Gipson.
Ramsey.
Both locked in, completely focused.
They had nowhere to retreat.
Kansas City's layered fake—the play-action into the screen—had torn through Jacksonville's defense, just like it had back in Week 6 when the Chiefs stunned Pittsburgh in a fourth-quarter comeback.
Fourth-and-one? Converted with ease.
But—Lance was still on his feet.
Behind Gipson and Ramsey lay the end zone.
If Lance broke through, this moment would shatter Jacksonville's confidence, making the situation even worse.
They had to stop him.
Ramsey held his ground, eyes locked onto Lance.
Gipson charged forward, unburdened by coverage responsibilities. His only job was to secure the tackle.
Lance was immediately at a disadvantage.
Telvin's assessment was correct—Lance was trapped.
What now? Take the safe option and go down?
No.
Lance wanted to try.
Only five yards remained. It wasn't much space to maneuver, but it was enough.
Ramsey never took his eyes off Lance. A wicked grin spread across his face as he taunted, "Soft."
Lance ignored him.
In a split second, an idea struck.
He glanced at Gipson, then feinted left—as if he was willingly running straight into his arms, aiming to squeeze through the gap between Gipson and Kelce.
That one move—
Triggered an instant reaction.
Gipson's body instinctively tightened on his right side, muscles coiling in anticipation. It was an unconscious response, a reflex.
But Lance had planned for this.
Just as quickly, he cut to the right.
Ramsey reacted, stepping forward.
Now, it didn't matter if Lance went left or right—he was trapped.
Yet instead of despair, Lance's eyes lit up.
Ramsey had stepped up.
A small step—but enough.
Ramsey sneered, "Soft!"
This time, Lance didn't ignore him.
Through his helmet, Lance locked eyes with Ramsey, a smirk curling at his lips. He didn't know if Ramsey could see it—but the tension between them instantly escalated.
Perfect.
Lance exploded forward, charging directly at Ramsey like a runaway train.
At the same time, Ramsey also powered up, ready to deliver a crushing hit.
Ramsey: Heh, you really wanna run straight at me? Fine. Bad choice. You'll regret it.
"Soft!"
He kept yelling.
"Soft! Soft! Soft! Limp little soft—"
And then—
UGH.
The insults stopped mid-sentence.
Ramsey's eyes bulged.
You…you tricked me!
Just as they were about to collide, Lance angled his body slightly left—just a fraction.
He dropped his weight, lowering his shoulder into Ramsey's chest.
A tiny adjustment—
But devastating.
Lance's shoulder drove into Ramsey's sternum like a battering ram.
A rush of air forced its way out of Ramsey's lungs.
His body froze. His limbs went limp. His brain—
Blank.
Like someone had flipped a switch, his consciousness flickered.
Was…was that an MMA technique?
And—
That wasn't even all of it.
From the outside, it looked like both players had stopped—as if they had canceled each other out.
But that wasn't the case.
Ramsey locked up, while Lance kept moving.
Lance's shoulder stung, but he was still in control.
A quick reset—
Then he struck again.
This time, his right shoulder slammed into Ramsey's right side.
Thud.
BOOM!
The first impact was heavy.
The second? Explosive.
Ramsey—
Spun.
Like a top.
Ramsey: Huh?
His voice caught in his throat.
His brain still worked, but his body was unresponsive.
He felt weightless.
Like a kite with a snapped string.
Damn it.
But Lance wasn't done.
Breaking through Ramsey, he kept pushing forward—
And before his foot even touched the ground—
Gipson's snarling face appeared right in front of him.
Lance took a deep breath—
And charged.
Gipson had been waiting for this.
Lance had bulldozed through everyone else, but now he was facing someone ready.
Gipson braced.
Lance slammed into him, but this time—
Gipson held firm.
His muscles absorbed the force, digging in like a mountain.
Not only that—he grabbed Lance's arm.
A quick step up—and they were locked together.
Gipson wasn't letting go.
Even if it meant dragging Lance down right in front of the goal line.
If they could just stop him here, they'd force Kansas City into a first-and-goal from the 1-yard line.
Danger.
Lance felt it.
Gipson was locking him down.
He had no space left to move.
Damn.
But there was no time to panic.
Lance abandoned the idea of escape.
Instead, he drove forward, ramming into Gipson head-on.
They were locked together, pushing, twisting, straining.
For a second—
Silence.
Then—
KELCE.
Kelce appeared from behind, pushing into Lance, adding his strength to the effort.
Kelce had noticed Lance was trapped, so he'd thrown off Telvin and rushed in.
And—
Here came Hill.
Here came Smith.
Plant. Push. Drive.
Grain by grain—
The pile shifted.
On the other side, Jacksonville responded.
Safety Church arrived, ramming into Gipson's back.
Then came Telvin.
Then came Ramsey—
"SOFT?! F*** OFF!"
Ramsey had lost his mind, screaming in Lance's face, but Kansas City held the line.
Neither side backed down.
It became a mass collision, a clash of willpower, a war of brute strength.
The stadium—
Silent.
The Old Oak Tavern—
Silent.
No one spoke.
No one breathed.
The referees moved in, preparing to whistle the play dead.
Then—
A little more.
Then—
A little more.
Then—
"AHHHHHH!"
Lance broke through, lunging forward with everything left in his body.
The ball—
Crossed the goal line.
The whistle blew.
"TOUCHDOWN!"
The referee's arms shot up.
The battle for fourth-and-one was over.
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Powerstones?
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