American Football: Domination

From Alabama to Kansas City, Lance was slowly beginning to understand the game. From a complete outsider to someone who now felt the bond between football, the city, and its people. The Old Oak Tavern was one example, Felix and the kids were another. Professional sports weren't just about wins and competition—there was another layer of meaning.

This was growth.

Lance drew in a long breath. "Can I see him now?"

Karen looked torn. "Felix is still asleep. But when he wakes, I'll make sure he knows you stayed here."

Lance wasn't surprised. ICU visits were tightly controlled, even for family. He'd only asked out of hope.

He nodded lightly. "If you don't mind, I'd like to sit here for a while."

"Of course." She gave him a long look, wanting to say good luck in the divisional round, wanting to tell him the Chiefs' fight would give Felix strength. But the words caught in her throat.

"Thank you, Lance. Thank you." She repeated it softly, then turned and walked back toward the ICU.

Lance sat staring, lost in thought.

Then came hurried footsteps—fast, anxious.

"Rook! Felix—he's okay, right?"

Mahomes and Kelce had arrived.

Earlier, Lance had asked Mahomes to drive Felix's car back and bring the jerseys from the trunk to the team. Instead, they'd come straight here.

"In ICU," Lance said, voice tired. "They're still watching him. It's… uncertain."

Both froze, at a loss.

Lance forced a thin smile. "But it's not all bad. No immediate danger. The doctors say he needs time, observation, and treatment. You know Felix—he's a Chief. He'll never surrender without a fight."

Still, the words gave little comfort.

Mahomes slumped into the chair beside him, muttering, "How can this even happen…"

Lance tried to shift the mood. "So… how's the party?"

Kelce stayed standing, tense, restless. "Does the party even matter right now? The guys wanted to come too, but we thought it might overwhelm his family. They're back at your place waiting." He swore under his breath. "Damn it. I hate this."

Hands on his hips, head down, he fought his frustration.

Mahomes asked, "Is there anything we can do?"

Lance paused. Then said, "Focus. That's all we can do now."

Kelce glared at him, incredulous.

"Felix has his fight," Lance said. "We have ours. Different battles, but the same spirit. His fight—none of us can control. But ours? That's in our hands."

"He hasn't given up. Neither should we. We need to fight harder than ever, show him what it looks like to keep going. That's how we help him."

The playoffs were full of uncertainty. No team was guaranteed victory. But compared to Felix's battle, theirs was simple. They had to win.

Kelce's eyes sharpened. He understood. His anger wasn't gone, but now it had direction. "Then let's go win one for him."

Mahomes nodded, solemn and steady.

The Colts wouldn't be easy. But the Chiefs were ready.

When all the Wild Card games ended and Kansas City returned to practice, preparing for the divisional round, Coach Reid noticed something unusual.

The mood was heavy. Determined. The players carried themselves with a conviction sharper than ever.

Reid had worried about their young roster being too relaxed during the bye. He'd even welcomed Lance's idea of a team watch-party. But now? Their intensity exceeded every expectation.

Later, when Reid learned of Felix's condition, he fell silent. Even at his age, even with all his years, death still humbled him. He simply told his staff: keep training light today. These boys were burning hot with purpose—he didn't want their hunger to break them.

The Chiefs were united, sharper than ever. Anyone could see—they were ready.

That Sunday, the playoffs caught fire.

In the first game, Eagles vs. Bears became an unexpected defensive slugfest. Both ex-offensive coordinators found themselves forced to win with defense when their quarterbacks faltered.

And then, with 56 seconds left, Saint Nick struck again—Foles threading a touchdown pass to steal the lead. The two-point try failed, but it didn't matter. Trubisky never even got the chance for a Hail Mary.

16–15. Eagles advanced.

The cruel irony? Without the Bears' help, Philly wouldn't have reached the playoffs at all. And now, they'd eliminated Chicago.

That was sports. Destiny, or maybe just chaos—nothing ever guaranteed.

Nagy's magical first season ended right there.

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Powerstones?

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