American Football: Domination

Roar. Roar, roar, roar.

Felix was the first to start the chant, and the empty church swelled with noise. Annie's smile bloomed fully.

"But that's not the only reason," she continued.

"Not just because he's handsome enough to model for Seventeen magazine…"

Laughter burst. Felix protested, "GQ! GQ!"

"And not just because he should've lived longer than nineteen years…"

Felix shook his head furiously. "Annie, you're disappointing. Seventeen! I'm seventeen!"

Annie slumped her shoulders, gave him a deadpan look. "Please. You can't even catch the point? I was trying to say you should live longer, you loudmouth idiot. Interrupting my eulogy—you're supposed to be dead right now."

Felix cracked up.

Annie pressed on.

"But one day, when I'm eighteen, and Lance comes to my house to ask me to the prom, the whole world will look at me with envy. And I'll have to tell him—sorry, I can't go. Because…"

She sucked in a breath.

"Because some jerk promised he'd take me, then broke that promise when he died at nineteen. God, I hate men who don't keep their word. If it weren't for him, my prom would be different."

Her eighteen, his nineteen—dreams neither would ever be sure of reaching.

Annie rubbed at her eyes, forcing a smile through the sting.

"But after making my point, I'd still take Lance's hand. Because—come on—it's Lance. Who wouldn't want to go to prom with him? I'd be the brightest girl in school."

Smiling, tears spilled anyway. She turned aside, scrubbing her face with both hands.

"Sorry, this… it's too hard. I just… I hope that bastard Felix is laughing in heaven."

She hurried off the lectern—only to find Lance waiting, smiling, bowing lightly, hand extended.

"Annie Gallas, may I have the honor of inviting you to prom?"

She froze, eyes wide, lips parting, mist returning to her eyes before she smiled and clasped his hand.

"Of course. But tonight's Felix's night. We'll stay low-key—or he'll sulk."

What should've been a whisper was said out loud. Mahomes and Kelce nearly burst out laughing.

Felix waved furiously. "Annie! You weren't supposed to say that where I could hear! Whisper! Whisper!"

Lance and Annie exchanged a knowing glance, then sat together in the front pew. Lance turned toward Felix.

Felix was smiling, but grief and bitterness still shadowed the corners.

"Twenty-five cents for your thoughts," Lance said.

Felix's eyes darted away. He wanted to deny it, to dodge, but forced himself to meet Lance's gaze.

"Oblivion," he whispered.

He drew a shaky breath.

"I know it's childish. But I always thought I'd be a hero. Maybe not Iron Man, but… I thought my life would matter. Big enough for the New York Times front page. Changing the world. Or discovering something to reshape humanity."

"Like you, Lance. The rookie who stunned the league, who gave Kansas City hope, who climbed to the Super Bowl."

"I—I was supposed to be special."

His voice cracked, the ever-smiling boy finally showing his raw, vulnerable self.

"You are special," Lance said firmly.

Felix mumbled, "Yeah, yeah, my mom says that too. But… you know what I mean."

"I do," Lance answered, steady. "And I don't agree."

Felix blinked, startled.

"You don't need to worry about being remembered," Lance said.

Kelce frowned. "Lance—don't be mad."

"I am mad," Lance snapped, eyes locking on him.

Kelce faltered.

"I'm mad because Felix doesn't see how much he matters. Not just to his mom. To Annie. To me, to Patrick, to Travis. To every kid in that chemo room. To every guy in the Chiefs' locker room."

"Isn't that enough?"

"You think the only way life has meaning is if you're remembered by people. But who are these 'people?'"

"Some Jack in Alaska, liking your post in his bedroom? Some José in Monterrey slum crying two seconds then forgetting? Some Kevin on the Upper East Side glancing at a headline between billion-dollar deals?"

"'People?' Who are they? On social media, how many likes and retweets are bots? How many of those numbers are empty bubbles?"

"You chase those numbers and forget your own life. The real souls right here. If we don't matter to you, if our memory of you isn't enough, then—sorry."

Felix sat, tears running freely now, shoulders shaking. "Lance…"

Lance's own eyes shone.

"We'll remember you. You're not a number. You're Felix Gray—the witty, radiant Felix. The one who could make Arrowhead roar from the stands. The one who stared down Death and told him to shove it."

"This isn't over, Felix. You hear me?"

Felix wept quietly. But inside, fear gnawed. For the first time, he felt Death's footsteps at his neck, the cold blade grazing skin. He realized he wasn't as brave as he'd believed. He wasn't ready.

The thought shattered him.

And Lance—Lance felt the weight too. He thought himself wise enough, hardened enough, a man who had even crossed worlds. But this? Facing death's breath so close?

He realized courage was easier in theory.

When life and death arrived at your doorstep, the truth was always harder.