During the Smith era, the Kansas City Chiefs also employed the shotgun formation, often pulling off miracles in playoff games. But as a miracle-maker, that formation wasn't meant for routine use—it was reserved for clutch moments to generate surprise.
Ordinarily, Reid built the offense around Smith's short-to-intermediate passing game, which formed the backbone of the Chiefs' strategy.
But now?
Suddenly, Tomlin's internal alarm blared. Goosebumps prickled his back as his nerves stretched to their limits. Before he even realized it, his fists clenched tight.
Trouble!
Reid—still cunning as ever.
Tomlin thought his six-man rush had caught Reid off guard; but in reality, Reid had anticipated the move and countered with a shotgun formation, spreading five receivers across the field.
Pittsburgh's secondary was exposed.
Only five defenders—two corners, two safeties, and one linebacker—had to cover five receiving threats. Matched up one-on-one, the defenders assigned to Kelce, Lance, and even any of the wideouts were at a disadvantage.
Which meant Mahomes had at least three viable targets.
Damn it. Damn it, damn it.
But here was the real question:
Why was Reid so confident that Mahomes could escape a sack and get the pass off?
Was it trust in Mahomes? Or a calculated gamble?
In the end, did it matter?
No. Not really.
It was a 1st and 10. The Chiefs had gained momentum in two smooth offensive drives. Early in the game, Reid had every reason to take a risk. Even if it failed, the Steelers would still be shaken.
But if it worked?
Tomlin shuddered.
He glanced at the field.
Even with a coach's eye, Tomlin couldn't tell who Mahomes' target was—Lance? Kelce? Hill?
His head ached.
—
The moment the play began, Lance unleashed his full speed.
A 100-meter sprint, unleashed without restraint.
He was buzzing.
Part of it was due to how much the Chiefs' offense had evolved since last season.
Part of it was because this was his first time truly playing as a wide receiver—not just a makeshift fill-in, but a fully trained, specialized weapon after offseason work.
In the previous play, Lance had tested out Bell's signature running style.
This time, he was testing new offseason material.
A flicker of joy. A spark of anticipation.
He surged forward.
In his peripheral vision, he saw it all:
TJ was caught off guard. Kelce, who had burst off the line ahead of him, wasn't sprinting—he was engaging the corner, allowing Lance to easily overtake him.
Ahead, safety Terrell Edmunds was scrambling to match his pace.
Edmunds—playing his first NFL game. First matchup: the reigning Super Bowl MVP.
It felt familiar.
Last season, Lance had made his name by outdueling Brady. Now, it was Edmunds' turn to try.
Edmunds burned to prove himself. To show that a 28th overall pick was just as worthy as any top prospect.
He was ready.
He could already picture the applause and cheers. The stunned silence of Arrowhead.
But something was off.
Lance was coming straight at him—fast.
Too fast.
Like a train.
Instinctively, Edmunds hesitated. Took a small step back, trying to maintain control.
Big mistake.
He became a kite in Lance's hands, pulled along as Lance veered through the slot toward the middle, seemingly converging with Hill's route.
Then—suddenly—Lance stopped and cut sharply to the right, back toward Kelce's path.
Edmunds shadowed him.
Alarm bells blared in his mind. He rushed to close the gap.
They crossed the 40. Then the 30. The red zone loomed.
If he didn't stick to Lance now, it would be too late.
Edmunds believed in his read.
But Lance had noticed.
Edmunds had tunnel vision. Rookie adrenaline. Not watching the QB. Not watching the ball.
Classic mistake.
Then—Lance cut toward him.
Deliberately.
What?
Edmunds felt a flash of excitement—this was it! Time to wrap him up!
But—
Impact.
The collision hit like a truck. Edmunds' lungs nearly exploded.
Lance, unfazed, spun with the recoil and glided past him like wind through trees.
Edmunds' mind was still ringing with imaginary cheers when he realized—he'd been dusted.
Lance exploded again.
Twenty-yard line.
Ten-yard line.
In a blink, Lance was at the five.
He turned. Looked over his shoulder.
Plucked the falling football from the air like fruit from a tree.
Then, calmly—without even turning around—he backpedaled into the end zone, still facing Edmunds.
Tossed the ball in the air.
Caught it again.
Effortless. Graceful.
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Powerstones?
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