Stumbling, swaying, Lance fought to steady himself after the collision, forcing his legs straight, driving off the turf to keep moving.
But as he turned, danger closed in—three defenders converging, the zone coverage collapsing tight.
Two steps, three, five yards gained, then the wall hit.
And this ti, instead of his usual relentless fight for every inch, Lance did sothing rare—he dropped. Sliding down before the jaws snapped shut, ending the play on his terms.
Still, the pass had ripped twenty yards downfield. First series, and already the Chiefs were near midfield.
Leonard, gasping, realized it wasn't him forcing the stop. No, Lance chose to end it.
So he was the only one who'd been made a fool of?
Damn it.
Breath ragged, face flushed, Leonard's grin spread wide. He lived for this. They called him the "Maniac" for a reason.
A rookie, taken 36th overall, but already the Colts' brightest light. One hundred thirty-six tackles, seven sacks, eight pass breakups, four forced fumbles, two picks—chaos incarnate, especially in the short zones. Defensive Rookie of the Year favorite, even whispers of All-Pro.
And now? His first playoff stage. Against Lance. Against Mahos. Exactly what he craved.
The blood in his mouth tasted like fire, and he loved it.
But no ti for savoring—Kansas City's offense was already lined up.
So fast. Too fast.
"Set—hike!"
The answer clicked. That's why Lance slid down. Why Reid's plan had called for restraint.
Tempo. Relentless tempo.
First down: play-action, Mahos firing twenty yards to Hill on the sideline.
Next snap: quick pass to Kelce, springing fifteen after blocks from Lance and Watkins.
Snap after snap—fast, sharp, surgical.
Sixty-three seconds. That's all it took. Three passes. Three first downs. Fifty-five yards. Arrowhead roaring as the Chiefs hamred down to the Colts' twenty.
The Colts' defense? Shredded. Outmatched. Overrun.
Shattered.
Leonard sucked air, lungs on fire, legs burning. It felt like sprinting a hundred ters, three tis over, without pause. And still the Chiefs didn't slow.
"Set—hike!"
Again.
Reich stayed conservative—no blitz, no gamble. Mahos was releasing in under two seconds, too fast for pressure to matter. Best to choke the lanes, trust the coverage.
Mahos faked right, arm cocked. Defenders flinched. Kelce lood, big body bullying corner Nate Hairston.
Mismatch. Obvious mismatch.
The zone tightened. Leonard surged.
Then—nothing. No rainbow. No bullet.
Trick.
Mahos had sold it, perfectly.
Leonard bit, skidding to recover, only to see Lance retreating a step behind the line.
Hand-off.
A fake pass, now a run.
The Colts scrambled, too slow. The trap had been sprung.
Except—Leonard.
He braced, muscles coiled, chest heaving. Cut. Plant. Pivot.
And there he was, a wall of fury, planting himself square in Lance's path.
One man. One stand.
A gate barred.
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