A single football—
Like a sprout breaking through the frozen ground, defying the bitter winter, pushing past the soil to announce the arrival of spring—
Crossed the goal line.
Breaking the deadlock.
"Touchdown!"
The referee and sideline official both raised their hands in unison.
Finally!
This mind-bending drive had reached its conclusion—
With a touchdown.
And yet—
There were no cheers.
No shouts.
Only silence.
Posluszny's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, his heart pounding, his ears ringing, overwhelmed by adrenaline.
Even if they kept hitting a wall—so what?
Even if they couldn't see the light—so what?
Their hearts were still beating.
Their blood was still boiling.
Like weeds, they kept growing. They kept fighting.
Victory mattered. Hope mattered.
But above all—never backing down mattered most.
And they still had each other.
They were still standing together.
Posluszny tilted his head back, staring at the television screen, at the battlefield left in ruins after the storm.
For the first time, he felt his own insignificance.
He could only watch.
One layer.
Then another—
Referees finally pried apart the tangled mass of Chiefs and Jaguars, revealing Lance, still clutching the football.
Amid the chaos, Lance scanned the field.
And locked eyes with Ramsey.
His lips curled.
"Come on."
Lance said it flatly, holding up two fingers and curling them inward.
"Come. Come, come, come."
His tone and expression were as if he were training a puppy, commanding it to follow his instructions. His bright eyes stayed locked on Ramsey.
So—
If Lance was the "soft one"—did that make Ramsey the puppy?
Ramsey understood instantly.
Fury surged through his veins.
He lost it.
Clenching his fists, he charged.
Referee: ???
Excuse me? You think I'm blind?
The head official stepped forward, glaring at Ramsey. "Are you seriously challenging my authority?"
Ramsey, stunned, protested, "Ref, he started it!"
But then—
He turned and saw Lance take off his helmet, pretending to wipe away fake tears, mockingly sniffing like a crying child.
Ramsey's chest tightened.
He almost spat blood.
Lance was mocking him for complaining to the ref?!
But Lance had already turned away, casually handing the football to another official like an obedient student.
Ramsey stood there, shocked.
This guy…!
"Wow!"
"This is bad for Jacksonville."
"Even though the Jaguars' defense has shown elite playoff intensity, even though their individual performances and teamwork have been outstanding—Kansas City's offense has matched them blow for blow, proving their own unity and resilience."
"That fourth-and-one sequence—dazzling, brilliant."
"And the finish? Spectacular."
"You can tell—the Chiefs know how tough their opponent is. They know this game is still a grind. That's why they're showing what true football is about."
"Helping each other. Fighting together."
"And of course, Lance."
"Who can stop Lance?"
"In just eleven yards, he tore through the defense like a warrior slashing through enemy lines, single-handedly tilting the game in Kansas City's favor."
"That's his second rushing touchdown today—his dominance continues."
"And now, the Jaguars are on the edge of the cliff."
"One drive ago, when they gave up a touchdown, it simply broke the deadlock. Anything could still happen."
"But now—failing to stop this second drive has clearly shaken their confidence."
"Ramsey trying to provoke Lance? That's a clear sign."
"It means—the balance has shifted."
Nantz's words settled over the broadcast.
For the first time, reality sank in.
And then—
The Old Oak Tavern exploded.
Two-touchdown lead!
Kansas City was really up two touchdowns in the AFC Championship!
"AHHHHHHH!"
No chants.
No coordinated cheers.
Just pure celebration.
Anderson sat quietly, watching the sea of red erupt around him.
But instead of joining the chaos, he simply watched, soaking it in.
For the first time in a long time—
It felt like Kansas City's heartbeat had returned.
"Time-wise, the game is far from over."
"We still have the entire second half. Let's not forget—just last week, the Chiefs trailed by three touchdowns at halftime, only to storm back for the win."
"But now? The pressure is all on Jacksonville."
"The No. 3 seed in the AFC is down by two scores. If they want to turn things around, defense alone won't cut it anymore."
"The offense needs to step up. Bortles and Fournette need to deliver."
"In fact, the Chiefs were in this exact situation earlier. And Lance stepped up."
"He didn't panic. He stayed patient, waited for the right moment, and seized it. His composure and determination shattered the deadlock."
"Now—"
"It's Fournette's turn."
Fournette—getting exactly what he wanted.
Since last season, Fournette had begged for this opportunity.
He had screamed for the spotlight.
He believed he could be Batman saving Gotham, the hero this league needed.
After dominating the NCAA, after grinding through his rookie NFL season—
Now, he finally had his moment.
The AFC Championship.
The lights. The stage.
All eyes—on him.
"Ladies and gentlemen—introducing, Leonard Fournette!"
Even Roger Goodell knew—
Hyping up Lance was part of the plan.
But if Jacksonville didn't hold their own, the game wouldn't be entertaining.
They needed a rival.
And now, every single camera, every single pair of eyes, turned to Fournette.
Even EverBank Field followed suit.
"LEONARD! FOURNETTE!"
"LEONARD! FOURNETTE!"
Over and over, the chants grew.
The home crowd knew—
Bortles wouldn't save them.
It had to be Fournette.
Caldwell wiped sweat from his fingertips.
He never expected the game to come to this.
On one hand—jealousy.
Lance had completely changed the game for the Chiefs.
On the other—he needed Fournette now.
The No. 3 and No. 4 picks of last year's draft were about to decide not just this game, but possibly the entire NFL season.
After all—
Jacksonville was the Super Bowl favorite.
If they fell here…
"This is insane," Nantz marveled.
"The fate of the entire 2017 NFL season…"
"Is coming down to two running backs."
"The No. 3 and No. 4 picks, once debated, once criticized—are now defining the biggest game of the year."
"Who saw this coming?"
But before Nantz could finish—
BOOM!
Bortles took the snap.
And handed the ball—
To Fournette.
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Powerstones?
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