American Football: Domination

This season, Kansas City's pass defense had been hard to watch.

Not without flashes—Fowler's bursts, Jones's steady rise—but far from enough. Two men alone couldn't carry an entire defense, and even their brilliance came in streaks, never stitched into consistency.

Berry kept pushing, not to play savior, but simply to return, to stand on the field with his brothers and give strength where the team was weakest. He didn't believe he could transform the defense, only that his presence, his effort, would matter.

The longing didn't fade with time or the grind of rehab. It burned hotter. He'd already missed last year's playoffs. He refused to miss another.

The injuries had healed. He could run without pain. But his rhythm, his instincts, the sharp edge that once made him feared—those weren't back. Two years away from live action had changed him.

Recovery wasn't rebirth. He might never again be that Eric Berry.

Still, he fought on. Like Felix.

Both clinging to a thin thread of hope, burning everything to keep it alive.

When Berry heard about Felix's condition, he'd gone silent. Long, heavy silence. Then, without a word, he'd left to train again.

That image lingered with Lance—Berry's stubborn back as he walked away, Felix's tear-streaked face twisted by pain. He remembered. All of it.

He turned to Mahomes, firm and steady.

"Felix can't make the divisional game. So what? We'll keep moving forward. If not then, the AFC Championship. If not there, the Super Bowl. We'll wait for him. We'll wait for Eric. We're in this together."

Mahomes straightened unconsciously, shoulders back, chest open. And Lance saw it spreading—other teammates pausing, glancing his way, resolve flickering in their eyes.

"Keep fighting" wasn't a slogan. Behind the words were sweat, setbacks, heartbreak, and the refusal to quit. If they fought together, they could keep walking forward, step by step. That was what the Chiefs needed: a fighting heart.

Without a word from Reid, players pocketed their phones, shutting out social media noise, locking in on prep. The hunger for victory was sharper than ever. Last year's playoff curse? Suddenly, it didn't seem so frightening.

Was this growth?

…

"No need to be nervous. Tomorrow is just another day, another fight. I know the weight on your shoulders. Trust me—you're ready." Reid's voice was calm. "I believe in you. Believe in yourselves the way I do. Now go home, get some rest."

No speeches, no slogans. Just steady reassurance.

Tomorrow was Saturday. Divisional football awaited.

As the team filtered out, Lance's phone buzzed. He stopped, gestured, answered.

"Hey, Felix."

Every ear perked.

Felix's voice was alive again, bright and strong. "Hey, good evening, Lance! Sorry—I know tomorrow's game day, you're busy. I should be the last person bothering you, but I've got one question I have to ask."

Lance wanted to say don't worry about it—truthfully, the sound of Felix's energy lifted him. The smile broke across his face before he realized it.

"Rookie? Rookie?"

Not just Lance—Mahomes, Kelce, the others froze, waiting.

Lance mouthed: He sounds good.

Mahomes clenched his fist, bumping Kelce's hand. Relief spread like light through them.

"Go ahead, Felix," Lance said. "Fire away."

"Can you give me thirty minutes tonight? At St. George's Church, near the hospital?"

Lance blinked. "Maybe. Why? Is everything okay?"

Felix laughed. "Secret, dear rookie. Let me keep one secret, just this once."

The laugh was free, mischievous—like a seventeen-year-old ought to sound.

Lance wondered: what was Felix like before sickness? Before the wheelchair? To see him as a boy, not a patient. A soul, full of life.

The call ended.

Lance lifted his head, saw all the expectant eyes. "He's fine. Just needs thirty minutes. Who knows—maybe he's finally going to confess to a girl, and he needs the Chiefs' strength to back him up."

Snorts and jeers flew. The tension cracked.

Houston slapped Lance's arm. "Even if he can't be at Arrowhead tomorrow, he's with us. Go. See what he's up to."

So Lance, Mahomes, and one more teammate made their way to St. George's. The church looked quiet, ordinary. Peaceful.

Inside, lemon light spilled down the aisle. At the far end, a wheelchair—Felix.

And behind the lectern, a small figure waving furiously, grinning with all her might.

Annie Gallas.

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Powerstones?

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