Night had fallen over Atlanta.
Jacobs lifted his chin slightly, eyes fixed on the television screen, watching Henry and Lance.
They were truly remarkable.
Not only had they led the Crimson Tide to a national championship, but now they were showcasing their talents on the grand stage of the NFL playoffs. Each had dominated for half the game, battling until the final two minutes before a winner was decided.
He wanted to be like them.
Unconsciously, Jacobs straightened his back, a fire igniting in his chest.
Not just Jacobs and Clark—every running back in the program felt the same spark. Even young quarterbacks like Hurts, who had endured growing pains over the past two seasons, were watching with eager anticipation. Seeing Lance, their former teammate, thrive on the professional stage, evolving game by game, made their blood boil with excitement.
Even Saban wasn't immune.
There were times he felt his coaching career was winding down. Retirement loomed closer with each passing season, and he wrestled with the inevitable. But watching Henry and Lance flourish, each carving their own path, made him realize—maybe stepping away wouldn't be so bad after all.
Still, part of him was already looking forward to next season. When the Chiefs and Titans met again, what kind of players would Lance and Henry have become?
"Lance, during the postgame handshake, what exactly did you and Henry talk about?"
"Why didn't you two exchange jerseys? Was there a reason?"
"Are you and Henry rivals? Or just former college teammates?"
The questions came in a relentless wave, one after another.
Clearly, the interest in their meeting wasn't limited to the players on the field. Fans wanted answers, and the reporters were determined to dig up every detail. The headlines were already being drafted.
Too bad Lance wasn't playing along.
"Come on, guys, Derrick Henry isn't my ex-girlfriend, alright?"
Then—uproarious laughter.
Every reporter in the room clapped, whistled, and cheered. Just like that, a new headline was born:
"Lance vs. Henry: A Crimson Tide Rivalry Fueled by Love and War."
How's that for clicks? Guaranteed engagement.
Looking at the reporters packed into the press room—standing room only—it was clear that even for a playoff game, this was on another level. The room was so full that people were still crowding the hallway outside, eavesdropping on the press conference.
This was Lance's star power.
People claimed the NFL had orchestrated his rise, that Roger Goodell had personally pushed him into the spotlight.
But here was the truth: you can't manufacture greatness.
Lance had earned his place.
Goodell had his reasons for backing Lance.
The Asian market? Sure, that was part of it. But the real motivation was long-term strategy.
Years ago, as Peyton Manning and Tom Brady began to age, Goodell saw the writing on the wall. The iconic "Manning vs. Brady" rivalry, which had defined an era, wouldn't last forever. The NFL needed fresh narratives.
That was when the "Legion of Boom" rose to prominence, and Goodell pivoted, shifting attention to the defensive side of the ball. J.J. Watt became the league's next poster boy.
Of course, Manning and Brady extended their dominance for several more years, but Watt still cemented himself as a face of the new generation.
Then, Manning retired.
Watt suffered back-to-back season-ending injuries.
Suddenly, the NFL was out of storylines.
Ratings weren't in jeopardy, but from a marketing standpoint, there was a problem.
For any sport to grow beyond its core audience, it needs heroes—figures who can capture mainstream attention and draw in casual fans.
Take tennis, for example. Once an elite, niche sport, it skyrocketed in global popularity thanks to "Federer vs. Nadal" on the men's side and "Serena vs. Sharapova" on the women's.
Four players, vastly different in style, yet their rivalries electrified audiences.
With the right marketing, sponsorships, and storytelling, tennis exploded in popularity.
The NFL needed that kind of rivalry.
And just as Goodell was considering Aaron Donald as the league's next flagship star—Lance burst onto the scene.
Even without Goodell pulling the strings, social media was already on fire.
Tonight's game had given the league a goldmine of viral moments.
Initially, Goodell had hoped for a Super Bowl showdown between the Chiefs and Rams—Lance vs. Donald, a battle of generational talents. That storyline would've been easy to sell.
But the Rams had already been eliminated by the Falcons.
Only the Chiefs remained.
Goodell sighed, disappointed, but the season wasn't over yet.
If nothing else, Lance had proven one thing:
He always had more surprises up his sleeve.
And judging by tonight's postgame, fans couldn't get enough.
The first half had been a showcase of Kansas City's depth, with multiple players stepping up.
Chaos. Disasters. Mistakes.
The Chiefs nearly collapsed under the weight of their playoff demons.
But when everything was on the line—Lance stood tall.
He steadied the defense when morale wavered.
Then, when the offense returned to the field, he rewrote history.
Reid and Smith couldn't stop praising him in their postgame interviews.
Reid even dropped an instant classic quote:
"For that final trick play, I couldn't think of anyone better than Lance."
Smith: shot through the heart.
Social media exploded.
Countless GIFs and memes flooded timelines.
The touchdown? Already legendary.
But the two-point conversion?
That wasn't just football—it was theater.
Fans were shocked. Awed. Electrified.
And so—what started as a social media wildfire quickly spilled into reality.
The press room was a zoo.
Journalists swarmed Lance like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
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