Lance was sprinting.
He felt like a crumbling tower of blocks, held together only by the montum of his speed. Any slight touch, any imbalance, and he would collapse in a heap, like a skeleton falling apart.
There wasn't a second to waste.
Faster. Faster. Even faster.
Lance was like a runaway train, his body burning, his speed accelerating. He was pushing himself beyond what his body could handle. Yet, he couldn't stop—he could only keep accelerating, racing toward destruction with every step.
His only hope was that he could reach the end zone before he burned out.
But the Trojan defense hadn't given up.
Marvell Tell, the free safety—USC's last line of defense. He should have been the first to close in, but his teammate, strong safety Leon McQuay, had jumped ahead, trying to force Lance out of bounds.
Unfortunately, McQuay failed.
Now, Tell was USC's last hope.
Five seconds earlier, Tell had been joking with McQuay, complaining that they might spend the whole ga watching from the backfield because the Trojans' defense was playing so poorly. Maybe they should think about moving up to help out the linebackers and corners—
After all, Crimson Tide's quarterback hadn't dared to throw deep all ga.
But just then, an opportunity appeared.
Tell hadn't forgotten the first play of the ga when Lance—number 23—had caught everyone off guard with a long touchdown run. But that was the first play; they weren't prepared. They wouldn't make the sa mistake twice.
This ti, Tell was ready.
Pushing off, he sprinted forward with everything he had.
His eyes locked on Lance, a flash of violence in his gaze, like a charging bull. He held nothing back, barreling toward number 23.
Rush! Rush! Rush! He dove, arms outstretched, aiming for the tackle.
Tell launched himself into the air, breaking free from the ground's pull, soaring like a missile.
But then— what?
Lance leaped too, mirroring Tell's dive. Both were airborne, both aiming for the sa spot.
Not just Tell, but the entire stadium gasped in shock:
What?
In the blink of an eye, Tell aid low, targeting Lance's knees to force him out of bounds by breaking his balance. But Lance, defying all expectations, used his montum to leap like a circus perforr through a flaming hoop, soaring over Tell's tackle.
Tell flew horizontally beneath, while Lance soared vertically above.
They crossed paths in midair, and Tell's stunned expression was mirrored by thousands of wide-eyed fans, all watching in disbelief as Lance sailed over him.
Tell's mind froze, trapped in a loop of confusion, unable to comprehend how this had happened—how Lance had found a way to escape. He hadn't even had ti to feel fear; his mind was simply stuck, replaying the mont on repeat.
The sound of rushing wind filled the stadium. All breathing, all heartbeats, ceased as they watched Lance's graceful leap.
His body stretched out, elegant and weightless, moving like a dancer—then curling up, his shoulder bracing for impact, he tucked into a perfect roll as he landed in the end zone.
The movent was flawless.
Touchdown.
"Wow."
Stunned silence filled the ABC broadcast booth. Even the seasoned comntators, who had seen it all, were left speechless by what had just unfolded. Their minds blanked, unable to find the right words to describe what they had witnessed.
They exchanged looks, their mouths involuntarily curling into smiles:
What had they just seen?
anwhile, inside AT&T Stadium, a roar of excitent began to ripple through the stands. Terry, the first to snap out of the shock, felt the adrenaline surging through his veins:
"Edgerunner!"
Once again, Lance had executed a breathtaking run, dancing along the sideline like a tightrope walker, blending agility with strength. His footwork, graceful yet powerful, had sliced through the Trojans' defensive wall like a dagger, piercing through to the heart.
It was a show of resilience and strength, of danger and beauty. A spectacle.
And as Terry's cry echoed, others joined in, amplifying the stadium's energy to a fever pitch.
In the broadcast booth, the comntators exchanged another glance. They realized they were missing so key information. They had co into this ga thinking they were well-prepared, ready to explain every nuance to their audience. But now, they felt like clueless rookies, scrambling to catch up.
"Wait, did I hear that right? The crowd is chanting… 'Edgerunner'?"
One of the comntators asked, but no one had an answer. Their faces mirrored the sa confusion as they began frantically flipping through their notes.
Yet all they found were a few lines of scant information on Lance—barely enough to fill an A4 page.
"Edgerunner!"
"Edgerunner!"
The chant swept across the stadium like a tidal wave.
In the end zone, Lance staggered to his feet after his acrobatic roll, standing tall like a battle-hardened warrior.
He stood silently, staring at the section of USC fans. His fiery presence alone seed to crush the spirits of the thousands of opposing fans, pinning them to their seats with his commanding gaze.
There was no need for fists, roars, or celebrations—his presence alone said it all.
Powerful. Dominant. Unyielding. Perfect.
Three touchdowns. Three different thods.
Lance had dominated the ga, silencing all concerns and doubts about the Crimson Tide's ability to replace Derrick Henry. He was writing his own story now.
Especially after this touchdown.
Was USC weak? Was Coach Helton surrendering? Was the Trojans' defense giving up? Was this team simply not good enough?
No. None of those things were true.
The Trojans had created a genuine opportunity with their blitz. Their airtight coverage in the short pass zone had turned the field into a maze, leaving no clear paths forward.
But!
Lance had still found a way, carving out a path with sheer force of will. His three brilliant, consecutive changes in direction, capped off with a final leap into the end zone, left the crowd with their jaws on the floor, creating one "wow" mont after another, raising the level of play to new heights.
Everything else paled in comparison.
This was a "showti" performance—
Wait, hold on. Were they really describing the Crimson Tide's offense—not defense, but offense—as putting on a show? This offense?
Really?
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