American Football: Domination

"…And that's the game. The reigning champions, the Kansas City Chiefs, withstand the challenge. In a close, intense showdown with last season's playoff team, the Pittsburgh Steelers, they emerge with a valuable victory to start their title defense on the right foot."

"This game was incredibly revealing…"

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Arrowhead Stadium roared, a sea of noise and chaos. Michaels had to focus hard amid the surging heat to steady his heart and blood, still pounding from the drama, to finish the postgame recap professionally.

Up in the commentary booth, Michaels had his headset and mic to aid his concentration. But down on the field, there were no such buffers.

Antonio Brown's expression was grim, his jaw clenched so tightly the veins on his face bulged. Anger surged through his body. He had endured losses before—worse, more humiliating ones—but still—

This one stung.

Because of the off-field drama. Because of his on-field performance.

Today, Brown was nearly invisible.

In the past, he'd been targeted 10, 15, even more times per game. A hundred-yard receiving day was routine.

But today? Only six targets, three receptions, 17 total yards.

That stat line—pathetic.

Brown couldn't remember the last time he looked this bad.

And it wasn't just any game—it was the season opener, live on national TV. The entire league was watching. This was peak embarrassment.

The cheers, the heat, the chaos—they slapped him across the face. All he wanted now was to leave Arrowhead and this cursed Kansas City behind.

Just as he turned to go, Lance appeared in his path.

A wave of discomfort hit his chest.

Was this guy coming to mock him? To stand up for Bell? Or worse—pretend to be polite just to rub salt in the wound?

His mind spun.

But was Brown scared?

Hell no.

If Lance dared to throw shade, he'd throw it right back. No hesitation.

Lance neared. The moment of collision—only for Lance to casually shift aside, not even glancing at Brown, as if looking at him was a waste of time.

He passed him without a word—headed straight for Fowler.

Lance patted Fowler on the shoulder, beaming. "Great game. Well done!"

Brown: Fists clenching.

Fowler was stunned. He hadn't expected Lance to personally congratulate him.

As a newcomer to the Chiefs, a transfer this offseason, Fowler was still an outsider in the locker room.

But Lance broke the ice. The rest of the defense followed—pats on the helmet, playful shoves, laughter. Someone clearly cracked a joke. The mood turned lively.

Fowler tried to thank Lance, but he was already caught in a wave of joking punches, noogies, and laughter. Lance slipped away, waved cheekily as he retreated:

"Sorry! Can't help you now."

His eyes sparkled with mischief.

Fowler: ???

Lance didn't stop. He turned away, walking off—never once looking back at the fuming, red-faced Brown.

Brown: That's it? That's all?!

He was Antonio Freakin' Brown! So what if he had one bad game? He was still the league's #1 wide receiver!

The Steelers were already missing Bell—no left arm. Tomlin wouldn't bench his right hand too. Today proved it. Tomlin needed Brown. Only with him could the offense open up again.

No one could underestimate Antonio Brown.

On the contrary—without Bell to steal the spotlight, this was Brown's year to shine. To show his full power. To prove he was not only the best receiver—but the best player in the league. A receiver who could win games by himself.

He didn't just want Offensive Player of the Year.

He wanted MVP.

Lance's indifference, his dismissiveness—it would be repaid. When they met again in the AFC Championship, Brown would return the favor a hundredfold.

Just wait.

Brown ground his teeth and stormed off the field.

At first, he wanted to head straight to the locker room and vanish. But the sting from Lance lingered—treating him like a no-name. He couldn't swallow that.

He found a scapegoat—

Steelers offensive coordinator Randy Fichtner.

It wasn't really about Randy. Brown was venting sideways—because of Roethlisberger refusing to throw him the ball, because of a game plan that used the league's top WR as nothing more than a decoy. Only in the fourth quarter did they finally throw his way.

The result? A disaster.

His fury erupted. His face flushed red.

The noise of the Chiefs' celebration drowned out the actual words—but cameras caught it all. The footage went live.

So now, the whole league saw it:

After Bell, now Brown was feuding with the coaching staff.

What was happening?

From Lance's perspective, it wasn't complicated.

He might not know the NFL, Bell, or Brown's future. He wasn't a time traveler.

But he knew the most basic truth:

No one is irreplaceable.

Barcelona traded Messi. Real Madrid let go of Ronaldo. Manchester United moved Beckham. In professional leagues, players are pawns on a board. Be it soccer, basketball, or football—it's all the same.

If a player thinks they're above the system, that they can defy coaches, execs, or owners—their fate is sealed.

When Bell spoke out for players' rights, Brown sided with the team. That showed his short-sightedness and foolishness.

Because—

If Pittsburgh could treat Bell this way today, they'd treat Brown the same tomorrow. Even Roethlisberger wasn't safe.

Did Brown really think he'd be the exception?

Or did he think Bell's absence made him the king of the locker room?

Well, today's game showed who the real leader was.

Whoever it was—it wasn't Antonio Brown.

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Powerstones?

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