Never Walk Alone

Scanning his teammates' faces one by one, Lance could see the flames of determination reignited in their youthful expressions, their eyes now glimmering with renewed conviction.

Finally, they all turned their gazes toward Lance.

"The game isn't over."

"We're not fighting alone. The Wanderer is still with us, and so are the rest of our teammates standing on the sidelines, along with thousands and thousands of Crimson Tide fans."

"I can't predict the outcome of the game. I can't guarantee that victory will belong to us. Maybe we'll lose, maybe we'll win, but that's not what matters."

"What matters is looking at the friends standing beside us."

"When this season ends, we'll go our separate ways—some turning pro, some returning to everyday life, some continuing to fight. Life won't always go our way; it's full of challenges and obstacles."

"But we will never forget that once we were a part of the Crimson Tide. We stood on this field and created miracle after miracle, marching all the way to Richmond-James Stadium and fighting until the end."

"We will never walk alone!"

His words were delivered with steady composure, but each one struck with undeniable force.

Amid the howling winds, it felt as if their very blood was beginning to boil.

"I don't want to live with regrets. I don't care about winning or losing, but I want to fight until the very last moment."

"I want to hold my head high when the final whistle blows, ready to face any outcome. I want to forever keep you all in my memory, to remember this game that is more than just a game. This is our battle."

"No one can take this memory away from us."

Lance paused for a brief moment.

"I'm ready to keep fighting. Who's with me?"

His tone was calm, candid, and passionate.

The adrenaline surged.

Lance extended his right hand, his gaze unwavering and a small smile on his face. Despite being drenched in sweat and visibly exhausted, his entire being radiated a potent energy.

Smack.

Wide receiver Cam Robinson was the first to place his hand over Lance's, unable to stop his heart from pounding with excitement.

Then Hurts joined in. Then Howard.

One by one, every offensive player placed their hand in the stack, their eyes fixed on Lance.

Lance shouted, "Roll!"

Everyone echoed, "Roll!"

The morale was back.

Just before they lined up, Lance noticed something:

Josh had returned.

He was in a wheelchair, his right knee wrapped in thick bandages with an ice pack on it. The medical staff had wheeled him back to the field, and Clark rushed over to him, visibly concerned.

Burns also spotted Josh and waddled over like a penguin, yelling furiously, clearly displeased with Josh's rash decision. But Josh held his ground, saying nothing, his eyes locked on Burns with a stubborn gaze.

As Burns ranted, he eventually tired himself out. Seeing the resolve in Josh's eyes, Burns sighed, shook his head, and turned away. Yet, he couldn't fully let it go, waving to Clark to keep Josh close, his demeanor showing both frustration and deep care.

Josh turned toward the field.

Win or lose, he wanted to fight alongside his teammates until the very last moment.

From afar, Lance gave Josh a thumbs-up.

At this moment, none of them were fighting alone.

Bending down, Lance got into position.

From the overall game strategy, it was clear that Clemson's exhaustion tactics were highly effective. They only needed to stick to their plan and drain the clock. Even if the Crimson Tide managed to score, the time wasted would ensure Clemson stayed in control.

This meant the Crimson Tide had to adapt.

Tired?

It was no longer a concern. Their focus was razor-sharp.

"Attack!" Hurts called for the snap—

Lance's prediction was accurate. Clemson had shifted into a clock-management strategy. Whether it was a run or a pass, they widened their defensive formation, allowing the Crimson Tide to gain small chunks of yardage, but not enough to break open a big play while forcing precious time off the clock.

While this defensive tactic gave up yardage, it prevented large gains and drained time.

Under these circumstances, a deep pass was the best option for a quick strike, but Hurts' first attempt failed to connect.

The Crimson Tide couldn't afford to waste chances. Each lost play brought them closer to the brink of disaster.

This was a trap, a meticulously set net that Clemson had woven throughout the game, exploiting Alabama's lack of offensive versatility. Now, with the game on the line, they bought themselves a crucial respite.

So, what next?

Second down with ten yards to go.

On the next series, the Crimson Tide attempted five passes in a row. Time was running out, and they needed to speed up the tempo. Three of the five passes were completed, earning them two first downs and pushing the offense near midfield.

But the situation was dire—

There were only two minutes and fifty-five seconds left.

Clemson could afford to play the clock, but the Crimson Tide couldn't. They needed to unleash their explosive playmaking ability right now.

After the snap, Hurts dropped back three steps, once again preparing for a pass. From any angle, it seemed like their only option was to throw, as running the ball would waste too much time. This made Clemson's defense more confident.

Step. Step. Step.

Three steps back, and Hurts spun to hand the ball off to Lance.

If the Crimson Tide's offense was going to break through, it had to be with either a deep pass or a ground attack. With the previous deep attempt unsuccessful, Saban put the burden back on Lance's shoulders.

Lance stayed calm.

He didn't need to survey the defense; Clemson's priorities were clear—

Up front, they kept four rushers focused on pressuring Hurts.

The secondary and linebackers fell back, focusing on guarding against medium and long passes. If Hurts opted for a short pass, they would swarm like locusts to bring down the receiver instantly.

Whether against the pass or the run, Clemson held firm. They were in a position of strength.

Lance's path was clear.

As Hurts handed off the ball, Clemson's secondary was caught off guard. Alabama's receivers and tight ends all sprinted deep, selling the illusion of a deep pass.

The short-range zone was left wide open.

As the ball landed in Lance's hands, he saw the defensive line bearing down on him like a pack of wolves.

But Lance didn't hesitate. He charged forward head-on without flinching.

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Powerstones?

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