Lance's steps were like a dance in shackles—
To his right, a cliff's edge.
To his left, a violent storm.
One misstep could send him hurtling into ruin, but surrender was not an option. If anything, the danger only fueled his relentless determination.
One dive, evaded.
A second dive, narrowly avoided—
This time, though, a defender's hand grazed his side, causing Lance's balance to falter. His steps became erratic, and his surroundings turned into a blur of bloodthirsty chaos. His peripheral vision caught glimpses of snarling jaws snapping at him, their roars filled with spit, bile, and rage.
"Rookie!"
"Tear him apart!"
"Kill him!"
The insults burst in his ears, but instead of breaking his focus, they fed his fire.
Lance stumbled forward, letting momentum carry him two more steps. Just as exhaustion loomed and three blue jerseys closed in, joined by two of his own teammates unintentionally boxing him in, Lance acted.
In the tight space, barely big enough to turn, Lance planted his right foot and dove toward the nearest Patriot defender.
Danger!
At the last second, before the impact, Lance twisted his body, shoulder brushing against the defender's, and used the collision as leverage.
A full 360-degree spin.
A Marseille Turn.
In one seamless motion, Lance slipped past the defender, the ball secure in his arms, and emerged through a narrow gap between the clustered players. He had somehow turned an inescapable trap into an escape route.
The Old Oak Tavern went silent.
Everyone had seen it. Lance had staggered headlong into a storm of bodies, seemingly doomed to be swallowed whole by the chaos of blue and white.
Mouths hung open, frozen mid-cheer or mid-shout.
Then, like a ghost, Lance reappeared. His white jersey stood out against the sea of blue, his figure darting forward onto the open field once more.
For a brief moment, disbelief paralyzed the room.
And then—
Pandemonium.
A single spark of realization ignited the crowd, sending everyone at the tavern into a frenzy. People leapt to their feet, fists pumping the air as they roared with wild, unrestrained energy.
Lance, though visibly drained, kept going. His stride was uneven, his body pitched forward as though he might collapse at any moment. Yet he leaned into the motion, letting inertia keep him upright as he pushed forward.
Fifteen yards.
Ten yards.
The red zone. Lance had made it into the Patriots' red zone, and the crowd's noise was deafening. The rush of bodies bore down on him, a hurricane of sound and fury, but Lance wasn't finished.
A few more strides carried him inside the five-yard line. Just then, as though sensing the incoming threat, he pivoted sharply.
Another defender missed.
Their shoulders nearly touched as Lance spun to avoid the tackle, so close that the two locked eyes for a fleeting instant.
Lance's energy was nearly gone, his movements slowing. But instead of turning back to face his pursuers, he did something audacious—
He kept moving backward.
Facing his own end zone, Lance took one step, then another, shuffling in reverse with astonishing precision.
Three steps.
Each backward step brought him closer to the promised land as his pursuers closed in from all sides, the roar of the crowd surging like a tidal wave.
Finally, Lance crossed the goal line.
Touchdown.
For a second, Gillette Stadium fell silent. Only the whisper of the wind could be heard.
"TOUCHDOWN!"
Al Michaels' voice cracked as he shouted, his excitement too overwhelming to contain.
"Kickoff return touchdown!"
"Ninety-one yards!"
"Ninety-one YARDS!"
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing history. Lance, the NFL's first-ever Asian-American first-round draft pick, has just scored a 91-yard kickoff return touchdown in his professional debut!"
"One tackle evaded. Two tackles. Three. Four. Five!"
"I repeat, FIVE tackles broken! His speed, his technique, his vision, and his composure under pressure—it's unbelievable! He just singlehandedly dismantled the Patriots' entire special teams unit and delivered a stunning opening salvo!"
"Who could've seen this coming? Lance, the rookie, has silenced the Gillette Stadium crowd with one breathtaking play!"
"Wow."
"I mean, wow."
For a moment, Al Michaels was left at a loss for words, shaking his head in disbelief. Beside him, Collinsworth's stunned expression said it all—there was nothing left to analyze, nothing to explain. Both commentators simply let the moment sink in.
At the Old Oak Tavern in Kansas City, the crowd had erupted into pandemonium. Drinks spilled, chairs toppled over, and fans screamed themselves hoarse as they celebrated.
Back at Gillette Stadium, however, silence reigned.
The stunned Patriots fans sat frozen, their faces masks of confusion and disbelief.
"What just happened?"
In the end zone, Lance didn't celebrate.
He stood tall, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His face bore a calm, almost serene smile as he gazed out at the sea of blue jerseys.
A moment of stillness in the aftermath of chaos.
Then, as if on cue, the jeers returned, louder and angrier than before.
"Rookie! That was luck!"
"We're going to crush you!"
"You're dead next drive!"
The taunts rained down, laden with curses, venom, and spittle. But instead of flinching, Lance's smile widened.
It wasn't an arrogant smirk or a mocking grin—just pure satisfaction.
He soaked in the hostility like a balm, his body language seemingly saying, Yes. This is what I was waiting for.
But wait—was he… was he training a puppy? That serene look, that slight nod of encouragement—it was as though he expected the crowd to roll over and play dead next.
The Patriots fans faltered, momentarily thrown off by Lance's reaction.
On the other sideline, Brady finally took notice.
The silence, followed by the explosion of anger, caught his attention. He glanced toward the field, catching a glimpse of Lance amidst the commotion.
The rookie had made an impression.
Brady smirked, shaking his head.
"That's cute," he muttered.
But when Lance turned and met his gaze, offering a calm, respectful nod, Brady paused.
The sheer audacity of a rookie treating him—the GOAT—as an equal?
Brady chuckled softly to himself.
"Well, this should be fun."
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Powerstones?
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