Face-Off

Blue 23.

At a glance, Lance could see the predator-like figure of number 23 hurtling toward him. The safety's approach was direct and decisive, like a sharp blade slicing through the chaos. There was no deception, no hesitation—just a straight, diagonal line aimed directly at Lance.

Patrick Chung, the undisputed leader of Asian players in the NFL and a key contributor to the New England Patriots' Super Bowl victories, was renowned for his relentless play. Though still active, Chung was already seen as a Hall of Fame lock—a stalwart known for his no-nonsense, hard-hitting style.

Now, under the bright lights of the stadium, the two Asian players, both wearing the number 23 jersey, faced off yet again.

Tap, tap, tap.

Lance adjusted his pace and began to accelerate, but he didn't unleash his full speed. Instead, he lowered his center of gravity slightly, bracing himself for the imminent collision.

Boom.

The impact came—not between Lance and Chung, but between Chung and Conley. The receiver's tenacious blocking created a sliver of space, forcing Chung to adjust his trajectory.

Opportunity.

With a push-off, Lance planted his foot firmly into the turf, feeling the ground push back with equal force. Power surged through his legs as he sprang forward.

One step.

Two steps.

In mere moments, his speed and strength fully unleashed. Lance became a blur, leaving streaks of motion in his wake as he surged downfield.

Chung, sensing the urgency, scrambled to recover his balance and lunged forward.

Slap.

He connected.

In that split second, Chung's elite instincts and experience as a safety shone through. His diving tackle, despite the awkward angle, managed to grab onto Lance's jersey.

Gotcha.

Clutching the fabric with both hands, Chung yanked back with all his might, leveraging his body weight in a desperate attempt to bring Lance down.

The ref's whistle blew, and a yellow flag flew through the air.

Holding.

No doubt, the penalty was called—but the play wasn't over.

Because Lance kept going.

"What?!"

Al Michaels sprang from his seat, shouting in disbelief.

"He broke free!"

"Lance just shrugged off Chung's hold! Using sheer speed and power, he dragged Chung along for two full steps before breaking free of his grasp. His upper body was exposed, shoulder pads peeking through the torn jersey, but nothing could stop him."

"Oh my God!"

"Who can stop Lance?!"

From the 40-yard line to the 30, a mere ten yards on the field, Lance battled through a storm of adversity. Those yards might as well have been miles, given the onslaught he faced.

At the Old Oak Tavern, the crowd was silent, mesmerized by the screen, holding their collective breath as Lance broke away.

Then—

Whoosh!

The room erupted into wild cheers, patrons leaping from their seats, fists pumping the air as Lance surged ahead. The white jersey streaked downfield, distancing himself further and further from the chasing Patriots defenders.

Rather than closing the gap, the pursuit grew more futile.

"Twenty!"

"Fifteen!"

"Ten!"

"Five!"

There was no stopping him.

Touchdown!

Lance raced into the end zone, slamming the football into the turf with ferocity and tilting his head back in a triumphant roar.

"Ahhhh!"

Months of frustration poured out in a primal yell. Lance had always been ready to contribute to his team's success, even as a cog in the greater machine. But deep down, he knew his abilities could lead the charge and turn the tide in critical moments.

This was that moment.

All the waiting, the holding back—it all came flooding out in an instant.

Standing in the Patriots' end zone, Lance looked up at the crowd and roared again, his clenched fists shaking with adrenaline and pride.

"This," his body language declared, "is my answer to you."

At Gillette Stadium, the silence was deafening.

Shock.

Awe.

For a few moments, the storied arena that had witnessed countless battles and victories stood utterly still.

"Unbelievable."

"I mean, truly unbelievable."

"The New England defense had Smith and the Chiefs completely locked down, forcing Smith to abandon his original plan and make a desperation play by dumping the ball to Lance. Yet, in that moment of crisis, Lance displayed his full arsenal—speed, power, agility, and composure—turning what should've been a broken play into a 50-yard sprint to the end zone."

"Wow."

"I mean, wow."

"But that's not all. In this 2-minute-and-17-second drive, the Kansas City Chiefs used just three plays—all running plays, all handled by the rookie Lance. He single-handedly marched the team 75 yards downfield, dismantling New England's ground defense."

"Chris, your thoughts?"

Al Michaels' excitement was palpable. Even as a seasoned veteran of the booth, he couldn't contain his awe at what had just unfolded.

Collinsworth exhaled sharply, his eyes wide with amazement.

"The fourth quarter has only just begun. Everything is still up in the air."

"As I said earlier, offense is the key to this game, and now Lance is the Chiefs' X-factor. He's shattered the defensive balance, and now the Patriots are left scrambling. This was unexpected even for me. But now, all eyes will be on Brady."

"Last season's Super Bowl MVP needs to summon his very best. Brady likely didn't expect to face such pressure in the season opener, but here we are."

Michaels nodded, catching on quickly. "Are you saying we're finally seeing it?"

Collinsworth grinned. "Yes. 'Rookie versus GOAT.' Buddy, we're living it."

Though Lance and Brady were both offensive players and could never directly clash, their roles as the driving forces of their respective offenses had transformed the game. Lance's explosive 75-yard drive to reclaim the lead shifted the momentum, leaving Brady to respond.

Thus, the duel began.

After a moment of stunned silence, Gillette Stadium roared back to life with thunderous energy.

This was familiar ground.

They had Tom Brady. They had Bill Belichick.

They weren't worried.

Brady stood on the sideline, helmet in hand, calm and composed. He glanced up at the scoreboard:

35–34.

With the extra point, the Chiefs had taken a narrow one-point lead.

Brady lowered his gaze, utterly unbothered. He didn't acknowledge Lance—he didn't need to.

Getting ruffled by every twist and turn wasn't his style. He wasn't here for drama. He was here to win.

Picking up his helmet, Brady strode onto the field, his posture unshaken, exuding quiet authority:

"Rookie," his presence seemed to say, "watch and learn."

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Powerstones?

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