Revis took a deep breath—but still couldn't hold back.
"Damn it!"
Anger. Frustration. Humiliation—
Once again, he had failed to hold his position.
To be precise, the Kansas City Chiefs defense had misjudged. Everyone expected the Eagles to run the ball, drain the clock, and force the Chiefs to burn their timeouts. But Pederson, for the third time tonight, displayed courage and guts—he called a pass play without warning.
Foles connected with Ertz.
The tactic was simple: exploit the tight end-versus-cornerback matchup, and take advantage of Revis's fatigue. Ertz dominated him. A 7-yard pass, and after the catch, Ertz continued forward for a first down.
Then came the two-minute warning.
Reid had been caught off guard. While his preparation had slightly edged out Pederson's pregame, in-game decision-making gave Pederson the edge—
Don't forget, Pederson had come up through Reid's coaching staff and made his name by his sharp instincts under pressure.
Reid frowned.
Revis was losing his grip. What now? Should they sub him out? Bring in a backup corner?
But the problem was, the Chiefs' cornerback corps was weak overall. Swapping Revis for another player wouldn't make a difference. No one could contain Ertz or Clement. Plus, the Chiefs had been riddled with injuries at cornerback—that's why they'd even signed Revis so late in the season and started him in the Super Bowl.
What now? With the game on the line, their first play of the most crucial series had failed.
Reid's eyes narrowed.
Revis could feel the sting of failure. He dropped his head like an ostrich. He didn't dare look toward the coaches or the offense. His thoughts were in disarray. It felt like his legacy—his pride, his dignity, his tenacity—was crumbling like a sandcastle.
He was still fighting, but couldn't tell if it was noble persistence or foolishness. Maybe he was holding the team back.
"Revis!"
A voice called out.
Revis looked up instinctively—and saw Lance clapping, cheering.
Lance said nothing. He simply stood tall, looking him squarely in the eye. Then again—he pounded his fist against his chest.
Revis froze. Then glanced around. Chiefs players and fans in the stands—all in red—were doing the same.
Heads held high. Shoulders back. No surrender. No retreat. No giving up.
They were backing him.
Revis's eyes stung.
His career had been a war. Against opponents. Against teammates. Against himself. Always fighting—for himself.
He knew what people said: that he was greedy, always demanding new contracts before the old ones were up. He'd fought with teams, fractured locker rooms, stirred chaos.
His greed had made him friendless in the league.
From the Jets to the Patriots, the cycle repeated. He showed up hoping to earn a new deal with strong play, but every time, his contract demands made the team balk. They walked away.
He'd gone back to the Jets—not for sentiment, but because they offered the biggest paycheck.
That's why everyone in the league called him a mercenary.
He didn't regret it. He believed in his value. He deserved those contracts. He wasn't about to pity the billionaires.
But now—
His body was failing. His instincts were dulled. For the first time in his career, he couldn't perform on command.
He was failing the paycheck. Failing Sutton's trust.
Yet still—the Chiefs players and fans hadn't turned their backs on him. Even if he was just a mercenary.
For the first time—
After all this wandering, all this bouncing around, he'd found something he never expected in what could be his final stop:
A sense of belonging. So this is what "home" feels like?
Too late, perhaps.
But what now? Quit? Run? Leave?
No.
He didn't want that. He couldn't.
He wanted to fight—just once—for someone else. Not for money. Not for pride. But for the team.
Revis took a deep breath, looked once more at Lance, and let that ember of confidence reignite. He lifted his head, took advantage of the pause in play, and walked straight to Coach Reid.
"Coach, I'm good."
Reid was surprised. The Revis he knew was proud and stoic, the kind of man who let his skills do the talking. He'd never needed to explain himself.
But now—Revis was asking.
Maybe the Chiefs really were transforming, shedding old skins, discovering something new. This wasn't just about making the Super Bowl.
Reid looked into Revis's eyes.
Then nodded.
Revis didn't linger. He turned and walked onto the field.
The two-minute warning ended. The game resumed.
The Eagles and Chiefs lined up once more. Pederson and Reid locked horns again.
Foles to Ertz had proven one thing—Pederson knew the game wasn't over.
If the Eagles played it safe with three runs, they risked going three-and-out and giving the ball back to the Chiefs. And with the Chiefs' offense scorching hot, that was dangerous.
Pederson remembered Week 2's painful loss. He remembered the miracle finish in the AFC Championship.
He wasn't giving the Chiefs even a sliver of hope.
So they had to get a first down. Kill the clock. Drain Reid's timeouts. And most of all—keep the Chiefs offense off the field.
That meant Pederson wasn't backing off. He would remain bold.
One more first down. Just one more.
Then, the Eagles would be two minutes away from the franchise's first Super Bowl title.
Reid knew this too. He couldn't assume the Eagles would just run. He had to stay aggressive.
The chess match continued.
Pressure still mounted.
Tension still climbed.
And that, at least, was fair—for both sides.
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Powerstones?
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