American Football: Domination

The atmosphere was slightly delicate.

Though complex to describe, everything happened in a flash—glances exchanged, movements stiffened, and an undercurrent began to stir.

Standing outside the door was Jerry Stanley, who was visibly taken aback for a brief moment, clearly surprised by the unexpected encounter.

This was a test of quick thinking.

Stanley quickly composed himself, casting a meaningful glance at the seemingly clueless and innocent Donald. Then, he smiled subtly at the Coca-Cola representative.

"Tom."

The Coca-Cola representative also regained composure and nodded lightly, replying in a measured and distant tone, "Jerry."

A brief greeting—yet despite standing face-to-face, the two deliberately avoided eye contact, their gazes subtly misaligned. Even the absence of eye contact didn't soften the tension. The air between them grew tighter, a silent struggle already brewing.

Donald, maintaining his earnest and unassuming demeanor, looked as if he were racking his brain for ways to diffuse the awkwardness, his gaze darting back and forth between the two men.

But it was Lance who couldn't hold back. He burst into laughter, breaking the tension. Instantly, all eyes turned to him.

Unbothered, Lance raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Sorry, Tom and Jerry. My mind just wandered to some weird associations—clearly, I've been training too hard. That's on me. Definitely my bad."

Tom and Jerry. The iconic cat and mouse.

Looking at the scene before him—the tense standoff—it was as if the cartoon had come to life.

The atmosphere lightened slightly, and the corners of their mouths curved upward ever so slightly. Yet, their eyes and expressions betrayed no humor, only a growing intensity.

The Coca-Cola representative finally locked eyes with his competitor. "Yes, of course. I am Tom, the real-world Tom."

The Pepsi representative, however, wasn't backing down. "Clearly, Tom has always been under that illusion. Whether on TV or in real life, it's all the same."

Back and forth they went—who was the cat, who was the mouse, who was the hunter, who was the prey. Neither gave an inch, their invisible blades clashing fiercely.

Then, out of nowhere, Donald spoke up.

"Well, it's clear Donald Duck is the one no one ever cares about."

Donald Duck.

Without any warning, Donald had inserted himself into the battlefield. The attention shifted to the ever-stoic Donald, and the mood grew lighthearted.

Without missing a beat, Donald gestured toward the Coca-Cola representative, signaling that it was time for him to leave. "Thank you for your time today. I promise this kind of accident won't happen again."

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the Coca-Cola representative cast one last deep glance at his competitor before turning and walking away. The Pepsi representative, on the other hand, deliberately ignored the departing rival and entered the hotel room with a beaming smile alongside Lance.

Even if they hadn't run into each other directly, both parties were well aware of the situation—

Much like Nike, Adidas, and Under Armour.

Coca-Cola and Pepsi clashed in every arena, and the sports world was one of their fiercest battlegrounds. It didn't take much imagination to figure out that they both had their sights set on Lance.

However, competing behind the scenes was one thing. A direct confrontation was another.

The smoke of battle hung thick in the air.

Stanley, maintaining an outwardly calm demeanor, discreetly straightened his posture, sitting tall and composed.

He didn't believe in coincidences. A direct meeting between Pepsi and Coca-Cola could only mean one thing: Donald had orchestrated this "accident" to set up a fair, competitive bidding situation. It was a clever move to trigger a rivalry and let the highest bidder win. After all, the balance of power in the current market was abundantly clear.

But Stanley wasn't entirely correct.

Just moments ago, Stanley had scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Donald. Without even opening it, Donald placed it back on the table, shook his head with a smile, and said, "Numbers are important. I'd never say they aren't—that would be foolish. But before we discuss numbers, there's something else I need to confirm first."

Stanley nodded. "I'm listening."

Donald continued, "What does Pepsi believe Lance's brand image is?"

Stanley raised an eyebrow, a confident smile spreading across his face. "A superstar. We firmly believe that Lance can become the next top-tier superstar. Perhaps even..."

Effortlessly, Stanley began to deliver a polished and eloquent pitch, showering Lance with praise, comparing him to the brightest stars, and painting a dazzling picture of his future. If needed, Stanley could've kept this up for thirty minutes without repeating himself.

But Donald interrupted.

"No. The person you're describing isn't Lance."

"Or rather, he could be Lance. But he could just as easily be Beckham, Kamara, McCaffrey, or any other young, promising athlete Pepsi is considering. Otherwise, we wouldn't even be having this conversation, would we?"

This time, Stanley didn't rush to respond. He patiently waited for Donald to continue.

And Donald did.

"In recent years, Pepsi has been collecting superstars like a Boy Scout collects merit badges. People say Real Madrid is the Galácticos of football, but they should take a look at Pepsi's 2014 World Cup commercial."

Earlier, Stanley had praised Lance. Now it was Donald's turn to praise Pepsi—a reciprocal gesture of sorts.

"In this lineup, Lance joining the team makes perfect sense. Trust me, I've done my homework."

It was rare for Donald to crack a joke, and Stanley chuckled appreciatively, nodding his thanks.

"But the real question is: What makes Lance unique?"

"If Pepsi's goal is simply to add another big name to its roster, have you heard of a player named Tom Brady?"

One second. Two seconds.

Laughter erupted.

Stanley clapped his hands, laughing heartily, and the tension in the room dissolved instantly.

Who said Donald couldn't make jokes?

Yet the ever-serious Donald remained as composed as ever, only slightly tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"What I mean is, in a lineup full of stars, what sets Lance apart? What makes him stand out among countless choices?"

"Otherwise, I don't see how Lance could secure a spot in a Pepsi ad. Maybe next year, but this year? Not yet."

"And yes, I have a clear vision for this. But the question is, does Pepsi?"

For a moment, Stanley was at a loss for words.

Donald's confidence and calm demeanor were undeniable. He clearly understood that it wouldn't be easy for Lance to carve out a significant role in Pepsi's star-studded lineup—

At least not this year. Even if Lance appeared in an ad, it would likely be as a minor figure, barely noticeable without a magnifying glass.

But Donald's words hinted at his unwavering belief in Lance and the Kansas City Chiefs' performance for the rest of the season.

Still, that wasn't the main point.

The real focus was Donald's ability to steer the conversation toward a key issue: the importance of building Lance's brand image and understanding how each sponsor envisioned Lance's role in their campaigns.

No wonder Donald hadn't looked at the numbers. From the very beginning, he had been orchestrating the entire situation—including the "accidental" encounter between Coca-Cola and Pepsi.

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Powerstones?

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