American Football: Domination

Gentle waves rippled, water lapped softly, and Kansas City's winter sunlight filtered through the trees, casting scattered golden patches on the indoor pool's surface.

A tall, lean figure glided straight through the lane, his strokes controlled and precise. A closer look revealed he was relying mainly on his upper body to swim, his legs barely kicking—just enough for balance.

His pace wasn't fast, even a bit slow, but every movement was deliberate, as if he were focusing on each muscle's engagement, feeling the water with his entire being.

On the poolside, a man in navy blue medical scrubs followed along the edge, observing closely. He didn't speak, letting the quiet rhythm of strokes and splashes fill the air.

This was rehab—

Tedious. Slow. Long.

Finally, as the session ended, Eric Berry reached the end of the lane, planted his hands on the edge, and lifted himself onto the poolside. Wiping the water from his face, he exhaled deeply.

The man in scrubs stepped closer. "Eric, that was solid work today. I think we can start trying some light ground exercises tomorrow."

Berry's eyes lit up as he looked up sharply. "Really?"

It had been three months since his season-ending Achilles tear, three months of relentless rehab.

Though he rarely showed it, rehab was its own form of torment.

Some days went well; others didn't. Progress wasn't always linear—sometimes he even regressed. Even when following medical advice to the letter, results weren't guaranteed.

Monotonous. Frustrating.

More than once, Berry had thought about giving up.

But he couldn't.

He wanted to fight his way back. He wanted to return to the field.

And that wasn't easy.

Saying "stay strong" and "keep pushing" was one thing—actually doing it, minute by minute, day by day, was another.

There was no shortcut. Only perseverance.

Until today.

For months, Berry had been confined to water therapy, minimizing stress on his ankle. Now, at last, he was moving to the next step.

The man smiled. "Stay calm, Eric. Patience, remember?"

Berry waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Rushing could backfire, undo all our progress. But James, the playoffs are right around the corner. Just two weeks away."

James White, his physical therapist, had been by his side from the start, constantly adjusting the plan to match his recovery.

White didn't flinch. "That's right, and we'll do everything we can to get you there. I'll be with you until you step back onto the field."

Berry exhaled again, sitting by the pool for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, he started laughing.

Finally.

It wasn't a full return, but it was a step forward.

"Thank you, James." Berry looked up. "This is the best Christmas gift I could ask for. And thanks for sticking with me today."

White kept a straight face. "Don't worry about it. Holiday rates are double. My kids know I'm out here earning money for their new toys."

Berry burst out laughing. "Well, I better speed this up, then. Wouldn't want to keep you from playing with them."

Today was December 25. Christmas.

But in professional sports, the schedule never stopped.

In fact, with Christmas falling on a Sunday this year, the league had lined up a special Christmas Day slate.

Last night, on Christmas Eve, there had been a primetime showdown between the New England Patriots and Buffalo Bills—normally, there wouldn't be a Saturday night game, but for the holiday spirit, the NFL made an exception.

Today, the league had scheduled a full day of marquee matchups, from morning to afternoon, giving fans the perfect lineup to enjoy with family and friends. The day would wrap up with a Sunday Night Football game: the Philadelphia Eagles vs. the Oakland Raiders.

While fans gathered at home for festive celebrations, players had to be on the field, giving their all.

And for injured players like Berry, the grind didn't stop either.

Rehab didn't take holidays.

With White's help, Berry got dressed and prepared to head home. But as they walked through the hospital lobby, he noticed a crowd gathering.

Many patients, doctors, nurses, and visitors couldn't go home for the holidays. The hospital never closed.

But that didn't mean they couldn't find a little holiday joy.

Decked out in red Chiefs jerseys and Santa hats, the entire hospital lobby buzzed with excitement—like Santa Claus himself had arrived.

On the big TV screen, a live broadcast played: Kansas City Chiefs vs. Miami Dolphins.

The fiery red sea of Arrowhead Stadium spilled into the hospital, lighting up every face in the room.

In Kansas City, nothing was more electrifying than a Chiefs game.

Berry stopped walking.

He turned to the screen.

"…Smith drops back, scanning the defense."

"He pumps—oh, no, it's a fake! The handoff goes to Lance!"

"The Dolphins!"

"Nice! Lance stops on a dime, plants his foot, and shakes off the first wave of defenders. But here comes linebacker Neville Hewitt—"

"Wrap-up tackle!"

"Oh my! Lance—Lance! LANCE!"

"He spins away! It's like watching a tango! He brushes past Hewitt's tackle attempt—this is a disaster for the Dolphins' injury-riddled linebacker corps!"

"Lance breaks free! Still moving!"

"Five yards!"

"Closing in! Two defenders converge—Miami's red-zone defense finally steps up, but—"

"Wait, what? LANCE! He—he just pulled off a soccer move! Back-to-back jukes! He's free again!"

"Oh my God!"

"TOUCHDOWN!"

"Twelve-yard rushing touchdown! The rookie phenom, Kansas City's number 23, strikes again, putting the Chiefs on the board first!"

"Wow, just—"

"Hold on! Lance is standing in the end zone… he's lifting his jersey!"

Underneath, a white undershirt was revealed.

The words written on it stopped Berry cold.

Hey Eric, we're coming.

Berry stood frozen, blindsided by something he never saw coming.

A sudden warmth slammed into his chest.

His eyes burned.

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Powerstones?

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