American Football: Domination

Step, step, step. Step, step, step.

Hill on the right, Watkins on the left—two stallions at full gallop, no restraint, bursting beyond the short zones, ignoring the intermediate, sprinting straight for the deep.

The Colts' 40-yard line. Well within Mahomes's range.

Since kickoff, he'd been holding back, resisting the urge to go long. Reich never stopped fearing it, knowing one lapse could be fatal.

Maybe this was it.

Mahomes shifted in the pocket. The rush was tame, his space comfortable. Enough time. Enough room.

A plant. A coil. The arm rising—

Reich's breath caught. His eyes followed the QB's line and landed on Hill.

The Chiefs' top receiver three straight seasons. Speed, separation, precision—Hill had it all. Now he was gone, a blur racing down the right sideline, already twenty yards deep, streaking toward the red zone.

Two defenders bracketing, a sliver of daylight. For Mahomes and Hill, it was enough.

Reich's mind screamed: Stay with him! Stay!

But then—Mahomes's arm dropped. A flick. The ball never sailed.

Instead, it fell gently into Lance's hands.

Silence. Stunned silence.

A run. A fake pass into a run.

"Ah!"

In her living room, Annie shot to her feet, gasp ripping out, hands flying over her mouth, wide-eyed, frozen.

Beside her, Jenna almost scolded her to calm down—but Jeff was already up too, bouncing like a spring. Jenna couldn't help but laugh, then turned back to the screen, heart in her throat.

Plant. Burst. Acceleration.

Lance's motion was seamless, smooth as water flowing downhill. He swept past the line, a breeze turned storm.

Tyquan Lewis, rookie defensive end, second-rounder—he wasn't quitting. He slid outward, straining, trying to throw his body across the lane.

One desperate step, one grimace, all power spent—

And Lance bent. One sidestep, one slip outside, red jersey streaking like liquid fire around him. No pause, no drag, just straight-line surge.

Not a single millisecond lost.

Lewis's face twisted, eyes stinging with wind, vision swimming. He blinked—and the runner was gone.

Five yards.

Ten yards.

Blink and he was past. Not just Lewis, but the others too—defenders craning skyward for a ball that never came, only to realize too late.

First down, effortless.

The Colts' defense had no answer. The Chiefs toyed with them, walking through the backyard, piling one blow after another.

Not one could hold.

On the sideline, Reich gaped. Run? Reid was still calling runs?

He had watched film until his eyes bled. He had believed his prep gave him an edge. The opening drive had confirmed it.

But since then? Since then it was all red blur. Number 23, Lance, unstoppable. Fear clutched his chest.

Stop him. Stop him. Stop that man!

And then—Leonard.

The Maniac.

The lone cornerstone of this battered defense.

A stomp. A surge.

He had waited before, patient, reactive. It had failed. Now it was time for his way: full bore, no brakes, a charge headlong.

Caution? Never his style.

Heat, strength, madness. That was Shaquille "Maniac" Leonard.

He had been chasing Kelce deep. Too late he saw the ball was with Lance. He ripped free, pivoted, cut back, scrambling to get in lane. Behind the play, but not beaten.

Energy flared in the gap.

He would show Lance what a true Defensive Rookie of the Year looked like.

Sprint. Close. Step.

Lance was fast. Leonard was fast. Neither slowed. Speed stacked on speed, collision inevitable.

Two runaway trains, rails converging.

The air itself cracked.

Leonard grinned, teeth bared. Arms spreading. Ready to crush.

No room to dodge. No time. His will surged like a wall. Before Lance could counter, the hit was there.

Impact. Wrap. Shockwave.

A mushroom cloud of sound.

Leonard: Got him.

He hadn't missed. His arms locked. His weight and drive bore down like a landslide.

Yes, the first down was gone. He was late. But he would make Lance feel it. He would mark him. The Chiefs needed to know:

The Colts were not done. They would not bow.

They had come to Arrowhead to win.

And it would start here—with this hit.