Defensive end Flowers was laser-focused, his aching muscles pulled taut to the limit, eyes gleaming with predatory intent as he exploded off the line—
Mahomes. Mahomes. Mahomes.
His mind, his vision—locked solely on the opposing quarterback. Every ounce of his strength unleashed like a tiger pouncing downhill.
Undoubtedly, Flowers had set his sights on the sack.
A subtle shift in balance, his arms swinging wide like giant fans to brush aside his blocker, seizing the initiative, slipping through with finesse. His footwork followed swiftly, closing in without hesitation—
Wait—why was Lance here?
Just a moment ago, Flowers had been calculating his flawless move, only to find himself stepping right into the hunter's trap.
His confident grin twisted into sudden fear.
But there was no time to think—before Flowers could even plant his hands, Lance's upward-driving hit crashed into him, toppling him completely.
The mighty tiger reduced to a stumbling kitten.
Forget breaking through to sack Mahomes—Flowers was flattened by the pursuing offensive line, buried in the pile, watching helplessly as the defense's numerical advantage evaporated.
In his inverted, spinning world, he could only glimpse Lance already streaking away—charging straight at Bentley.
Bentley: What the hell?!
One second, Bentley was cursing Lance, mocking him as a coward, convinced that his brutal tackle had broken Lance's spirit. Still, he dutifully stuck to his coverage assignment.
The next second, Lance came tearing toward him like a wolf, eyes gleaming with ruthless aggression beneath his helmet. It wasn't just ferocity—it was a direct, calculated charge aimed squarely at Bentley's knees, reckless, illegal—
Lance had lost his mind?
But the sheer, tangible threat of injury clamped icy fingers around Bentley's heart, his knees buckling involuntarily.
Bentley's steps faltered—then he caught a glimpse of Lance's sneer, unmistakably laced with mockery:
In a flash, Lance juked laterally, cutting past Bentley like a gust of wind roaring by.
Staggering, stumbling, Bentley barely regained his balance after two unsteady steps. Realization hit hard: Lance had baited him, humiliated him, turned him into a fool.
Shame and fury overwhelmed his reason, igniting his competitive fire.
Digging in, Bentley pivoted and accelerated, sprinting at full throttle, chasing Lance stride for stride.
Forty-five-yard line.
Bentley finally grasped the magnitude of Lance's ability. Even with fatigue mounting, Lance's burst of speed widened the gap—a ten-yard burst, and Lance kept accelerating beyond reach.
But Bentley wouldn't quit—couldn't quit.
Man coverage, one assignment, one target. If he failed to stick with Lance, the rookie would be wide open.
Jaw clenched, lungs burning, Bentley pressed on with everything he had.
Thirty-five-yard line.
Bentley's pupils dilated as Lance's figure loomed larger.
Lance wasn't slowing—he was adjusting, prepping for the catch.
Full sprint, closing the gap, Bentley's eyes flicked toward the pocket.
Mahomes was in trouble, trapped in a sea of blue jerseys, dancing on a razor's edge, slipping, falling—but then he saw it—
Without hesitation, Mahomes twisted, dodged a third near-sack, relying entirely on upper body strength, his legs useless, launching a rainbow pass skyward.
The football arced through the air.
Mahomes collapsed, drained, but his eyes never left the ball—and to the side, Bentley streaked toward Lance.
Bentley capitalized on Lance's gaze tracking the ball, closing in, arms wide, ready to deliver a crushing hit.
Lance saw him—but couldn't avoid it.
Quick steps, a backpedal.
Within his limited space, Lance adjusted, eyes locked on the descending football.
The ball nestled securely into Lance's arms.
Backpedaling, Lance avoided the direct collision—barely.
Bentley pursued relentlessly, step for step, teeth bared in determination.
Lance, stumbling under pressure, lost speed. Bentley drew nearer.
With a slight pivot, Lance positioned himself beside Bentley, arm raised in a stiff-arm defense.
The two ran side by side, locked in a physical chess match.
Digging in, another push.
But Lance's stiff-arms lacked force, more of a nuisance than a deterrent.
Bentley saw his moment. Jaw set, he prepared to lunge, to take Lance down—
Suddenly, Lance slammed on the brakes, coming to an abrupt halt.
Bentley was ready—he'd anticipated this.
Holding his breath, Bentley mirrored the stop-and-go with expert agility, pivoting sharply, diving toward Lance.
Right into Lance's left arm.
Bentley had dismissed it before—but this time, it hit like a battering ram, explosive and merciless.
Bentley's chest seized, breath stolen.
Bentley's vision blacked out. His mind went blank.
When his senses returned, Bentley found himself weightless, the stadium lights and stars swirling overhead, his body airborne, detached from reality.
He watched helplessly as Lance, #23 in white, strode past without a care, leaving Bentley spiraling in midair like a severed kite on the wind.
What… what just happened?
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