Though reason told her not to worry—the medical staff and his teammates were all with Lance—Sue's heart ached. That was her child, the one she'd raised since he was a spark of life, and seeing him with blood running down his face left her unable to breathe.
Time seemed to freeze.
Then—
Alan couldn't hold back. He turned, about to leave the VIP suite. He couldn't just stand there and watch, paralyzed.
He needed to do something.
"Alan."
Sue called out.
He stopped, frustration written across his face as he looked back at her.
Sue's shoulders trembled. Her lips had no color. But she turned to Alan and said, "Alan, our son is grown. This is his fight. He has to face it himself."
Alan frowned. "Ridiculous!"
Sue shook her head but said nothing more. She only looked down at the field. "See for yourself."
Alan hesitated, then returned to the window and gazed down.
Sue stood tall, her back straight, reclaiming her strength. Though tears still shimmered in her eyes, her gaze burned with determination as she locked onto that bloodied figure on the field.
On the sideline, a heavy silence hung over the Chiefs like a storm cloud.
They had fought hard. They had held their ground. They had answered every blow.
But they were still young. After surviving battles against the Titans and Patriots, after roaring through the AFC Championship, after bearing the weight of missing leaders and clinging to hope all night… now, at the finish line, they'd stumbled.
And for a moment, the spirit holding them together faltered.
Then Berry appeared.
He hobbled forward on his crutch, trying to be with his team.
But he couldn't.
In that moment, Berry hated his helplessness. When the team needed him most, all he could do was watch.
He didn't dare step any closer. He was a burden now.
And yet…
He wanted, more than anything, to fight with them. Even if it meant losing—at least he would lose together with them.
So close… and yet, so far.
Then—
Berry's eyes met Lance's.
And Lance smiled.
He raised his right hand, made a fist, and pounded his chest. Once. Twice. Again and again.
Feeling the thump of his heart. The surge of his blood.
No words were needed.
Berry understood: still pounding. No surrender. No retreat. Still fighting. Still burning. The game wasn't over yet.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
That sound, muted but mighty, was heart meeting fist, the silent roar of a warrior proud and unbroken. It was the voice of the Kansas City Chiefs.
Berry straightened his back. Clenched his fist. Pounded his chest.
In the Old Oak Tavern—
Silence.
Sports, like life, could be cruel. Effort didn't guarantee reward. Persistence didn't promise victory. Hope might fade before it bore fruit. Seasons could end on a stumble, swallowed by futility.
But still—they fought.
They endured.
They believed. Foolishly, stubbornly, with all their hearts.
Thud.
Anderson clenched his fist. Hammered his chest. Again and again. His eyes welled with tears, staring at the TV screen.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
A silent rally cry began to spread.
In separate cities, West and Provos stood before different screens, but at that moment, distance disappeared. They made the same motion.
They fought together.
Alan froze. He never understood football. But in this moment, he felt it—the passion, the spirit, the belief—it burned.
He turned.
Saw Sue, tears shining in her eyes, pounding her chest with fierce determination.
And then Alan, too, clenched his fist and joined in.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Smith stood tall.
Kelce and Mahomes lifted their heads.
Even Childress clenched his fist.
One by one, fans in red throughout U.S. Bank Stadium rose to their feet. No cheers, no shouts. Just fists thudding against chests, feeling the beat of their hearts.
That heavy, pounding rhythm linked them all. It surged like a tidal wave through the stadium and beyond, crashing through TV screens, spreading across North America.
Tragic. But powerful.
At the center of it all stood a young man, number 23, blood on his face, fire in his eyes—Lance, burning his soul, sounding the call to arms.
All eyes turned to the Chiefs defense.
Led by Houston, they said nothing. Just exchanged looks.
The offense had carried them all game. Now, it was the defense's turn.
Just like the Eagles had turned the tide with their defense, it was time for the Chiefs to shine.
Houston smiled.
Berry couldn't play. Smith and Lance were battered. Revis was barely holding on. But so what?
They would fight.
The game wasn't over. Not yet.
Houston turned, and the Chiefs defense took the field.
2:11… 2:10…
Time ticked down. The end of Super Bowl LII loomed. The ball sat on the Eagles' 17-yard line. Philly had started to celebrate—believing the title was theirs.
But Minneapolis could still feel the fire of battle.
Foles returned to the field. He'd been otherworldly tonight. All that remained was to close it out.
But this time—it was different.
He didn't need yards or points. Just time. Possession. Control.
Victory was in sight.
But the Chiefs—wounded and exhausted—still burned.
So did Foles.
In his eyes: a hunger. As if this was his last game ever.
As if he wanted one more play, one more moment to shine.
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Powerstones?
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