Calmness.
That was the sole thought in Lance's mind.
He recalled a lesson from Jonathan Allen, the defensive leader of the Crimson Tide, who had once explained:
"Football is undeniably about physical collisions—that's a fact. But if it were only about collisions, it wouldn't hold the appeal it does. Like boxing, it appears to be all about strength and body-on-body combat, but the brain is the real champion."
Observation. Recognition. Judgment. Reaction.
Those, Allen had told him, were the essence of the game.
Yes, having a physical presence like Derrick Henry or Marshawn Lynch—able to bulldoze anyone in their path—was a tremendous advantage. But neither Henry nor Lynch reached the heights of Adrian Peterson.
The reason? Their ability to read and react on the field couldn't match Peterson's.
It wasn't that Henry or Lynch lacked intelligence. Quite the opposite—surviving at the NFL level requires it. But their natural gifts leaned more toward their bodies than their minds. On the other hand, a running back's success—much like a quarterback's—depends on perception and quick thinking.
"Without reading the field," Allen had said, "a running back is just banging into walls, crashing over and over again like a fool."
In college, Lance had developed his observational skills, and it was a major reason for his success. But back then, he'd also had the luxury of space and time to process information.
Here, against Bailey? None of that.
"What do you do when you have no time?"
Allen's voice echoed in Lance's mind.
"You learn to read body language. Observe. React. Anticipate.
"In milliseconds, read their movements, judge their intent, and adjust your own actions. Most times, you'll fail—but sometimes, that quick read will lead to victory.
"The more you train, the more natural it becomes. Eventually, it's no longer conscious effort; it's instinct. And in those critical moments, it'll make the difference."
On the Crimson Tide's training field, Allen had taught him the nuances of reading defensive ends.
Now, Lance was putting those lessons to the test.
He didn't feel frustrated by being flattened in their first encounter. After all, he was facing a professional. In the NFL, any starter—particularly a defensive end—had earned their spot by overcoming countless opponents.
But Lance wasn't about to crash into the same wall twice.
As Bailey lined up across from him for the second time, Lance focused.
Calm. Steady. Watch the hands.
Specifically, the fingers.
Just like a sprinter at the starting line, defensive linemen typically plant their hands on the ground to stabilize their weight and prepare for the snap.
And defensive ends generally have two main tasks:
Anchor: Stay in place to absorb the offensive lineman's blocks.Attack: Push forward aggressively to disrupt the quarterback or running back.
The key lay in their fingers.
If a defensive end intended to attack, their weight shifted forward, causing their fingers to tense and turn white under the strain. But if they planned to anchor, their weight would shift backward, and their hands would appear more relaxed.
In the chaos of a game, spotting such details required intense focus and practice.
"Observe," Allen had said. "The smallest clue can decide the play."
Despite his labored breathing and the burning in his legs, Lance locked in. He tuned out the cheers and jeers, the sweat dripping into his eyes, and the ache spreading through his muscles.
Instead, he studied Bailey.
Tension in the fingers. White knuckles.
"He's charging."
Tweet!
Childress's whistle cut through the air.
Bailey sprang forward, all 288 pounds of him surging ahead like an avalanche. His eyes gleamed with unbridled aggression, ready to rip Lance apart.
Lance took a step forward, closing the already minuscule gap between them. From the outside, it seemed like he was charging headfirst into a losing battle.
But at the last moment, he shifted his weight ever so slightly.
Bailey lunged, aiming for a direct hit. But Lance sidestepped, his hands gently pushing off Bailey's shoulders as the defensive end's momentum carried him forward.
Leverage. Timing. Balance.
That slight redirection was all it took.
Boom!
Bailey's hulking frame hit the ground hard, sending up a puff of dust as his weight crashed against the mat.
The onlookers winced in unison.
"Damn," someone muttered, grimacing at the thud. "That had to hurt."
Bailey had gone from predator to prey in an instant, felled by a seemingly effortless maneuver.
For a second, there was stunned silence.
Then:
"Hell yeah, Lance!"
Mahomes was the first to react, pumping his fist and shouting at the top of his lungs. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon the entire offensive group was cheering. Even Kelce, who'd been preparing for his own turn, let out a hearty laugh and clapped his hands together.
Meanwhile, the defensive group erupted in outrage.
"Bailey, what the hell?!"
"Were you trying to hug him?"
"Get your head in the game, man!"
Bailey pushed himself off the ground, his face a mix of anger and disbelief. His jaw tightened as he glared at Lance, who stood calmly, not a trace of smugness in his expression.
Instead, Lance simply adjusted his helmet, his eyes shining with determination.
Bailey's fists clenched.
"Again," he growled.
Lance's lips curved into a smile.
"Anytime."
The energy on the field was electric, both sides feeding off the clash of willpower. The rookies were proving they belonged, and the veterans were being pushed to defend their pride.
And for Lance, this was just the beginning.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates