American Football: Domination

"Set!"

Luck barked the snap count—and the instant the ball moved, Chris Jones fired off the line like an arrow unstrung.

A step. A surge.

Every ounce of power in his body exploded forward.

Defensive ends always faced the first collision—five thick linemen standing shoulder to shoulder. Linebackers like Von Miller might slant and twist, slipping through gaps, but linemen had no choice: crash first, win later. And still, men like Watt or Donald turned trenches into kingdoms, rewriting games by themselves.

Jones wasn't one of those rare freaks. He was a grinder, a worker who clawed for every inch. He didn't dream of being Watt. He dreamed of being reliable. Of being the wall his team could lean on when chaos came.

Like now.

Hands up—meeting the guard in front. Then a shove, sudden and sly, not to win, but to pivot. He threw himself around the blocker's shoulder, light as a dancer, and slipped inside the pocket.

A blitz.

The Chiefs had hardly shown it all night, but third-and-long near the red zone? Reid knew Luck might shoot for the end zone in one swing.

Marlon Mack saw it coming. The young back stayed home, anchoring as a sixth lineman. He'd been drafted as a runner, but tonight, his job was to bodyguard Luck. He squared, grinned, and met Jones head-on.

"Not today," his eyes seemed to say.

Collision.

Bone and muscle met with a brutal thud. Mack wrapped Jones up, proud to hold his ground—until he felt the tide shift.

Because Jones wasn't trying to win clean.

He was patient.

He remembered what Lance had told him: Luck's shoulder was weaker. His throws took longer. Hesitations built pressure. Don't force the kill. Just keep pushing. Let the cracks grow.

So Jones leaned in, driving slowly, grinding like a weight that wouldn't lift. His legs churned, power rolling up from his core, a tide that didn't stop.

Mack's smile vanished.

He felt his cleats slip. Felt his chest buckle. Felt the world tilt as Jones bulldozed him backward, step by step. He gasped but no sound came out.

And then—the worst of it—he felt another body behind him.

Luck.

The QB never saw it coming. He was still scanning downfield, hunting, holding, waiting for his receivers to split the coverage. A half-second pause. Just a breath. Enough.

The force transferred straight through Mack like a battering ram through a door.

Luck staggered. His legs kicked free of the turf. For a heartbeat he was airborne, tossed like a sack of grain, the ball still in his hands.

Thud!

The impact ripped the pigskin loose.

"Fumble!"

"Strip-sack!"

Arrowhead erupted in a roar. Chaos swallowed the pocket—bodies diving, hands clawing for the ball, Mack sprawling, Luck flailing.

And when the dust cleared, it was Jones himself who came up clutching the football.

One rush. One sack. One forced fumble. One recovery.

A triple strike.

Arrowhead howled its approval.