American Football: Domination

The atmosphere was heavy—

The playoffs were different from the regular season.

In the regular season, no matter how dire or desperate the situation, they could still muster the belief to fight back, standing on the edge of a cliff with the conviction that they could claw their way back up. But in the playoffs, there was no safety net, no second chances. The looming fear of elimination clamped down on their hearts like a vise, threatening to crush them.

The more they thought about it, the more their minds became cluttered, and the harder it was to focus.

Lance was experiencing this for the first time.

He admitted to himself—he hadn't played well in the second half. He had let it get to him. His focus had slipped, and when focus wavered, his ability to read the defense and interpret plays suffered. Even the smallest misread or hesitation could throw off the entire team's execution, turning what should have been a smooth sequence into disjointed chaos.

So, what now?

Give up?

Not a chance.

"F**k!"

"Fk, fk, f**k! Damn it, you ungrateful bastards!"

"Do you have any idea how badly I want to get out there and kick Mariota's monkey ass?"

"No? Well, I can't."

"I feel like a lunatic locked in an asylum, hands and feet tied up, forced to sit in front of a TV while you guys get your asses handed to you by Henry!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. This isn't new."

"All season, we've watched Lance run all over defenses, humiliating them. Now, we're on the receiving end, getting schooled by another Crimson Tide legend. This is karma."

"So what now? Are you just gonna roll over?"

"Fk that! Fk that to hell!"

A voice as sharp as a rusty knife sliced through the silence, and Houston looked up, startled—

That voice…?

Then, he saw Lance holding up a phone, the speaker blaring with static-filled audio.

It was Eric Berry.

One by one, the players turned to Lance, faces filled with confusion.

Lance acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, fiddling with the volume before shrugging. "That's as loud as it goes."

The scene was ridiculous—Berry's furious ranting blaring from the phone while Lance nonchalantly adjusted the settings. The absurdity of it all was almost comical.

Slowly, the offensive and defensive players started gathering around, trying to hear better. And as they listened, their lips curled into smirks.

Berry's familiar voice.

Lance's silent clown act.

It was the jolt they needed.

"...NO!"

"The game isn't over. The season isn't over."

"You can lie down and take it like a bunch of cowards, or you can fight until the last damn second and go down swinging. I'll be damned if we let Arrowhead watch us quit!"

"We can lose. We can get embarrassed and sent home in the first round again. But we WILL NOT roll over without a fight!"

"Not a f**king chance!"

"Now get up and kick their asses, or I'll hobble over there on one leg and kick yours!"

Profanities.

Endless, unfiltered, merciless profanities.

Yep. That was Eric Berry.

Lance glanced at the field—special teams had finished their kickoff, and the defense was up. Without hesitation, he hung up the call.

Houston gawked at him. "Did… did you just hang up on Eric?"

Lance grinned. "Houston, time to go."

Houston blinked, then burst into laughter. "Damn, rookie. You're crazy. A lunatic! Ha! But I like it."

Without another word, Houston grabbed his helmet and rallied the defense onto the field.

The moment they stepped onto the turf, something shifted—

Kansas City's offense had stalled. Smith, so efficient in the regular season, had wilted under playoff pressure. The passing game was nonexistent, and all the weight fell onto the rushing attack. But a one-dimensional offense was easy to contain, and the harder they forced it, the worse it got.

A vicious cycle.

Even Lance couldn't carry the offense alone.

And he wasn't experienced enough to right the ship on his own.

If the Chiefs wanted to turn the tide, it had to start with the defense. Their red-zone defense had held firm all game, but that wasn't enough anymore.

They needed to stop Tennessee before they even reached midfield.

Kansas City didn't need a miracle play.

They needed focus.

They needed to shut out everything that had happened and lock in on what they had to do.

So, Lance had called Berry.

There were things Berry could say that Lance couldn't.

And Berry's words reminded them—they weren't alone. He was still with them, still expecting them to fight.

Houston exhaled slowly, eyes sharpening—

They could lose. They could be humiliated again.

But they would not hand over the game without a war.

When the defense lined up, Houston's aura was different. He locked onto Mariota and Henry, muscles coiled, senses heightened.

Then—

Explosion.

Houston burst forward, slicing through the chaos like a missile.

He didn't hesitate, weaving through blockers with ruthless precision, a predator locked onto its prey—Mariota.

But—

The ball wasn't in Mariota's hands.

Henry?

Houston's eyes darted. Yes.

Henry had it, trying to force his way up the middle. But Kansas City had reinforced the interior. The trenches were clogged. No gaps.

Henry had to adjust.

A split-second hesitation. A subtle shift.

In that instant, Henry saw Houston.

Houston saw Henry.

Their eyes met through their helmets.

Houston reacted first.

A lunge. A spin.

His upper body twisted, arms flaring out like a raptor's wings. In one fluid motion, he wrapped Henry's legs in a vice grip, using every ounce of weight to drag him down.

It happened in an instant. Houston's explosiveness gave him a fraction of a second's advantage, just enough to secure the tackle before Henry could react.

Henry's legs were trapped.

No escape.

As he toppled backward, Houston rammed his helmet into Henry's arm, jarring the ball loose.

Force. Momentum. Gravity.

A violent clash of energy.

The ball popped free.

Fumble!

"OH MY GOD!"

"FUMBLE!"

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Powerstones?

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