Brady felt a tightness in his chest.
Whether he liked it or not—the entire league was watching.
Every camera. Every spotlight.
All waiting for this moment.
Brady understood.
But damn it—wasn't Lance supposed to come to him?
He was Tom Brady—why should he be the one to seek out a rookie?
Brady followed the directed gaze—there was Lance, chatting with Gronkowski.
And yet—Lance had no intention of rubbing the win in Brady's face.
His posture, his movements—he was already preparing to leave the field.
Damn it!
Brady took a deep breath.
Like it or not—he had an image to maintain.
The GOAT had to be gracious in defeat.
Otherwise, the media would tear him apart, calling him a sore loser.
So—
He stepped forward.
Instantly, the cameras locked on.
Forget Belichick and Reid.
Forget Brady and Smith.
The real story?
Rookie vs. GOAT.
And just like that—Brady stopped in front of Lance.
Gronk, ever the good teammate, stepped aside.
Lance looked up at Brady.
Brady didn't speak—he was building momentum.
But Lance?
Lance didn't care.
So—he spoke first.
He pointed at his jersey.
"If you're here for a jersey swap, sorry—it's already reserved for my mother."
Brady: …Get lost. Who the hell wants your jersey?
Blood rushed to Brady's head.
He almost choked.
He almost coughed up blood.
Damn it!
Brady's smile wavered for half a second—but with years of mental fortitude, he kept it together.
So—
He extended his hand.
"Good game."
Lance smiled and shook his hand.
Then—Brady stepped forward, pretending to go for a friendly hug.
He patted Lance on the back, leaned in, and whispered—too quiet for the cameras to pick up:
"I've won so many times—letting you have one doesn't matter."
Brady smirked, ready to pull away—
But—
Lance didn't let go.
Still smiling, he leaned in and whispered back:
"From the look on your face—this was definitely not 'letting' me win."
"But since Uncle Tom enjoys reminiscing about the past, unable to move on from his former glory, I won't be cruel enough to point it out."
Brady: …F*!**
A psychological kill shot.
Lance released his hand, stepped back, and dropped another bomb.
"They say winners look forward, losers look back. Now I finally understand. Thank you, Uncle Tom, for the lesson."
Then—without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
No chance for a comeback.
Brady stood there, stunned.
Watching Lance walk off with that same carefree smile.
Brady's expression twitched.
His eyes darted left, then right.
Did anyone hear that?
Did anyone hear what that little bastard just said?!
He looked at the reporters, at the TV crew—
All of them looked confused, as if nothing had happened.
No evidence.
Brady turned back—Lance flashed him a bright, open smile.
"Looking forward to our next game."
Then—he walked away.
Brady turned to Gronkowski, grabbed his arm.
"Did you hear that?!"
Gronkowski nodded.
"Yeah—he said he's looking forward to facing us again. Tom, we'll beat him next time. On the field."
Brady: No! No, no, no!
He called me 'Tom.'
He knew my name this whole time!
That whole "pretending not to remember" act?
It was fake!
He was mocking me the entire time!
But—
Looking at Gronkowski's calm face, Brady was about to explode.
He had no proof.
If he made a big deal out of it now, everyone would just say he was being petty.
They'd call him a sore loser.
So—
He swallowed it.
Forced it down.
Broke his own teeth and swallowed the pieces.
F*! F***, F***, F***!**
Brady burned Lance's image into his memory.
"You'll regret this, rookie. You'll regret waking the beast. This isn't over."
One last deep breath—
Then—he turned and walked away.
—
This moment—broadcast live worldwide.
A global spectacle.
Goodell wasn't the only one waiting for the next battle.
Jim Nantz spoke for every viewer at home.
"Before the 2017 season started, some people hyped up 'Rookie vs. GOAT.'
"Many dismissed it as clickbait."
"Including me."
"Because, let's be real—there was no debate. These two weren't even in the same league."
"But now—I was wrong."
"I was dead wrong."
"Lance proved himself. He's not just the best running back this season—he's one of the elite players in the league."
"Not only is he on Brady's level—he beat Brady."
"Twice."
"Once in the regular season. Once in the playoffs."
"Lance ended Brady's championship defense."
"For six straight years, the Patriots made the AFC Championship."
"Not this time."
"For the first time since 2010, Brady and Belichick lose in the Divisional Round."
"Wow. What a season."
"But you know what?"
"This isn't the end."
"This is the beginning."
"We are going to see more of Lance vs. Brady."
"And I can't wait."
—
The world erupted.
Fans. Analysts. Coaches.
Even Chiefs players couldn't hold back.
Lance had just walked off the field, helmet in hand, as boos rained down from the Gillette Stadium crowd.
But—his face remained calm.
A few teammates patted his shoulder, grinning.
This moment. This victory.
The Chiefs had waited 24 years for this.
Tonight—they had almost given up hope.
They had started making peace with losing.
Telling themselves—"There's always next year."
But—
They changed the script.
They won.
The entire team was on fire.
—
From a distance—Lance saw her.
Lilith Rosen.
Standing at the locker room entrance.
Not speaking.
Arms crossed.
Just watching.
Lance glanced around.
No doubt—her eyes were locked on him.
He raised his voice.
"Alright, guys—I gotta hit the press conference. Unless you all want extra training on Monday when the league fines us?"
"Ugh, devil."
"Always acting like a beast."
"Go, go, that's your problem, not ours!"
Laughter. Banter. Celebration.
Lance walked toward the locker room, stopping in front of Lilith.
Flashed a big, bright grin.
"Hey, Dr. Rosen."
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Powerstones?
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