Chapitre 7: Absolute Burst
Allen, standing as the first line of defense, was fully prepared. Unlike a rash youngster, he didn't charge forward hastily. Instead, he bent his knees, lowered his center of gravity, and adjusted his stance, warming up his body.
"Attack!"
The moment Lance launched forward, Allen moved along a diagonal line, charging in with the ferocity of a tiger descending a mountain. He felt he had the upper hand—
In a real game, the defense relies on teamwork, and the offense on blocking, meaning someone should be clearing the way for the running back. But Lance had no one, which meant there was no barrier between him and Allen, giving Allen a clear shot at making the tackle.
Allen: Sorry, rookie. Brace yourself; I hit hard.
With one step forward, a cruel smile played on his lips. He spread his arms wide, leaning forward and downward, preparing to crush Lance with all his might.
However.
In his pupils, Allen caught a glimpse of a figure accelerating, faster and faster.
Whoosh.
Lance became a blur, darting past Allen's field of vision in an instant.
What just happened?
Allen didn't even have time to react, still lost in his triumphant anticipation, only to realize he had lunged at nothing. His powerful forward momentum threw him off balance, and he ended up flipping forward, face-first into the ground.
Missed?
He actually missed!
Allen was in complete shock.
Lance continued charging forward.
Straight ahead, about three or four steps behind where Allen had fallen, stood Foster on the left and Humphrey on the right. Both were now in Lance's path.
Like Allen, they were both Black players, but unlike him, their builds were more similar to Lance's, with Foster being slightly bulkier, though not by much.
Their steps and movements revealed that they were much more agile than Allen, but they had assumed Allen's position would be enough to stop Lance. Even if Lance managed to juke past Allen, he would have to detour, so Foster and Humphrey positioned themselves to block his path.
They didn't expect Lance to go for a direct, speed-based breakthrough.
And not just that—he succeeded.
Caught off guard, Foster's reaction was a fraction too slow. Just as he stepped forward, the image in his vision—the figure that had just accelerated through the gap—raced past him, going from small to large in an instant, overtaking him and disappearing ahead.
Damn!
Foster realized his delayed reaction, frustrated, he stopped, knowing it was too late to catch up. He watched as Humphrey, however, continued to chase after Lance.
Positioned as he was, Humphrey had an edge in both explosiveness and acceleration. Like Foster, he had been caught off guard and was slow to start, but he didn't give up on the pursuit.
He could see it clearly—Lance had sped past Allen with a burst of acceleration, then continued to blast through the gap between Foster and Humphrey.
It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Jackson panicked—
Something was wrong.
Jackson had thought he was just there to watch the show, pulling up a metaphorical chair to enjoy it. But as the smile lingered on his lips, the next second, his face twisted in alarm. This was entirely unexpected, and the atmosphere suddenly tightened.
Ahead, Lance looked like a lone wolf, eyes gleaming with a feral intensity, baring his fangs as he sprinted straight at Jackson.
Jackson noticed Humphrey hadn't given up and was rapidly closing the distance on Lance. In an instant, it was unclear whether Lance had slowed down or Humphrey had sped up, but the gap between them shrank to less than half an arm's length. Humphrey was about to grab Lance's shoulder.
But then.
Lance kicked into a second burst of speed.
One step, two steps… three steps.
In just three powerful strides, Lance pulled away from Humphrey.
Humphrey had been on the verge of grabbing Lance, his body leaning forward to complete the tackle, only to watch as Lance accelerated away, leaving him to eat dust. His steps faltered, becoming unsteady and erratic.
Teetering.
Tottering.
Jackson had no time to worry about Humphrey. He quickly adjusted his stance with rapid, small steps, moving closer and closer, readying himself for the impact.
Closer.
Closer still.
Even closer.
Jackson regained his composure, moving laterally in an attempt to cut off Lance's path. He lowered his center of gravity, spreading his arms like a crab, his pupils locked onto Lance's figure, ready to strike.
Pushing off the ground, he charged forward, leaping—
For the tackle.
Jackson displayed a textbook defensive move.
Lance's senses screamed in alarm.
But Lance remained calm, adjusting his pace, keeping control as he watched Jackson step up to block him, turning the situation in his favor. With a sudden stop, Lance brought his sprint to a halt.
Swoosh.
Jackson lunged forward, but with Lance's sudden stop, he ended up tackling thin air, missing by just a step and a half. The two figures crossed paths, narrowly avoiding collision.
Stumbling and tripping, Jackson couldn't stop his momentum and went sprawling forward.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw Foster reappear in his peripheral vision, closing in from the left rear. There was no time to wait.
Launching forward.
Accelerating.
Sprinting.
With a swift, light step, Lance dodged Jackson's flailing arms. The path ahead was now wide open, with no obstacles left to block him.
He kept running.
Burns watched as Lance unleashed his full speed without holding back. Foster, who had just caught up, hadn't even had time to get within tackling range before watching helplessly as Lance pulled further and further ahead.
The gap widened visibly with each step.
A long sprint.
Lance reached the end zone—
Touchdown.
Standing in the end zone, Lance turned, casually tossing the football into the air and catching it gracefully, his expression relaxed and carefree:
Is that all?
He looked back to see Foster giving up the chase, Jackson and Allen lying on the ground, and Humphrey rolling on the ground before finally struggling to his feet, leaving a trail of bodies scattered like debris.
The entire field fell silent.
All the noise vanished.
Saban looked at Burns. "Is this what you saw before?"
Bursting speed?
More than that. After an initial burst, Lance still had a second gear, and even after a sudden stop, he could restart with top-tier acceleration.
Simply put, this was speed domination, overtaking with absolute power.
Of course, the defense's underestimation played a big role. They hadn't expected Lance's vertical speed to be so impressive, causing a domino effect where each misstep compounded the others, leading to a complete breakdown. Even so, Lance's abilities were undeniable.
But despite the pleasant surprise, Saban's tone carried a hint of disappointment—
If this was all Lance had to offer, it wouldn't be enough to make him a top-tier running back.
Absolute speed is crucial, very important, but in football, physical confrontation is even more critical. Relying solely on speed doesn't solve everything.
In NFL history, there have been many running backs with impressive 40-yard dash times, fast enough to be competitive even at the Olympics, but how many of them became elite players?
Few.
Even Usain Bolt, if he switched to football, wouldn't necessarily become a top running back.
In other words, Lance's performance was a pleasant surprise, but it wasn't enough.
Burns looked at Saban, unable to suppress a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He shook his head. "No, this is the first time I've seen this too. It's a surprise for me as well."
Saban raised an eyebrow slightly. Things were getting more and more interesting.
-----
Powerstones?
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone