A Desperate Dive

Jake Elliott, the same age as Lance, had also declared for the draft as a junior. Selected in the fifth round, 153rd overall, by the Cincinnati Bengals, his draft position was respectable for a kicker, as they often go unnoticed until the sixth or seventh rounds. He was the third kicker selected that year.

Unfortunately, Elliott couldn't secure the starting job during preseason competition and was cut. The next day, he was signed to the Bengals' practice squad.

It seemed Elliott's NFL career would be unremarkable—quietly toiling away in obscurity as a backup, drawing a modest paycheck, far from the spotlight. Kicker injuries are rare, so his chances to shine appeared slim.

But fate intervened.

The Philadelphia Eagles' starting kicker, Caleb Sturgis, was injured during their season opener against Washington. Unlike other positions, special teams do not have substitutes; when a kicker is injured, the team is left scrambling.

In their desperation, the Eagles signed Elliott off the Bengals' practice squad.

Three days ago, Elliott packed his bags in Cincinnati and flew to Philadelphia. He didn't even have time to gather all his belongings or secure housing—he was living in a team-provided hotel. He hadn't even met all his new teammates when he was thrust into this pivotal moment.

A moment to decide the game.

Everything had happened so fast, like a whirlwind.

Was he nervous?

God, Elliott felt like his heart might leap out of his chest.

But when he saw Lance across the field, he found his focus—his inspiration.

A rookie. Asian. A running back. Each of those labels alone could have crushed him under the weight of expectations. Yet Lance stood firm, carving his own path in the league despite being thrust into the spotlight.

Elliott wanted to emulate him.

To find his own place in the league.

To beat Lance and claim his moment in the sun.

"Jake, this is your chance," he whispered to himself.

Arrowhead Stadium was roaring.

Not because of Lance, but because fans were ready to cheer their team to victory. After a tense and stifling first half and a rollercoaster of a second, the game had come down to this decisive moment, and the crowd was electric.

Then they saw Lance take the field.

In just two games, Lance had already captured fans' hearts, but he was still new. Today marked his first home game at Arrowhead Stadium, and the fans hadn't yet agreed on a unified chant for him.

"Lance?"

"The Edgewalker?"

Or something else entirely?

Moreover, this was a special teams play. Chanting specifically for Lance felt inappropriate.

The shouts were scattered at first, but they grew louder and more cohesive until they became one united voice.

"Fly!"

A single shout. Then another.

"Fly!"

Again and again, louder and louder, until the stadium shook with it.

Watching this, Bart felt his heart clench.

That number 23 again.

While it wasn't unusual for star players to join special teams for critical plays, Bart's nerves were frayed. The sight of Lance was enough to trigger his frustration and anxiety.

"Reid has lost his mind!" Bart blurted. "For an onside kick, he should've sent in a speedy wide receiver! Why use a running back? Does he have no one else to rely on?"

Lawson calmly replied, "Lance is one of the fastest players on the team."

Bart: …

His words caught in his throat. He couldn't spit them out or swallow them, so he simply glared at Lawson.

Lawson ignored him.

Elliott was preparing for the kick.

As Bart had said, this was a contest of speed. Kansas City sent in Lance, while Philadelphia countered with Nelson Agholor, fresh off his touchdown catch.

Though technically a special teams clash, both sides fielded their star players.

Elliott surveyed the field. Both teams were lined up ten yards apart, their bodies taut with tension, like two armies bracing for battle. The air in the middle of the field seemed to freeze under the weight of their resolve.

The roar of the crowd began to fade.

"Fly!"

"Fly."

"Fly…"

Until only the sound of Elliott's heartbeat echoed in his ears.

He stepped forward. Swung his leg. Made contact.

The ball didn't soar—it skittered along the ground.

This was by design.

If the ball were kicked high, it would likely land in a densely packed area, giving the receiving team an easy advantage. A low, bouncing ball, however, could disrupt the receiving team's rhythm and give the kicking team a chance to recover.

The football rolled and bounced, erratic and unpredictable, like a grasshopper darting through a field.

Elliott followed its trajectory, his eyes alight with hope.

Perfect.

The kick was perfect.

On the other side, Lance had already taken off.

For onside kicks, players are positioned carefully: eight players along the ten-yard line, split into three groups to cover different zones, and three players in the backfield to guard against deep kicks.

Elliott had seen Lance lined up on the left side of Kansas City's formation. He deliberately directed the ball toward the Eagles' left flank—the Chiefs' right flank—forming a triangle between himself, Lance, and the sideline.

This placed Agholor closer to the ball than Lance, giving the Eagles a slight edge.

Moreover, Elliott had slightly underpowered his kick, ensuring the ball wouldn't roll too far.

Lance's instincts screamed danger.

The ball crossed the ten-yard mark and seemed to lose momentum, wobbling as if it might stop altogether.

This was a once-in-a-million scenario.

Tatatatata!

Lance's legs churned like pistons, driving him forward at breakneck speed. He lowered his center of gravity, pushing his vertical momentum to the limit, a blur of motion hurtling toward the ball.

Chaos erupted at midfield.

Kansas City's frontline players didn't bend to pick up the ball, instead focusing on blocking the oncoming Eagles. The first collisions were violent and immediate.

Boom!

A thunderous hit.

In the melee, Agholor emerged, diving toward the ball with everything he had.

Closer.

Closer still.

He felt the ball graze his fingertips—but before he could secure it, a force like a battering ram struck his waist.

Lance.

Lance launched himself headfirst, colliding with Agholor like a missile.

Agholor was sent tumbling away as Lance's hands shot out. His left hand scooped up the ball just before it hit the ground.

A split second later, a wave of bodies crashed into him.

Lance curled into a fetal position, clutching the ball to his chest as chaos erupted around him.

The world blurred into a cacophony of roars, collisions, and triumph.

In that moment, Lance held the game in his arms.

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Powerstones?

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