Lance: ???
An utterly baffled "Mr. Li the Innocent Bystander" waved both hands repeatedly, face full of protest. "You should be asking the quarterback. What are you asking a passerby like me for? Please don't interrupt my people-watching."
His dead-serious tone had the entire group roaring with laughter. But Houston wouldn't let him off that easily. "It's just a discussion. Mr. Bystander, are you sure you don't want to share your thoughts?"
At the side, Mahomes theatrically knelt on one knee, miming a mic stand by holding a fist to Lance's mouth like a reporter with a microphone.
Lance didn't resist. He nodded solemnly, striking a thoughtful pose like a poet about to recite, even stroking an imaginary goatee.
"Nope, not gonna happen. I think a 50-yard pass is way too hard. Even with a kick, that distance isn't guaranteed—let alone throwing by hand. This isn't a discus toss."
Boo!
Blargh!
"That sucked!"
Boohoo~
The players gave no quarter, booing loudly as the crowd erupted with teasing.
And they didn't stop there.
"Rookie, can you even do it?"
"What do you do if you can't cut it as a man?"
"Travis, rookie says you can't throw!"
The scene turned into a raucous mess.
Then, a bunch of troublemakers hoisted Kelce up to give it a try himself.
As it turned out, Lance was right.
Just look at the special teams—
Even when kicking with their feet toward a much larger target like the goalposts, once the distance stretches past 50 yards, accuracy drops significantly. Throwing by hand? Even worse.
Lesson one in football—
The ball isn't round.
So naturally, the players' wild, misguided throws were hilariously off the mark.
But Kelce's attempt was the showstopper.
With confidence, Kelce lined up like a pro—backpedal, smooth steps, poised form—then, at the moment of launch, his foot slipped, his shoe flew off, and he belly-flopped like a fish on ice, flinging the ball a pathetic five yards forward.
The team absolutely lost it.
Kelce faceplanted in tragic fashion and just lay there in surrender, waving one arm like a white flag.
Then—
Mahomes and Lance trotted over and, without a word, each grabbed one of Kelce's ankles and started dragging him away like a body, all hush-hush and comically stealthy.
The sight nearly knocked Andy Reid's glasses off his face from laughter.
Clowns!
A bunch of clowns!
And then—
"Rookie! Rookie! Rookie!"
Before Lance could even let go of Kelce's leg, the Chiefs players were already chanting for him to take the stage. The energy was electric.
Even Coach Childress, standing with the coaching staff, joined in with a yell, while team staff doubled over laughing.
Lance gave a helpless look to Kelce, who was still sprawled on the turf like he was sunbathing—
Yeah, thanks for that, buddy.
After Kelce's accidental slapstick showstopper, expectations were sky-high.
Unless Charlie Chaplin came back to life, Lance figured it would be impossible to top that.
So, what to do?
No worries. Lance leaned over to whisper a plan with Mahomes, and the quarterback sprinted off to the end zone.
If comedy couldn't win the crowd, maybe looks would.
They switched roles: Lance at quarterback, Mahomes at receiver.
Serious faces, dramatic setup.
Applause and wolf whistles echoed from all directions.
Kelce whooped the loudest.
Lance stayed calm, carefully sighting downfield, repeatedly motioning for Mahomes to shift left and right like he was calculating the wind in a sniper shot.
It was pure performance art.
The crowd lapped it up like a carnival.
Even Childress muttered to Reid, "This rookie's got some flair."
Reid just chuckled, offering no comment.
Finally, Lance made his move—
Backpedal, plant, step forward.
Pause, rotate, throw.
The sequence was fluid and easy, full of elegance—
A far cry from Kelce's slapstick tumble.
The ball soared in a perfect spiral, tracing a rainbow arc across the field.
Ten yards.
Twenty.
Still flying.
Gasp!
Thirty.
Forty.
The full arc of the ball floated above midfield, steady as a guided missile.
In a stadium full of dropped jaws, the football descended gently—
Straight to Mahomes.
Fifty yards.
Exactly as promised.
Slight adjustment: Mahomes shifted half a step left and opened his arms, catching it effortlessly.
His right leg remained planted to prove—
Lance's aim wasn't for show. It was pinpoint.
Silence.
Childress nearly dislocated his jaw.
He looked at Reid, stunned.
But Reid remained serene, the corners of his mouth curled into a cryptic grin.
And Lance wasn't done.
He broke into a run, then performed a front flip, a cartwheel, and a gymnastic tumble.
He and Mahomes high-fived mid-run and finished with a synchronized bow.
For a beat, the crowd blinked.
Then—
Pandemonium.
Clapping, whistling, cheering.
The whole team stormed forward, surrounding them in a joyous frenzy.
Revis paused, a smile creeping up his face.
With the Super Bowl looming, tension had gripped the Chiefs hard.
Even someone as experienced as Revis couldn't shake the nerves.
And always, he thought of Berry—
They were in similar shoes.
Bodies faltering.
Age pressing down.
Uncertain futures.
Today it was Berry. Tomorrow it might be Revis.
Those fears, that unease—
It was all real.
But unexpectedly, this little skit with Kelce, Lance, Houston, and Mahomes…
It lifted the clouds.
The gloom that had blanketed the team vanished.
Suddenly, the Chiefs were vibrant again.
For the first time, Revis felt true belonging.
He was grateful to have joined Kansas City midseason—
Not because of the Super Bowl,
But because he got to fight for it alongside this incredible group.
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Powerstones?
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