Harrison Butker.
Rookie kicker. Midseason acquisition from the Carolina Panthers, brought in to rescue the Chiefs' special teams.
No one expected much—but Butker delivered.
He became one of just six kickers in the league with a perfect 100% success rate on extra points and field goals. Even more impressive—he was the only one among them with over 40 attempts.
A breakout star.
A player no one saw coming—yet he had risen to become one of the league's top kickers this season.
In the Wild Card game, Butker had a chance to be the hero—but never got the opportunity.
Lance had eliminated the need for a game-winning kick, bulldozing his way into the end zone for a walk-off touchdown that sent the Chiefs to the Divisional Round.
But now—
Fate had brought the moment back to Butker.
"27-27."
After Lance's miracle Hail Mary, the clock had expired.
But the game wasn't over.
The Chiefs still had one final extra-point attempt.
Make it—and they win.
Miss it—and the game goes into brutal overtime.
The weight of the game—now rested squarely on Butker's shoulders.
Just as Lance had said—
Defense. Offense. Special teams.
If they wanted to win, everyone had to step up. No one could be left behind.
That's what a real team is.
Butker locked eyes with Lance.
A surge of pride and determination swelled within him.
And so—
Butker stood tall.
Chest up. Shoulders back.
With deliberate respect, he accepted the football from Lance, gripping it tightly.
Around him, his teammates clapped their hands in support.
Clap. Clap.
Clap. Clap.
No wild celebrations. No empty noise.
Even on the road, even in enemy territory, even as the entire stadium roared against them—
They were not afraid.
Because they had each other.
Step by step.
Butker led the special teams unit onto the field.
Mahomes followed. Lance followed.
Though not his usual role, Mahomes sometimes served as the holder for extra points.
It seemed like a small detail, but history was full of botched kicks—ruined simply because the holder mishandled the ball.
On the other side—the Patriots' special teams unit took the field.
The game wasn't over until the whistle blew.
Butker's heart pounded.
This was the moment he had always dreamed of.
A kicker—a role often overlooked, underappreciated, forgotten in the grand scheme of the game.
Even running backs had more value than kickers.
When he told people he played football, they'd light up with admiration.
But when they learned he was a kicker—they'd lose interest entirely.
And yet—
Here he was.
The final play of the game.
All eyes on him.
He could change everything with a single kick.
This was his moment.
Butker knew he was too hyped up—
But kickers didn't need adrenaline. They needed calm.
So—
Deep breath.
Clenched his fist.
Like Lance.
Stay composed. Stay locked in.
When he opened his eyes again—
He was ready.
Wind. Formation. Field conditions.
Butker scanned it all.
The crowd erupted, a deafening explosion of boos and chants, doing everything in their power to rattle him.
Gillette Stadium became a storm.
A kicker—a tiny boat in a raging sea.
Lined up.
Offense against defense.
The Patriots wouldn't just stand there.
They would rush. Attack. Block.
They had no other choice.
It was do or die.
The air tightened—
Butker raised his hand. Ready.
Snap.
Hold.
Step.
Sprint.
Kick.
Boom.
The ball sailed cleanly—
But—
"TIMEOUT!"
The Patriots had called timeout!
The ball went through—but it didn't count.
Just as Butker relaxed, his heart tightened again.
Mahomes turned toward him—a steady gaze through the helmet.
"You good?"
Butker breathed in deep.
Then—nodded firmly.
"I'm good."
This was a common NFL tactic.
The idea? Mess with the kicker's rhythm.
Call timeout at the last possible second, forcing them to kick a meaningless attempt—then make them do it again under even more pressure.
Just like penalty kicks in soccer.
And for a rookie kicker with no playoff experience?
Bill Belichick wasn't about to waste that advantage.
But—
Butker had expected this.
That first kick? He had been a little nervous.
But now—he had settled in.
—
"Pressure is building."
"Butker has had a perfect rookie season—but the playoffs are different."
"Now, the fate of the Chiefs and the Patriots rests on his shoulders. That kind of pressure is unimaginable."
"If it were me—I wouldn't want to be in Butker's shoes right now."
"But here we are. We wait."
—
"Alright."
"Snap."
"The Patriots blitz! They're going all-in!"
Tear.
The Patriots shredded through the Chiefs' line.
Van Noy broke free—
Leapt into the air, arms and legs outstretched—
A wall of darkness crashing toward Butker.
He saw it.
They were all in.
But—
Butker didn't flinch.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't break focus.
He would not let Lance down.
He would not let the offense down.
He would not let the defense down.
This was his moment.
Plant. Swing. Kick.
—
For a brief second—
It was like time paused.
Butker saw everything.
Van Noy's desperate dive.
Mahomes' steady hands.
The roaring crowd.
A shadow loomed over him.
The entire night felt suffocating.
Foxborough's midnight had no sunlight.
But—that was fine.
Because he would bring the light himself.
One kick. One strike.
To pierce through the darkness.
Boom.
The ball soared.
Mahomes' hold was perfect.
The kick was clean.
The ball curved.
Van Noy missed.
Straight through the uprights.
No doubt. No error. No hesitation.
Bullseye.
"28-27."
Final.
The Kansas City Chiefs—
WON.
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