn't going to get baited by so brute trying to provoke him.
If Mosley thought his third-grade mind gas could shake Lance, then he was the real clown here. Dancing like a fool in his own circus.
Speed and power surged at once—both n ramped up.
The collision lood.
Closer—
Closer—
Point-blank range—
"AAH!"
Mosley roared, unleashing his full force.
But the hit never ca.
His shoulder hit nothing—just air. Not even a thud.
What the hell?
Mosley blinked, stunned. Then saw it—red flash, airborne, above.
Lance.
Clean. Effortless.
Hurdled.
Like a shadow soaring over the sun, Lance leapt directly over Mosley's head. A feather-light hurdler. One smooth motion.
No theatrics. Just flight.
Mosley stared dumbfounded. Then…
BOOM.
A green tide slamd into him—full-body force from another angle. He spun like a windmill, rolling away in a blur.
Left behind a streak across the turf.
Just like a snail.
The world spun. The last thing Mosley saw was that red No. 23 jersey fading into the distance.
"F**k."
To Lance, the guy was barely an inconvenience—
Sprint, accelerate, leap, land.
Fluid. Precise. Unstoppable.
He didn't even need to crouch or rebalance—like a world-class 110m hurdler, he kept charging forward without missing a beat. Clean switch, no resistance.
And in the triangle trap? A hole had opened dead center.
Lance punched through.
Five yards—effortless. 3rd and 3—converted.
But clearly, Lance wasn't stopping there.
Up ahead, cornerback Humphrey was closing in fast.
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Powerstones?
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