American Football: Domination

Butker—

Calm.

After surviving the game-winning field goal in the Divisional round, he had realized something.

He lived for moments like this.

When the tension peaked.

When his blood tasted like iron.

When his heart threatened to explode.

The more pressure, the more chaos—

The more he thrived.

And now—

It was happening again.

Unlike the brutal weather in Foxborough's Gillette Stadium, EverBank Field was perfect.

Clear skies.

Minimal wind.

Ideal conditions.

The stadium roared.

But Butker didn't care.

He raised a hand—

Eyes locked onto the snap.

Heart synced to the rhythm.

Then—

Approach.

Kick.

Strike.

"AHHHHHH!"

The crowd's noise erupted—

A volcanic explosion—

Only to be cut short when the ball dipped.

The air—

Froze.

The ball wobbled.

Dipping left.

Falling short.

It was losing momentum.

Wouldn't even reach the goalpost.

57 yards… too much?

Eyes locked.

Air burning.

It was going under.

Jacksonville fans rising in anticipation—

And then—

BOOM!

The ball struck the left upright—

And bounced in.

A miracle deflection.

Through the posts.

Into the stands.

"Oh..."

Jacksonville's cheers—

Turned to sighs.

Heads dropped.

Shoulders sank.

Even Lady Luck seemed to abandon them.

Butker—

Threw his arms up.

Turned toward the sideline—

Saw his teammates exploding in celebration.

And grinned.

Ask, and you shall receive.

They wanted a field goal.

He gave them a field goal.

They wanted to extend the lead.

He extended the lead.

Still 100% accuracy for the 2017 season.

"BUTKER! BUTKER! BUTKER!"

Lance—

The first to cheer.

Leading the party in the opponent's stadium.

Right when Jacksonville's defense had finally shown some life—

They got punched again.

The entire EverBank Field—

Deflated.

Searching for hope.

Finding none.

The only relief—

The first half was finally over.

"17-0."

Every point—

Scored in the second quarter.

Kansas City had flipped the game in three minutes.

Now—

They owned the momentum.

Both teams had work to do.

Kansas City couldn't let up.

Jacksonville couldn't fall apart.

Because—

If the past year had taught anything—

If Super Bowl LI, if last week's Divisional comeback had proved anything—

It was this:

"As long as the game isn't over—anything is possible."

Jacksonville's locker room—

Tense.

No one was yelling.

No one was panicking.

But the energy—

Unstable.

Chaotic.

Eyes darting, emotions swirling—

This was not the game they had prepared for.

After the Divisional round—

The media had already crowned them the Super Bowl favorites.

Some fans were already booking flights for Minnesota.

Now?

They got hit with a bucket of ice water.

What now?

Marrone inhaled.

Exhaled.

Tried to steady his thoughts.

Tried to find a solution.

Just as he was about to speak—

BANG!

The locker room door slammed open.

Everyone flinched.

Some stood up, fists clenched, ready for a fight.

Then—

They saw who it was.

One by one—

Their eyes dropped.

Caldwell.

The man who controlled their fates.

The man who built this team.

No one dared make eye contact.

No one wanted to be the scapegoat.

Caldwell didn't care.

His rage—

Had boiled over—

And cooled.

Now—

He was ice cold.

Eyes—

Sharp.

Voice—

Flat.

"Heh."

"Ladies…"

"Wake up."

"The entire league is laughing at you."

"And here you are—prancing around like clowns trying to get attention?"

"Oh, my mistake."

"Did I interrupt your makeup routine?"

"Did you think the Chiefs would just—hand you the win?"

"If God wanted you in the Super Bowl, He'd have given you a miracle."

"But judging by your FAT ASSES still sitting here—"

"It looks like God changed His mind."

"So."

"You want it?"

"GO TAKE IT."

"Defense."

"What the HELL are you doing?"

"Letting those SOFT bastards walk all over you?"

Jacksonville getting shut out?

Not a shock.

It had happened before.

But giving up 17 points in a half?

That—

Was unacceptable.

"One Smith. One Lance.* That's it.*"

"And you can't stop them?"

"What?"

"Did their pretty faces hypnotize you?"

"Did you get so distracted that you FORGOT TO HIT THEM?"

"What's next?"

"You gonna DROP TO YOUR KNEES and POLISH THEIR CLEATS?!"

"I'd LOVE to see that."

"You DISGUSTING little shits."

"Your fat asses look like 150 pounds of chewed-up bubblegum."

"If you can't MOVE them—"

"TELL ME."

"I'll put the cheerleaders in."

"At least THEY can boost the ratings."

Silence.

The entire locker room—

Frozen.

Even breathing felt dangerous.

Caldwell swept his eyes across the room.

Still furious.

But he wasn't done.

"Wake up, princesses."

"It's time to start KICKING SOME ASS."

"Because if you DON'T—"

"I WILL."

"And TRUST ME—"

"I am NOT gentle."

"No one is safe."

"NO ONE."

One.

Word.

At.

A.

Time.

Each syllable—

A blade to the throat.

His gaze—

Met every player's.

Then—

He turned to Marrone.

A final—

Silent—

Warning.

Then—

Without another word—

He left.

No shouting.

No tantrums.

No outbursts.

But—

His words—

Were far more terrifying.

"No one is safe."

Not even Marrone.

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Powerstones?

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