American Football: Domination

"Felix."

"Felix!"

"Calm down—just tell me what happened?"

Lance forced himself to slam the brakes on panic, steadying his voice.

But Felix's reply bled with helplessness.

"I don't know… I'm at Hudson and Canal. I… I might need help."

That was only two blocks from Lance's place. So that's why Felix had called—he'd been trying to reach him.

"Stay there. Don't move. I'm coming."

Lance hung up and tore out of his apartment building.

The party noise carried behind him, laughter and playoff banter. Mahomes glimpsed him leaving, blinking in confusion, but Lance was already gone. Kelce caught it too, shrugging back—no answers anywhere.

Boots pounding pavement, Lance sprinted through the winter air, blood roaring in his ears.

At the corner, he spotted it immediately: a car crooked against the curb, half on, half off. It didn't block traffic, but it screamed wrong.

"Felix!"

He hammered the driver's side window.

No movement.

Yanking the door open, Lance's eyes swept the interior. Felix slumped over the wheel, drenched in sweat. His face was ashen, lips chalk-white, but with blotches of sickly red heat across his skin.

"Felix! What's going on?"

Slowly, trembling, Felix raised his shirt.

The scar across his stomach was wrapped, neat once—but now the skin around it glowed gray, yellow, and red. Infection, raw and ugly.

"Felix… this is infected. We need to call for—"

"No! No, no…"

Felix gagged. His whole body convulsed as he vomited a thick, green-black mess across his shirt. He gasped, shaking, his voice breaking.

"Don't call 911. Don't… don't tell my mom. Please, Lance, don't…"

Lance froze, phone half-raised.

"Felix, what happened?"

"I… I just wanted to bring you the jersey." Felix's voice cracked. "The one Annie and the others drew. We spent all afternoon… for you guys. For the team."

His breath hitched, broken. "But I couldn't even do that right. I'm useless. If Mom finds out, she'll put me in ICU, and then… then I can't go to Arrowhead to see the game. Please, don't tell her. Please…"

He was unraveling. Sweat, tears, snot, vomit—everything poured together as his red-rimmed eyes begged for mercy.

Lance shook his head hard, breathing deep. "Felix, we have to call."

"No!"

"I have to."

Felix screamed, a raw sound torn from his throat, but Lance was already dialing.

"911—ambulance to Hudson and Canal. My name's Lance. My friend is critical. Please hurry."

Felix pounded the steering wheel weakly, each strike a hollow thud. "I hate myself… I hate it…!"

And Lance saw him differently for the first time. Not the boy who always smiled, who cracked jokes, who carried light into chemo rooms. But a child, still not grown, cornered by death. Fighting every day just to steal another sunrise.

No optimism could erase the reality—cancer ate through him and everything around him, turning strength to dust.

The ambulance screamed up. EMTs recognized Lance instantly but had no time for awe. They pulled Felix from the seat, working quick, IVs, bandages, oxygen. Lance climbed in with them.

Felix whimpered, clutching his stomach, eyes glassy. "It hurts… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Lance's throat closed. What could he say? "Stay strong"? "Don't give up"? Empty. Thin. Worthless in the shadow of death.

Felix sobbed, voice breaking into whispers. "Mom… it hurts so much…"

It gutted Lance. He couldn't imagine what Felix bore daily, couldn't imagine what Karen had endured for years. Death stood close now—so close it felt like Lance could see him at the foot of the gurney, watching.

He clenched his jaw, forced calm into his voice.

"It's okay, Felix. No need to apologize. You've done great. You're doing great. You know… now I understand why you're a true Chief. Brave. Strong. Just hold on a little longer, okay? Just a little longer. Imagine the players seeing those jerseys. They'll be so happy. We all admire your courage…"

Felix's eyes fluttered, and for a moment, beneath the tears, there was the faintest flicker of a smile.