On one side, Atkins thought Lance was bluffing, so he chose to react second.
On the other, Lance also believed Atkins was bluffing, so he set the trap.
Lance went with the flow, played along with Atkins' expectation, initiating the move first, but keeping a close eye on Atkins' body language—especially his knees and shoulders. Once he accurately judged Atkins' intention to tackle—
In that fleeting moment, as Atkins committed to the tackle, Lance pushed off with his left leg, maintaining his light and nimble posture, spinning counterclockwise in a smooth 360-degree turn, brushing right past Atkins' left arm.
Atkins was stunned—he missed! He actually missed!
There was no time for regret or anger. Instinctively, Atkins tried to react and recover his footing, only to realize Lance was using him as a pivot, anchoring himself firmly against Atkins' body, holding his ground.
Atkins couldn't move.
His heavy, bulky frame couldn't react as quickly as Lance.
Twisting awkwardly, Atkins turned his head—Lance was practically glued to him, yet he was powerless to resist. Even trying to use his bodyweight to throw Lance off balance, he couldn't find leverage.
Then Atkins saw Lance's eyes inside the helmet.
Clear, bright, with a trace of amusement.
The next second, that smile had already vanished, floating away like a wisp of smoke.
That movement, that agility, so effortless, as if saying:
"Wait, was someone actually trying to defend me?"
Atkins nearly coughed up blood, but before he could react, Lance had already shifted away, using Atkins as leverage, sending Atkins stumbling forward face-first into the turf.
On the sideline, Lewis nearly choked in frustration: Damn it! Stop him! Someone stop that bastard!
"Wow! Lance's agility just made Atkins look like a lifeless wooden post, easily shaking free and pushing forward."
"Linebacker Nick Vigil is closing in for the tackle."
"Lance holds off Vigil's tackle attempt—the two get entangled—cornerback William Jackson III is racing over for the assist!"
"Lance brakes, breaking free from Vigil's grasp, and uses a stiff arm to shove him aside!"
"Vigil loses his balance, tumbling forward in front of Lance."
"Jackson can't stop in time—Vigil crashes into his teammate—both fall in Lance's path!"
"Things just got chaotic."
"Lance leaps over both Vigil and Jackson, hurdling clear!"
"No one expected that! Vigil and Jackson completely misread the situation, helplessly watching Lance soar overhead!"
"Only Bates left to stop him!"
Turbulence. Chaos. Dizzying movement.
It looked effortless, but in truth, Lance had no other option. With no time to brake or change direction, the only choice was to leap over the human barricade.
But without a running start, his leap lacked height and distance. Landing, his knees buckled—he nearly lost balance, and before he could stabilize, an opponent was already in his face—
Safety Jessie Bates, the Bengals' second-round rookie pick this year.
Talented, ambitious, determined, passionate.
Lance was Bates' target.
Focused, composed, all-in.
Bates immediately noticed Lance's unstable footing and shaky center of gravity—without hesitation, he charged, ramming his shoulder straight into Lance.
Tackling? No need—Bates knew his 200-pound frame wasn't enough to outright stop Lance. A full-body collision was the smarter play.
Angling his body, knees bent, shoulder lowered.
Timing it perfectly, Bates crashed in to exploit the advantage.
Bates collided with Lance.
And again. And again. Three straight impacts, force and momentum building, disrupting Lance's balance.
Lance stumbled, retreating under the pressure.
His forward progress ground to a halt.
Behind them, Vigil and Jackson were already back on their feet, forming a three-man containment.
In the chaos, Lance had no time to counter—his balance swayed like a leaf in the wind.
Lance didn't resist—he flowed with Bates' momentum, stepping backward, then subtly shifted his weight to the upper right.
As Bates lunged again, their shoulders clashed—off-angle.
Still basking in his presumed success, Bates realized too late—
Lance spun away, slipping past, his left shoulder deflecting the hit, feet angled toward the sideline.
And then, launch, sprint.
Bates' heart clenched—no time for panic, he gave chase, unleashing every ounce of speed.
Back at rookie camp, Bates had wowed scouts with his short-burst acceleration—and now, he was all-in.
Lance's jersey number 23 was within arm's reach.
"My god—Lance! Lance! Lance! The Edgewalker dazzles Arrowhead once more!"
"Bates is so close, fingertips away, nearly grabbing Lance's shoulder—but he's just a step behind!"
"Lance recovered his footing within three strides, fully unleashing his speed!"
"Bates gave it everything—but Lance's acceleration is off the charts!"
Bates: Nghh! Grrr! AHHH!
Exploding with strength and speed—yet Lance kept pulling away, the distance visibly widening.
Lance's feet skimmed the sideline, toes grazing the turf, building momentum, faster and faster, a red blur streaking along the right boundary, leaving Bates, Vigil, and Jackson in his wake—
"End zone—touchdown!"
"No one can stop Lance—no one! When he hits top speed, it's a nightmare for defenders—absolute despair!"
"The Edgewalker just sprinted 33 yards for the touchdown—the Chiefs score on their opening drive!"
"Clearly, last week's loss hasn't fazed Kansas City one bit!"
Arrowhead erupted in a sea of red, magma-like energy surging, familiar chants echoing into the sky, igniting a tidal wave of euphoria.
"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere, he's the Edgewalker—Lance! Lance! Lance!"
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