American Football: Domination

Ugh—ahhh! Ahhh!

Leonard unleashed everything, holding nothing back. He wanted Lance to feel pain, to feel the impact, to make his very soul tremble.

A head-on collision. Power unleashed.

And yet, the next second—

Wait, what? Wait, wait!

Leonard's heart suddenly clenched.

…

Have you ever seen Spanish bullfighting?

When a bull sees that red cloth, its eyes go bloodshot, it goes mad, and charges recklessly forward. The force and impact are terrifying enough to toss a grown man into the air like paper, even rip him open and spill his guts.

So how does the bullfighter pull off his feat?

Timing. Footwork.

It's all about that single moment—catching the bull right before it makes contact, shifting weight with nimble steps, and evading at the last instant.

Here, it was the same.

At first, Lance had planned to switch balance, spin with a Marseille turn, and shake Leonard off. After all, Leonard's sheer size and mass made a head-on collision unwise; Lance should use his agility and speed to slip away.

But Leonard's step was too fast, especially since Lance himself hadn't slowed down—speed was spiraling out of control.

In a flash, Lance made his decision.

No dodge—he went straight in.

The difference was in how he braced: every muscle tight, knees bent slightly, breath held. He waited for that razor-thin sliver of time right before Leonard's tidal wave of force landed.

That split-second opening. Easy to miss, but if seized, it could change everything.

And Lance seized it.

The risk was worth it—he already had the first down secured. Why not gamble a little, see what could happen? That, too, was part of the thrill.

A flicker of light sparked deep in Lance's eyes, his body calm, his mind laser-focused.

He braced.

Then, just as Leonard slammed into him—Lance pivoted.

Right leg as the axis, left leg pushing off, his whole body spun in a full circle. A 360-degree rotation. And the force that was meant to crush him now whirled with him, like gears turning together.

He spun. He danced. It was almost beautiful.

Leonard couldn't believe it.

He had poured every ounce of weight and power into the tackle, ready to drive Lance into the turf. But now—he was clutching onto Lance's waist like it was a lifeline, being carried through the spin, his massive hit dissolved by a twist of balance and leverage.

He wasn't a hunter anymore. He was a clown in a cheap circus act.

"Jack, I'm flying."

The shame hit him harder than the force. Rage surged up his spine, and with a strangled scream, his grip slipped.

The centrifugal force flung him away. He couldn't stop it, couldn't resist. The whole world blurred, spinning out of control.

Damn it.

Leonard was flung aside, not even knowing how.

And Lance? He didn't escape unscathed. He finally understood why bullfighting was a dance on a knife's edge—his blood was surging with adrenaline, that raw thrill of death right at his throat.

The world still spun. One turn. Another.

He clung to a single trick: the way ballet dancers spot a point before they spin, locking eyes on it to keep their balance.

His eyes locked on the goalposts in the end zone.

Spin. Recover. Plant.

His feet hit the ground again, uneven, shaky—but steadying.

Step. Step. Power re-ignited.

Roars rose around him. Screams. Cheers. The stadium shook with his every stride.

On TV, Annie couldn't hold back anymore—her eyes wide, her voice breaking as she cried out, "Lance!"

"Lance!"

Through the screen, her voice echoed Arrowhead Stadium's chant. Even Jenna, swept into the fire, stood with her heart pounding like a drum.

Tens of thousands of voices, all roaring the same name. A lone figure, so small in the vast red sea, yet towering over all of it, making the crowd kneel in worship with nothing but sheer will.

Step. Step. Step.

Every footfall landed in their chests.

Clash. Eruption. Burn.

Their hearts thundered like his, waves crashing in their veins.

Karen stood too, clutching Felix's shoulder, yelling that same name with abandon.

"Lance!"

"Lance!"

A chant, united, reverberating in the stadium's sky.

Grass flew, sweat sprayed, blood pumped—the pulse of a city beating as one.

Lance staggered past the 25-yard line, unsteady, dizzy. But by the time he hit the 20-yard line, his speed and balance had returned.

Each step, each push, reignited the fire.

A blur of white rushed into view from the side. A defender, a safety.

But Lance's mind was calm. He stopped on a dime.

The white streak flew right by, helpless. Through their helmets, their eyes met for a fraction of a second.

Lance: Sorry. Safe travels.