Running backs come in many styles and types.
There are power backs and agile backs, strength backs and speed backs, bulldozers and tacticians—the variations go on and on.
Until now, Lance had left the impression of being an intelligent, cerebral back in the league:
Not only did he meticulously read defenses pre-snap, but he also paid close attention to secondary reads after the snap. He wasn't the type to blindly crash into walls.
Without question, among all active running backs, Lance was one of the best at combining smarts with raw ability—this was his foundation.
And because of that, in the first half of today's game, Lance used Bell's running style to great effect. On the surface, it looked like Bell, but Lance's use of secondary reads and route selection was even more precise, producing better results.
However—
This time, Lance switched it up—completely.
At the snap, there was no pause, no scanning, no adjustments—he planted his feet, exploded forward, accelerated into contact in one seamless motion, breaking through before defenders could even blink.
This wasn't the Lance everyone knew.
If this had been Leonard Fournette from the Jaguars, no one would be surprised. Fournette didn't read much—he just followed the play call and bulldozed ahead like a rhino.
But now?
Heyward's read was completely thrown off—
He had leapt forward, selling out to anticipate the snap, hoping to tackle Lance before he could even begin his usual read.
What he didn't expect was that Lance was already a step ahead, blasting right past him with lowered shoulders before Heyward could even react.
Lance's body surged forward, his upper torso leaned back Matrix-style, nimble and fluid, dazzling the crowd, completely humiliating Heyward.
Heyward was stunned, mouth agape, not even sure what had happened until the green of the field rushed toward his face. Shame and rage swallowed his mind.
But Lance didn't have time to care about Heyward's shattered pride. He had one goal—capitalize on the surprise and gain yards.
He increased his speed and intensity.
At that moment, the battle between the two lines was chaos incarnate.
The Steelers had opted for a blitz—or more accurately, a pressure scheme—collapsing the pocket and applying heat on Mahomes, Lance, Kelce, Hill… trying to smother the Chiefs before a counterattack could form.
The pressure came like a tsunami.
If Lance had stuck to his usual style, he would've felt that chaos building inside the pocket, and even if he dodged initial contact, he'd still end up surrounded.
But he didn't.
From the very first step, he charged—straight into the fray.
Survival in the danger zone.
Though he ran headlong into the danger, he caught the defense off guard before they could react.
Speed and momentum were everything.
Then—
After slipping past Heyward, Lance immediately saw two black jerseys.
Burnett in front—locked in, focused on Lance, waiting to make the stop.
And TJ Watt closing from the side, tracking the ball, momentarily distracted by Heyward, but quickly adjusting and spreading wide to cut off the lane.
Unusually, Lance didn't slow down—
Burnett stood directly in his path.
His job was to contain Lance, and no other player distracted him. He planted himself right on the path—Lance was charging straight into his arms.
Burnett grinned—like a hunter watching prey leap willingly into the trap.
No time to think.
They collided—hard.
Burnett grunted.
A tsunami of force hit him square in the chest. Before he could even feel pain, his brain shut down. His eardrums rang, and his body froze in place—
No step back. No move sideways.
Completely paralyzed. His organs and limbs went into full shutdown, like a statue in a game of freeze tag.
Still. Frozen.
In his vision, he watched Lance blow past him like a high-speed train, an unstoppable force crushing everything in its path.
He could see the landscape blur past—red, black, green all smeared into one—and then a red blur slammed into the black wall ahead, sending shockwaves through the air. His knees buckled—
Boom!
"Lance vs. Watt."
A head-on collision.
Lance didn't dodge. After smashing Burnett, he knew he was gassed. No time to juke, no energy for a second burst—he let inertia carry him into TJ.
Full-body tackle.
TJ hadn't expected it—he thought Lance would try to spin or cut, so he kept his center of gravity light.
He didn't expect Lance to crash into him head-on.
"Beast Mode."
That was all TJ could think of. The memories of the offseason came flooding back.
But it was too late—he'd lost the tactical edge. Without full grounding, Lance's hit sent him stumbling.
Damn it!
TJ clenched his teeth, dug deep.
"One hit, two hits, three hits! Lance is still not down!"
"At the end of this battering charge, Lance enters pure beast mode!"
"My God!"
"Seven yards!"
"Ten yards!"
"First down!"
"Twelve yards!"
"Unbelievable! Lance went toe-to-toe with Watt and actually overpowered him, pushing him back five full yards before both players finally collapsed from exhaustion!"
"Three head-on collisions!"
"Twelve-yard ground gain!"
"Pure strength, unfiltered Beast Mode! In a moment of desperation, Lance stunned everyone with a front-shoulder blitzkrieg, smashing through the Steelers' famed steel curtain!"
"Incredible! Absolutely insane!"
"No doubt, it reminds us of Marshawn Lynch's legendary Beast Mode! Just how many surprises does Lance have in store for this season?"
"Wow!"
"We all knew the Chiefs offense would strike back, but no one expected this—it's a shocker."
"So… is this the rallying cry of the reigning champions?"
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Powerstones?
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