American Football: Domination

Layer upon layer, the crowd packed the press room inside and out.

Tyreek Hill, having spent two seasons in the league, was completely stunned by the scene before him.

Hill had gone from an unheralded fifth-round pick to Kansas City's number-one receiver. This season, he had even outshone Smith. He thought his time had finally come—only for Lance to completely steal the spotlight.

A second ago, Hill felt a twinge of jealousy.

Now, after seeing the chaos in front of him, he was just relieved that it wasn't him in that position.

"Man, those reporters look like they're ready to eat the rookie alive."

Just then, Travis Kelce walked over after finishing his own interview. "Wanna bet? All of them combined still won't be able to handle him."

Hill shot Kelce a skeptical look—You sure about that?

Kelce just chuckled twice and said nothing.

"Lance, Coach Reid trusted you with the final trick play. Did you expect that?"

"Lance, as the hero of the game, what are your thoughts on this victory?"

"During your final touchdown, when you were tackled by Orakpo, what was going through your mind? How did you manage to stand up? Was it some kind of secret Chinese kung fu?"

A barrage of questions poured in like a relentless storm, filling every inch of the press room.

For once, Lance wasn't smiling. His face was serious.

"Thank you all for your questions, but I'd like to talk about Houston forcing that fumble on the final defensive stop—and Revis stepping up in run support to make the tackle."

"I want to talk about Smith's precise quick passes, about Hill and Kelce's relentless blocking, about how they opened up the field before I even had my balance back."

"Hey, guys, this isn't some Hollywood superhero movie. We're used to seeing superheroes save the world all by themselves on the big screen.

But on a football field, my first coach, Burns, taught me one thing:

A running back without his teammates is just a bird without wings."

"We fight as a team. We win as a team."

Silence.

It wasn't that Lance's words were particularly shocking.

It was the tone—the cold, cutting sharpness in his voice.

For the first time, the reporters felt what it was like to be on the field against him.

That intimidation, that presence.

Hill, watching from the side, was stunned.

He turned to Kelce, wide-eyed.

Kelce simply shrugged with a knowing smile. "Told you."

Looking at the reporters, Kelce almost felt bad for them.

"These idiots fell for it again. A whole season, and they still haven't learned. If they think that innocent-looking face means he's easy to handle, then they haven't hit rock bottom yet."

Lance, looking completely righteous, didn't give the reporters a chance to retaliate.

"Twenty minutes. I'm good to leave now."

Wait… was he pulling a Marshawn Lynch?

Hey, hold up!

Seeing that Lance was about to walk out, the reporters panicked.

"Lance, Lance! What are your thoughts on the next game?"

"This season, the Chiefs have been up and down. The turning point was your last-second win over the Steelers—only for you to lose to the Raiders right after. Now, you've beaten the Titans on a game-winning drive. Does this mean the Chiefs are headed for another slump?"

"Would you rather face the Steelers or the Patriots next?"

Questions fired off like machine-gun bursts, desperate to keep Lance from walking away.

One reporter, out of breath, had blurted out everything at once.

All eyes turned to Lance.

The air grew tense.

This was a critical question.

It wasn't just about Lance—Reid and Smith would have to answer this too.

Who would the Chiefs face next?

The Steelers or the Patriots?

It was like being forced to choose between your left hand or your right hand.

Neither option was good. Both were brutal matchups.

Yet, the Chiefs had beaten both teams in the regular season.

But this was the playoffs.

How would things change?

Lance paused.

Then, he smiled again—his usual easygoing demeanor back in place.

"Obviously, no matter who we play, we're the underdogs."

"As you all said, we've had ups and downs. We're inconsistent. We're not mature enough. No matter the opponent, we'll have to give it everything we've got."

The words? Perfectly reasonable.

Analysts and reporters had been saying the same thing all season.

But hearing Lance say it felt off.

No one could forget what had happened in the regular season.

Looking at Lance's humble, almost shy smile, the reporters suddenly felt uneasy.

Something isn't right.

And then—

"We'll be ready, no matter who we face. I'm looking forward to a hard-fought battle."

Smile.

Lance flashed a perfect, white-toothed grin—like Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs.

Then, he pivoted.

"But the decision isn't ours, is it? The dice have already been cast. It all depends on the other wild-card game.

We'll just wait and see."

The next-round matchups depended on the AFC's second wild-card game.

If the #3 Jacksonville Jaguars won, they would face the #2 Steelers, meaning the Chiefs would go to New England to battle the Patriots.

If the #6 Buffalo Bills won, they would face the #1 Patriots, while the Chiefs would head to Pittsburgh.

As Lance said—the Chiefs didn't get to choose.

But that wasn't what the reporters wanted to hear.

Despite the chills running down their spines, they pushed forward with another question.

"Lance, personally, if you had a choice—who would you rather face again?

Brady or Roethlisberger?"

Lance finally answered directly.

"Heyward and Watt."

Not Brady.

Not Roethlisberger.

Not Le'Veon Bell.

Not Antonio Brown.

But the Steelers' defensive monsters—Cameron Heyward and T.J. Watt.

To Lance, the reasoning was simple.

As a running back, Heyward and Watt were his direct opponents.

In their regular-season game, the Steelers' defense had pushed him to his limits.

The clash of individual talent and elite defensive schemes had thrilled him.

That game came down to the wire—and Lance wanted a rematch.

After all, this was the playoffs.

If you wanted to be the best, you had to beat the best.

But to everyone else?

Lance had just ignored Tom Brady.

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Powerstones?

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