Chris Provas?
The moment that name was mentioned, the atmosphere shifted—rustling glances turned toward the speaker, and several people started rubbing their hands together.
It was clear: Provas had ticked off a lot of fans this past year.
West shot an exasperated look.
"You guys are unbelievable—picking on Chris again. If you've got that much courage, why don't you take it to a bar in Philly and go a few rounds with some Eagles fans?"
The line drew laughter and teasing from the others.
The fan looked a bit embarrassed, but didn't back down.
"He spent the whole season grumbling, doubting us, dumping cold water on everything we said. Now we're in the Super Bowl and I'm not allowed to call him out?"
Buzz. Buzz buzz.
The crowd's reaction showed they agreed wholeheartedly.
West couldn't argue with that.
"I know. And so does he."
"Chris's mouth and temper are worse than a porta-potty in July. He knows he's pissed off everyone this year. So he's made up his mind to make amends."
People nearby started murmuring—
"Make amends?"
"Don't tell me he's buying drinks?"
"I'll take a beer."
"Get real—Chris can barely pay rent. What money's he got to treat anyone?"
"Then what, is he going to hop up on the bar and dance to SexyBack?"
Laughter exploded.
West finally dropped the news.
"Chris headed north."
The whole place froze. Silence.
"Chris went to Minneapolis. He's there, at the stadium, to cheer for the team."
Boom.
The Old Oak Tavern nearly exploded.
…
"Take me home, country roads… to the place I belong… West Virginia…"
John Denver's voice flowed through the car's speakers, scenery whizzing past the window. The mighty Mississippi River rushed beside him, white-tipped mountains loomed in the distance. It all looked like something out of an Elsa-in-winter fairytale.
Chris Provas hummed softly along.
It was his first time going to Minneapolis. But somehow, it felt like he was going home.
Maybe, at first, it was just impulse.
Chris knew he'd been an idiot. He'd spent the entire season doubting the team, pushing back, being contrary—like a complete fool.
And now? The team had made it to the Super Bowl. And he felt like a clown. He couldn't pretend to cheer them on like nothing had happened. Couldn't fake that he'd always believed.
So he chose action. He went to Minneapolis.
To cheer, to repent, to stand with the Chiefs. Not just in word, but in presence. To fight shoulder to shoulder.
Win or lose—he would be there to see it through.
He meant it.
Of course, some would ask: what about the ticket? The costs?
Didn't matter. Chris had it figured out.
He'd sleep in his car—free parking lots or random roadside pull-offs would do. He'd survive on chips, soda, and cheap burgers. As long as he could afford gas for the nine-hour round trip, he was good. He'd started saving two weeks ago.
Tickets? Who said you had to have one?
Outside the stadium, thousands of fans without tickets gathered to watch on giant screens.
For free.
He just wanted to be there—regardless of outcome. To face it all, side by side with his team.
And now, the longer he drove, the more that impulse had transformed into something stronger.
Belief.
For the first time all season, Chris felt sure.
And when he arrived at U.S. Bank Stadium, that belief reached its peak—
A massive crowd filled every corner of his vision. Packed. Overflowing.
But he'd seen this before. Arrowhead held just as many fans.
No, what overwhelmed him wasn't the numbers—it was the energy.
Faces glowing with joy. Bodies buzzing with excitement. Chiefs and Eagles fans. Vikings fans. Fans from every corner of the NFL. All gathered together in celebration. Cheers clashed and danced in the air, igniting it like colored flames in the Minneapolis sky.
He could feel it. That pure, unfiltered joy.
"Go, Eagles!"
"Let's go, Chiefs!"
"WOOOO!"
Cheering twisted through the crowd like streams of color—red, blue, white, all bursting in a fireworks display of sound. The roar of the crowd crashed like waves.
Chris stood, stunned.
Only now did he understand what a true celebration felt like.
"Oh, sorry!"
He'd zoned out and bumped into someone. He quickly turned to apologize—and saw an Asian couple with slightly nervous expressions, hands waving "It's okay, it's okay."
Then he noticed something: their jerseys.
Red. Number 23.
"The rookie!"
Chris's eyes lit up. He pointed at his own red #23 jersey. A second later, he was high-fiving them enthusiastically.
The couple looked a little shy, but smiled.
And then someone nearby overheard, and shouted:
"Edgewalker!"
The word was a spark.
Suddenly, fans all around began singing in chorus:
"He's here, he's there, he's everywhere,
He's the Edgewalker—Lance, Lance, Lance!"
Over and over. Again and again.
The air caught fire.
Alan blinked in disbelief. He turned to Sue with a stunned look. What is happening?!
Sue was just as confused. One second they'd been apologizing, the next—spontaneous stadium-wide singalong?
But somehow, it didn't feel so bad.
Nearby, Josh had already thrown up his arms and joined in. The roaring chant echoed through U.S. Bank Stadium, unleashing the first wave of Super Bowl frenzy.
Alan and Sue were seeing it for the first time—Lance's true, real-time popularity.
A wave of heat. A tidal surge of energy.
And it was all for Lance.
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Powerstones?
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