American Football: Domination

Damn it!

The instant the football slipped from his grasp, Henry's entire body went rigid. He didn't even have time to feel regret—his first instinct was to dive after the ball, desperate to reclaim possession.

But he was a step too late—

Houston had already scooped it up.

Chaos. Disaster. Panic.

A fumble. A damn fumble!

No one had expected Houston to not only react quickly and stop Henry but also force a fumble and recover the ball. It was the first turnover of the game!

Half the stadium was in hell.

The other half was in paradise.

Half drowning in despair.

Half roaring in triumph.

Not just at Arrowhead Stadium—the broadcast booth, TV studios, and millions of fans watching at home erupted into a frenzy.

No one had predicted that Mariota's self-pass touchdown would flip the game on its head.

Just as no one had predicted that Henry, unstoppable all second half, would cough up the ball at the worst possible moment.

Henry stood there, frozen—

Completely and utterly wrecked.

Panting heavily, he stared at the celebrating Chiefs defense, his expression a volatile mix of anger, shame, and something else… something harder to define.

Just moments ago, the game was tilting firmly in Tennessee's favor.

With under three minutes left, all they had to do was run down the clock. One more first down, and the win was secure. The Chiefs wouldn't even get another chance to touch the ball.

But now, the fumble had flipped everything.

Kansas City's offense was about to retake the field—already in field goal range at the Titans' 23-yard line. A touchdown or even a field goal would put them back on top, forcing Tennessee into desperation mode.

The Chiefs had the momentum.

The Titans were staring into the abyss.

It was a catastrophic fumble.

Henry remained motionless, hidden behind his helmet, his expression unreadable. But he didn't move. Not an inch.

Like a condemned man awaiting his sentence.

Because in football, it didn't matter how many big plays you made.

One mistake.

One fumble.

That's all people would remember.

Especially for a running back.

You could rush for five touchdowns, but if you fumbled in a crucial moment? That's all anyone would talk about.

Henry was only in his second year, still young. The emotional whiplash—from struggling in obscurity, to finally breaking out, to now committing a game-altering fumble—was overwhelming.

"… Wait, the officials are reviewing the play."

"This wild-card game has been a rollercoaster, and even now, the outcome is shrouded in uncertainty. Too many twists. Too many turns. This game is far from over."

"If the fumble stands, the Titans are as good as dead. Their miraculous second-half performance will mean nothing."

"The referees will check the replay."

How do you determine a fumble?

It's simple:

If Henry's knee had already touched the ground before the ball came loose, then it was a dead ball—no fumble. The Titans would retain possession.

But if the ball came out before his knee was down, it was a fumble, and the Chiefs' recovery would stand.

A game-deciding call.

No referee wanted to make such a critical decision based purely on the naked eye. So, they went to the replay booth.

Just like in other professional sports, the NFL had adopted instant replay. In controversial situations, the officials would huddle around a monitor, scrutinizing the footage from every possible angle before making a ruling.

And if a coach disagreed with a call? They could throw a red challenge flag.

Yellow flags signaled penalties.

Red flags challenged the refs.

If the challenge was successful, the call would be overturned. If it failed, the team would lose a timeout.

But in this case, Titans coach Mike Mularkey didn't challenge the ruling—the officials themselves were unsure and had initiated the review.

And so, time slowed.

"FUMBLE!"

"FUMBLE!"

Inside Old Oak Tavern, die-hard Chiefs fans sat in absolute silence, fingers clenched together in silent prayer, eyes locked on the TV screen.

As the referees huddled over the replay monitor, the broadcast team analyzed the footage alongside them.

"… The angle isn't clear."

"From this view, it looks like Henry's knee may have been down before the ball popped out. See? Right there. His knee is touching the ground."

"If that's the case, the ball was already dead, and the Titans keep possession."

"But we need another angle. Let's slow it down and review the tape again."

A suffocating silence.

For the Titans.

For the Chiefs.

For everyone watching.

Even though no one was physically moving, the tension on the field felt just as crushing as any tackle.

No one could breathe.

Everyone was waiting.

Waiting for a single verdict.

One call.

Heaven or hell.

Then—

Under the gaze of tens of thousands, the head referee stepped forward, turned on his mic, and announced the ruling:

"… After further review, the ruling on the field is overturned. No fumble. Tennessee retains possession. Second-and-12."

The rest of his words were drowned out by the noise—

No fumble.

Henry's knees nearly buckled.

Just barely—just barely—he had managed to hit the ground before losing control.

He had dodged the bullet.

From heaven to hell,

Back to heaven,

Then plunged into hell once again.

The entire game had been an emotional torture chamber, sending both teams swinging between despair and euphoria like a pendulum of agony.

The Chiefs had seen a flicker of hope—

Only for it to be yanked away.

Inside Old Oak Tavern, despair flooded the room.

Then—

Weston noticed something.

On the TV screen, among the chaos, Lance took a step forward, locking eyes with Houston.

Amid the roar of the stadium, his voice rang out.

"We're still waiting."

"Houston, we're still waiting!"

No.

They couldn't fold.

They couldn't give in.

This moment—

This moment right here was what separated contenders from champions.

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Powerstones?

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