Furious Rage

Power slipped, and Brady found himself knocked off balance, falling hard onto his back. He didn't waste time lamenting. Hands planted firmly on the ground, he scrambled to his feet just in time to see his pass fall incomplete—

The fine line between heaven and hell was drawn right there.

Frustration boiled within him. This drive had been crushed under the relentless, suffocating pressure from the Chiefs' defense. Not an inch of breathing room. The offensive line, Brady fumed inwardly, hadn't done their job.

But before his anger could erupt, he caught sight of Justin Houston, who had also been knocked down during the play.

Houston was back on his feet, hands raised high, with a grin stretching across his face.

For a moment, Brady assumed Houston was about to trash-talk. He was ready to fire back. But instead, Houston shouted—

"Rookie!"

What?

Brady froze, momentarily confused by the outburst.

"Rookie!" Houston called again, flashing an easygoing smile. He wasn't taunting; he wasn't snarling. Instead, he was almost... casual, as he backed away.

Brady's simmering rage hitched mid-throat.

Then it happened.

The Chiefs' defense erupted into a collective cheer, each player thrusting their fists into the air and shouting in unison—

"Rookie!"

One after another, the chant echoed across the field.

This... was their response?

Brady didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. He felt caught in the absurdity of it all. Was he the only one who thought this "Rookie vs. GOAT" storyline was a joke?

Surely, they didn't think antics like this could rattle him?

Brady turned his gaze away from Houston and scanned the field, searching.

It wasn't hard to find the rookie.

For the first time, Brady looked directly at Lance.

The rookie didn't appear anything like the trash-talking menace Brady might have expected. Instead, he was slender, unassuming, and almost scholarly in appearance—more like a bookworm than an athlete. Lance stood confidently, smiling, as he went down the line of Chiefs defenders, exchanging high-fives with each of them.

The camaraderie was evident. There wasn't a trace of rookie awkwardness in the way Lance carried himself among the veterans.

Was this... the change Lance had brought to Kansas City?

Impossible.

Brady shook off the thought, convincing himself it was all just an elaborate ploy. A carefully constructed façade meant to distract, to create the illusion of unity and invincibility.

He inhaled deeply, letting the burning frustration subside, then turned back toward the Patriots' sideline.

His eyes landed on the offensive line seated on the bench, chugging water bottles with detached expressions.

Anger reignited.

BANG!

Brady grabbed a defensive unit's tablet from a nearby table and hurled it to the ground. The screen shattered on impact.

"Dammit!"

"DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT!"

His voice rose to a fever pitch.

"That's all you've got in the tank? Seriously?!"

"Pull your heads out of your asses and act like professionals! You're better than this garbage!"

"I'm not losing our first game of the season to a damn rookie!"

Foaming with rage, Brady stormed off and dropped onto the bench, muttering under his breath. His laser-focused glare bore a hole into the turf as he tried to collect himself.

No one dared to approach him—not even Gronkowski.

The rest of the Patriots sideline watched silently, brimming with unease.

Brady's frustrations, no matter how much he tried to deny it, were magnified by the media-fueled narrative surrounding this game. The incessant chatter about Lance and the "Rookie vs. GOAT" theme had wormed its way into his psyche, and now, it had detonated.

With one glance at their quarterback, the Patriots' defense knew it was their turn to step up.

The scoreboard read 35–34.

The defense needed to stop the Chiefs from scoring again and hold the line until Brady could return to the field to retake the lead.

It was a one-point deficit. Hardly insurmountable.

The defense steeled themselves. They were, after all, the same unit that had blanked the Atlanta Falcons in the second half of the Super Bowl. Lance's earlier successes had been a fluke, they reasoned.

One opening kickoff return.

One strong drive.

That's all.

A rookie wasn't going to outshine them twice.

Malcolm Butler, in particular, swore to himself that history wouldn't repeat.

On the field, the Patriots punted the ball, a solid kick that forced Kansas City back to their 28-yard line.

The Chiefs' offense took the field again—without Lance.

Instead, it was Kareem Hunt who lined up as the running back.

The Patriots' defense collectively exhaled. They didn't underestimate Hunt, but they viewed Lance's absence as confirmation that their earlier analysis was correct: Lance wasn't conditioned for the grueling pace of a professional game yet.

What they didn't anticipate was how motivated Hunt was.

In Kansas City's locker room, everyone knew Hunt had been quietly vying for supremacy with Lance. The rookie's explosive drives earlier in the game had only added fuel to Hunt's competitive fire.

This wasn't just about the Patriots anymore; this was personal.

Sure enough, Hunt played like a man possessed.

Fueled by sheer determination, he delivered powerful runs and swift cuts that left the Patriots scrambling to keep up. The Chiefs' balanced offense—alternating between passes and runs—kept New England guessing, while Andy Reid masterfully orchestrated his team's attack.

For three consecutive third downs, the Chiefs converted, pushing past midfield and into Patriots territory.

The scoreboard hadn't changed yet, but Gillette Stadium was growing restless.

And then, just as they feared, Lance returned to the field.

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Powerstones?

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