The Eagles' safety Malcolm Jenkins was charging forward at full speed.
Although he'd been misled by Hill's earlier fake, his positioning in the backfield had given him enough time and space to close in and contain Lance.
To be fair, Lance's chaotic, zigzagging push forward had only gained five yards in total; the vertical distance wasn't much. But every time it looked like he was going down, every time the crowd gasped at his near collapse, Lance would find a way to keep the play alive—
And, crucially, he had converted the third down.
Now, his feet kept churning, refusing to give up.
Jenkins' internal alarms were screaming. He could feel the return of a nightmare scenario—Lance breaking free for another highlight-reel run.
His feet pounded harder.
Speed, strength, positioning—everything was in Jenkins' favor. He couldn't afford to leave an opening this time. He had to end this, cleanly and decisively.
Jenkins didn't rush it. At this point, whether Lance gained ten or fifteen more yards didn't matter. What mattered was ensuring Lance didn't reach the end zone. Jenkins stayed calm, methodical. When the time was right, he would strike.
A perfectly-timed hit would knock Lance out of bounds.
Jenkins was almost there, but—
Suddenly, Lance leaned in toward him.
Lance's right hand smashed into Jenkins' shoulder.
Lance knew he couldn't just wait to be hit; otherwise, he'd be forced out of bounds. His footing was unsteady, his knees soft, and his speed wasn't there. If he wanted to break free, he had to fight back.
Lance didn't let Jenkins come to him. He initiated the contact, throwing his arm forward in a desperate attempt to fight for every inch of turf.
Lance was running on fumes. He didn't have the strength to overpower Jenkins.
And Jenkins was ready. Though caught off guard by Lance's initial shove, he managed to hold his ground.
Jenkins was determined to push Lance out of bounds.
Lance was just as determined to stay inbounds and keep moving.
Their bodies tangled together, both refusing to give an inch.
Collision. Struggle. Deadlock.
Pash, sitting in the broadcast booth, could hardly believe his eyes. He had been one of the few who witnessed Lance's first football game, back when speed and agility were his only weapons. Sure, Lance's strength had always been solid, but it wasn't his calling card. That's why they called him the Edge Walker—someone who danced along the sidelines, using speed and finesse to break away.
Here was Lance, battling a Pro Bowl safety in a head-to-head test of power. And this was after plowing through a defensive end, shaking off a linebacker, and escaping a cornerback. Despite being on the verge of collapse, Lance was still fighting.
Admiration. Shock. Respect.
"Look at this battle!"
"Lance and Jenkins are locked together in a brawl—wait, is this football or mixed martial arts? Lance's hand is gripping Jenkins' shoulder, preventing Jenkins from getting leverage. Jenkins, in turn, is trying to muscle him out of bounds. This is pure grit!"
"Jenkins is trying everything he can, but Lance is still gaining ground. Look at this—he's pulling ahead, half a body length now!"
"Lance tries to break free—Jenkins won't let go! He grabs Lance's helmet! There's the flag!"
"But that doesn't stop Lance!"
"Lance! Lance! Lance!"
"Jesus Christ! Lance and Jenkins rolled into the end zone together, crashing into the pylon. That's a touchdown!"
"After a struggle that felt like it lasted for hours, with five penalty flags between both teams, the Chiefs have come out on top in this war of attrition!"
"Touchdown. Without a doubt, that's a touchdown."
Pash felt his scalp tingle. What Lance had just done—so relentless, so unyielding, so fearless—was astonishing. Against overwhelming odds, Lance had displayed raw courage and determination. Even from the broadcast booth, Pash could feel his pulse racing, his ears ringing with adrenaline.
On the sidelines, Pederson's knees nearly buckled.
A battle. A struggle. A deadlock.
And yet, in the end, this was the result.
Pederson forced himself to stay composed. He couldn't let his frustration show—not to his players, not to his opponents.
Still, he immediately rushed toward the referees to protest. "Out of bounds! He was out of bounds!"
Jenkins joined him, scrambling to his feet to plead his case. He waved his arms frantically, insisting Lance had stepped out before reaching the end zone.
But over on the Chiefs' sideline, none of that mattered.
Arrowhead Stadium was already celebrating.
"He's here! He's there! He's everywhere! He's the Edge Walker—Lance, Lance, Lance!"
The chant echoed through the stadium, growing louder with every repetition.
At the Old Oak Tavern, the same song was being sung.
West smiled again as he moved quickly through the bar, carrying trays of drinks to cheering customers.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anderson, the tavern owner, carrying a beer to a quiet corner table.
Sitting there was Chris Provost—the greasy-haired man who had once seemed so full of life.
It had been a year since Chris lost his job. He'd managed to scrape by doing odd jobs here and there, but the constant rejection had worn him down. The look in his eyes—empty, lost—made the entire bar worry for him.
Even the Old Oak Tavern was struggling to stay afloat. Chris owed so much on his tab that Anderson had stopped letting him put drinks on credit.
Anderson set the beer down in front of Chris and gave the table a firm pat.
Chris looked up, startled. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he quickly rubbed them away with the back of his hand.
West swallowed hard. Maybe—just maybe—hope still existed. Maybe the darkness would eventually lift, revealing light at the end of the tunnel.
Back at Arrowhead Stadium, the referees upheld the ruling:
Unless Pederson challenged the call, the decision stood.
And so, the entire city of Kansas City erupted in unison.
The blood pumped faster. The noise grew louder.
After a grueling, hard-fought battle, the Chiefs had extended their lead. Now, the Eagles needed two touchdowns to pull ahead. The balance of the game had shifted dramatically.
In the ESPN studio, Bart sat frozen, the frustration written all over his face. How had it come to this?
There was still hope.
The fourth quarter remained, and ten points weren't insurmountable. Pederson, after all, was Reid's protégé. His strength lay in offense, not defense. And Wentz—the second overall pick last year—surely still had something to prove.
How could the second overall pick lose to Lance, the third pick?
Bart clenched his jaw and kept his eyes glued to the screen. His reputation was on the line now.
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