章節 144: A Throat-Slitting Strike
Chaos. Danger. Shock.
Lance's heart was pounding. His initial plan to make a move was abruptly interrupted, leaving him drenched in cold sweat. But his second reaction was swift—he stepped forward and scooped up the ball just before it hit the ground.
However, this unexpected shift put Lance in a tight spot. Not only did he lose his position, but his balance was completely thrown off, requiring him to reset his footing before a second attempt.
But Lance didn't panic.
Fundamentally, the Clemson Tigers held the upper hand. Sweeney, noticing the rising momentum of the Crimson Tide, responded swiftly with a blitz that disrupted their entire play. Now, the Crimson Tide was on the edge of a cliff.
In such moments, staying calm is paramount.
Lance hesitated, just long enough to see a figure in a white jersey charging toward him—like a tornado.
He abruptly stopped and pivoted, narrowly evading the tackle—
A near miss.
In a literal sense, Lance could feel the rippling tension in the air between their bodies, as if brushing against the edge of a blade.
With his right leg ready, he was about to make a sideways break, but his unstable balance was immediately engulfed in a swirl of white.
Tackled!
Lance was wrapped up.
It was Watkins.
Boom!
Lance felt a force trying to crush him, a sense of crisis closing in overhead. His heart clenched.
His left hand braced.
A stiff arm.
Lance instinctively locked his left arm straight, creating a final barrier before Watkins could complete the tackle.
"Roll!" Watkins roared.
A head-to-head clash of power.
Watkins, standing 6'3" (191 cm) and weighing 305 pounds (138 kg), was like a mountain of muscle.
Height, weight, strength—he outmatched Lance in every way.
There wasn't a chance.
Wait, was there really no chance?
Lance could feel Watkins losing balance in his urgency, his tackle becoming unsteady.
Without hesitation, Lance pushed.
One shove.
And another.
Not just with his left hand—his feet dug in, continuing to press forward like a bulldozer, driving with repeated thrusts of his left arm.
Three stiff-arm pushes—
A fourth shove.
"Ah! Aaaah!" Watkins roared as his strength reached its peak.
Then—
Crash! The mountain of muscle gave way.
Crash! Crash! Lance exerted his strength one final time, flipping Watkins over with a single hand, allowing light to flood back in.
Watkins was down, limbs flailing.
The stadium fell silent in disbelief, the shock rippling up from the ground to the crowd's scalp, sending shivers throughout.
But Lance wasn't done yet.
Stumbling forward, he pressed on.
Even now, Lance was still in the pocket, as the Clemson Tigers' defensive line held both Hurts and Lance behind the scrimmage line. Barely escaping the crisis, he remained in the pocket.
Tap, tap, tap.
Lance remembered what Josh had said to him before getting injured, though those words were lost amidst the chaos. Yet, Lance remained clear-headed, holding onto those details.
He pressed forward at a forty-five-degree angle.
One step.
Two steps.
As he approached the scrimmage line, red and white were entangled, with the red wave holding back the white hurricane. But then, a white jersey broke free, charging toward him.
Danger!
Lance sidestepped just a half-step to the right—an insignificant shift that bought him crucial breathing room. Another near miss.
After repeated changes in direction and collisions, his knees began to buckle.
His steps faltered.
He nearly fell.
But Lance gritted his teeth and held on, with only one thought in his mind—
Keep going.
Even when it seemed there was no other choice but to give up, he kept pushing forward with unwavering resolve.
"Run, Lance, run!"
He planted his foot and pushed off.
Power surged from deep within, propelling him forward.
Straightening his knees and mustering all his strength, he picked up speed.
Just as his steps crossed the scrimmage line, Lance saw open space ahead.
The Clemson Tigers had applied full pressure, including the secondary moving up. Lance's perilous escape from the pocket left an open field ahead that stretched endlessly.
Especially to his left, where a gap between the cornerbacks and linebackers provided a clear path for acceleration.
He seized the opportunity.
The forty-five-yard line.
The forty-yard line.
With three long strides, Lance was stumbling forward, closing in on a first down. But it wasn't enough—not nearly enough.
Too much time had been wasted in the pocket. A mere first down would still leave Clemson's strategy intact.
They needed more.
Lance ran full throttle.
"Roll!"
Bryant-Denny Stadium's classic roar now echoed in Richmond-James Stadium, with thousands of Crimson Tide fans in unison, their eyes fixed on number 23 as they chanted.
The thirty-five-yard line.
"Roll!"
The last line of defense for the Clemson Tigers closed in—Turner-Muse.
Muse, do you remember the terror of being dominated by Lance?
Muse charged in, fast and determined, along with other Clemson players trying to close in. They realized their aggressive gamble had met its worst possible counterattack.
The thirty-yard line.
"Roll!"
Not just the Crimson Tide fans—the Tigers' fans were on their feet, desperately hoping Muse could stop Lance.
Lance ran faster and faster, his figure practically igniting, leaving a blazing red trail.
The twenty-five-yard line.
"Roll!"
Muse arrived, not planning to tackle, but to force Lance out of bounds.
Muse was at top speed, releasing all his strength—
Boom.
Wait, the anticipated impact didn't happen.
A flash of confusion crossed Muse's eyes as he watched Lance suddenly brake, stabilizing himself with an eerie calm as if watching a fool pass by. Muse stumbled forward helplessly.
He couldn't stop, as if sliding on ice.
Time froze.
Still at the twenty-five-yard line.
When Lance resumed running, there were no more obstacles ahead, just an open field with the dust of a thousand defenders left in the distance.
The roars at Richmond-James Stadium grew louder and louder, erupting into frenzied cheers and applause. The entire stadium roared—
"Roll! Roll! Roll!"
"Ahhhh!"
And they watched Lance dash into the end zone.
A throat-slitting strike, a decisive touchdown.
Just like that, it all happened.
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