Drawing the Bow to Shoot the Eagle

New England linebacker Kyle Van Noy had been playing at his absolute peak tonight, and as the second half began, he showed no signs of slowing down.

This was a six-man blitz, with two linebackers joining the pass rush. Harrison had been blocked by Kelce, and Van Noy had been delayed by Hill.

Van Noy smirked.

"So this is Kansas City's answer?" he thought.

Like a cat playing with a mouse, the struggle always made the game more interesting. If the mouse didn't fight back, it would be too easy, too boring.

Licking his lips, Van Noy pushed off, shaking off Hill and charging forward.

He tore through the chaotic battlefield, eyes locking onto his prey—

Wait.

Smith still hadn't thrown the ball?

Van Noy's instincts screamed at him to check the routes, to see where the receivers were, but he forced himself to stay locked in on Smith.

The quarterback was the key. Sack him, and it wouldn't matter where the receivers were running.

Smith remained focused, his mind emptied of everything but the play unfolding before him.

He didn't have time to think about history, about the odds, about the weight on his shoulders. All he knew was one thing—

The game wasn't over. It couldn't be over. He wouldn't let it be over.

To his right, Harrison was closing in, a massive shadow looming over him. The pressure was suffocating, just like it had been all game.

To his left, Van Noy was slightly delayed but was still bearing down on him like a freight train, trying to close the small gap between them.

A double blitz.

A death trap.

But Smith planted his right foot, stopping abruptly, controlling his body to make a sharp cut, pivoting left just as Harrison lunged.

A split second later, Van Noy's face filled his vision, growing larger with every heartbeat.

Smith slammed his left foot down, bracing against the force of his own momentum. Another cut. Another pivot.

Back to the right.

Harrison's arm just missed him.

Van Noy swiped at thin air.

Smith had danced through the chaos, escaping both defenders by inches, threading the needle between two crashing waves of destruction.

His footing was shaky, his balance barely holding, but his instincts screamed at him to keep moving.

Van Noy wasn't giving up.

Recovering instantly, he lunged forward again, desperate to make up for lost ground.

Smith had no more room to run.

It was now or never.

He planted his foot.

He turned his body.

He drew back his arm.

A full-body motion, powerful and smooth, like an archer drawing a bow—

And then, he released.

A missile soared from his fingertips, slicing through the cold night air.

Van Noy's eyes widened.

A deep pass?

From Smith?

Van Noy couldn't believe it.

Alex Smith, the quarterback notorious for his conservative, checkdown-heavy playstyle, the man who rarely took risks and almost never challenged deep coverage, had just launched a pass into the heavens—while under heavy pressure.

Even Bill Belichick's expression changed ever so slightly.

What the hell did Andy Reid say at halftime?

The entire stadium fell silent as the ball arced upward, climbing higher and higher, the deep brown leather standing out against the black sky.

The trajectory was perfect, a graceful curve stretching across the field like a comet streaking through the night.

Ten yards.

Twenty yards.

Smith, still lying on the ground, had no time to process Van Noy crashing into him as both players tumbled over each other.

A yellow flag flew.

Most likely, it was for roughing the passer—Van Noy had hit Smith after the throw.

But neither man cared about the penalty.

Both immediately turned their heads, staring skyward, watching the ball sail through the air.

Thirty yards.

Forty yards.

The football continued its journey, defying every expectation.

Fifty yards.

By now, the ball had reached its apex and began its rapid descent, the spiraling motion becoming slightly unstable as it lost speed.

This was Smith's limit.

The throw was incredible given the circumstances, but the drop-off in velocity was noticeable, and the ball started dipping sooner than expected.

Even so, it was a 50-yard bomb under pressure.

A statement.

A warning.

And now, the question was—who was the target?

"Attack!"

As soon as Smith had called the snap, four Kansas City players had exploded off the line.

Three on the left, one on the right.

The left side receivers diverged immediately.

One broke toward the sideline.

One sprinted straight down the middle.

One cut inward, then snapped back outward, running a quick curl.

Three different routes.

Three different passing options.

The design stretched New England's already weak secondary to its limits.

The Patriots had the 30th-ranked pass defense.

The real challenge wasn't whether the receivers could get open—it was whether Smith could stay upright long enough to deliver the ball.

Meanwhile, on the right side…

A single, devastating route.

A deep vertical streak.

Cornerback Stephon Gilmore was locked in, every muscle tensed.

His assignment was Travis Kelce.

Or so he thought.

In the blink of an eye, Kelce and Lance switched places.

Suddenly, the man in front of him was Lance.

At first, Gilmore thought it was a gift from the gods.

Guarding a tight end downfield was a nightmare.

But now, his matchup was a running back.

He grinned.

Until Lance took off.

Gilmore reacted immediately, mirroring him stride for stride, leaning his shoulder in, trying to lock him up.

But the moment he made contact—

Lance accelerated.

Not just speed.

Explosion.

Raw, blistering acceleration.

Gilmore tried to jam him.

Tried to hold his ground.

But Lance shrugged him off, slipping past the contact like a shadow.

Gilmore gritted his teeth and pushed harder, trying to regain control, but it didn't matter.

Lance was already gone.

A single step.

That was all he needed.

He hit his top speed in an instant.

Gilmore struggled to keep up, his arms shoving, his body colliding with Lance's, desperately trying to slow him down.

But Lance had already shifted gears.

His body snapped forward, his legs pumped harder, and just like that—

Gilmore was left behind.

And the ball was already coming.

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Powerstones?

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