Surrounded on all sides—caught in a pincer!
Lance had just crossed the line of scrimmage when the tightly woven formation unfolded before him. Not just immediate pressure—safeties loomed downfield as well.
A mountain of defenders.
Yet Lance wasn't in a rush.
He stopped, drawing the defense in—baiting them. In that stillness, a chain reaction triggered. Like watching a slow-motion domino fall, he could clearly see the instinctual flinches of defenders—a glimpse into their crisis reflexes. The chaos played out before his eyes.
Burns on the right, Williams on the left, both accelerated—not because they couldn't stop, but because they were going full throttle, teeth clenched, determined to stop Lance head-on.
Only T.J. was different.
He noticed Lance's pause and instantly sounded the alarm, planting his feet, dropping his center of gravity, ready for anything—like he was facing Le'Veon Bell.
T.J. took the stance of a hunter, eyes locked on Lance.
The trident attack transformed—both sides lunged forward like twin daggers.
Third, Lance slipped through.
He finally moved, feinting right, then cutting left without missing a beat. In his vision, T.J. reacted like a delayed instant replay, mirroring Lance's motion but half a second late—already falling behind.
A smile crept across Lance's lips. He burst forward, full speed, angling left, turning defense into offense, stacking momentum atop balance and speed.
The moment was déjà vu.
In the opening drive, Lance had run a similar play. Now he was about to copy and paste.
The first time, maybe coincidence. The second? A blatant statement.
Lance broke the Steelers' defense wide open with Bell's style—like a circus act, unchallenged. It was a slap in the face. He hit their left cheek and was now going for the right.
T.J. wasn't having it.
Maybe he was Lance's friend. Maybe he felt for Bell. Maybe he disagreed with how the team treated Bell.
But now, on the field, Lance's defiance felt like a challenge to the very pride of Pittsburgh—a symbolic domination of their legacy by using Bell's own playbook.
T.J. couldn't allow that. He wouldn't disgrace the jersey on his back.
He gritted his teeth, gave everything he had—even if he'd lost half a step. With pure adrenaline, he burned through every cell in his body, firing off like an arrow.
Williams, panicked, couldn't even recall what happened. Fear and helplessness clouded his mind. He tensed up, dropped low, angled his body—
A classic bracing-for-impact pose.
Like a turtle retreating into its shell.
The collision never came.
Startled, Williams realized he'd closed his eyes—instinctively defensive, and he'd missed everything.
As he opened them, a gust of wind slapped him like a backhand. Too late to react, he glimpsed a streak of red zipping past in his peripheral vision.
His heart dropped: I'm toast.
Before he could make sense of anything, he felt a push from the right rear, not the expected left front.
Turning, he saw T.J. slam on the brakes behind him, barely avoiding a collision. T.J. managed to stabilize himself, but wasted no time—he restarted, circled around Williams, and chased along the diagonal.
Wait—what? Him? Where's—
Williams was dizzy. He'd lost sight of Lance and T.J. altogether. There was no time for shame or dignity—his head was spinning, birds chirping above his ears.
Something… felt wrong.
Lance hadn't chosen a head-on collision. Instead, he veered around Williams' left shoulder, using him as a screen—blocking T.J. and Burns, and slicing through the defense diagonally like a hot knife through butter.
The key was fluidity.
Here, "slipping through" wasn't about brute force—it was elegant movement, the kind that breezes through chaos without leaving a trace.
Daring—yet silky smooth.
Lance didn't slow for a second. Like flowing water, he breezed past the first wave. To his left, a wide lane opened. In the corner of his eye, he spotted a cornerback and safety converging from the far side, but that didn't break his stride.
One step—before anyone touched him—he'd already passed Pittsburgh's 40-yard line.
T.J.: Danger. Danger danger danger!
He stayed locked onto Lance—
Today, the Steelers wore retro black uniforms, crashing headlong into the Chiefs' fiery red.
A streak of black rushed horizontally—trying to intercept that red slash carving a diagonal line across the field.
Closer. They were about to clash.
But just then, the red flash skidded—tiptoed, chest lifted, hips tucked—dodging the track entirely. At the very last second, it swerved out of black's way.
T.J. saw the focus in Lance's eyes behind his helmet. Lance saw the ferocity in T.J.'s.
Barely missed—but still out of reach.
T.J. gritted his teeth, spun in place—but too late. Lance had already cut from diagonal to straight ahead, slipping past T.J.'s position from half a second ago—brushing past his back. T.J. was turned the wrong way, couldn't tackle.
Lance danced on a knife's edge.
That danger—that firewalking—that's what allowed him to tie up T.J.'s body. All that muscle—no place to use it.
T.J. watched helplessly as Lance slipped past his shoulder.
The red wave flowed past the black shield—grace overcoming power, finesse toppling brute force. Color and movement clashed, igniting the air.
The world was on fire.
He spun, leaped—no running start, no footing—but he refused to give up. With raw, desperate willpower, he flung himself.
No certainty. No hesitation.
Because if he hesitated even a millisecond, Lance would be gone.
With a grunt, T.J. launched—arms wrapping around Lance's waist—
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