American Football: Domination

"Fly."

The word broke free, tearing through his lungs and chest, vibrating faintly in the air.

Felix struggled, trying to rise from his chair. He failed. But instead of collapsing into despair, he straightened his back, opened his shoulders, and raised his arms high.

"Fly!"

Again, and again. Louder, stronger, fiercer each time. His body sat in the wheelchair, but nothing could chain his soul.

The others couldn't help it—they clenched their fists, jumped to their feet, shouting with him, voices roaring through the church like a celebration.

Annie lifted both hands high, darting back and forth across the open space near the altar like a deer, her laughter ringing like silver bells.

One by one they all went mad, turning a funeral into a festival, a wild celebration of life.

Just as Felix had said: thirty minutes.

A short, simple ceremony, and then Jenna and Karen were waiting outside the church doors, ready to take the children home.

They couldn't rest easy.

Though they hadn't entered the chapel, it was obvious from flushed cheeks and steaming breath that they'd been outside for a while, unable to sit still in the car, pulled by worry.

They knew they shouldn't cage their children like fragile canaries, but they couldn't suppress the dread in their hearts. The fear gnawed at them, every day another trial.

Karen rushed forward first, her eyes never leaving Felix. She didn't speak, but her gaze said it all.

When people think of disease, they picture the pain, the struggle, the looming shadow of death. But it's more. For families, it's endless waiting, daily care, the reshaping of life itself.

The world shifts.

Invisible, unspeakable pressures bear down. Another demon entirely.

Karen reached to help him into the car, but Felix refused. His movements were slow, but he insisted on doing it himself.

Karen hovered, tense, arms ready to catch him if he slipped. She only relaxed once he was safely inside, shutting the door firmly before remembering Lance and the others.

She turned, awkward, words stumbling. "Lance, I'm sorry—I mean thank you. Felix didn't say why he called you here. Tomorrow's the game, and you still came… he didn't trouble you, did he?"

Through the window, Lance saw Felix flailing both hands, making a "shhh" sign with eyebrows, nose, and mouth all working overtime. Lance couldn't hold back his grin.

So—the living funeral was a secret. Of course. To the parents, it would seem absurd. Karen clearly wasn't ready for that.

He wiped the smile away and shook his head. "No. Not at all."

"In fact, we should be thanking Felix. He came to cheer us on. We're ready for the game now."

He glanced at Mahomes and Kelce, and both nodded like bobbleheads.

Relief softened Karen's eyes. Her lips trembled; she rubbed her eyes quickly, pasting on a smile—too wide, too forced, a mask to hide her fear.

These days she seemed suspended in midair, unable to rise or fall.

She looked at Lance, trying to say more, but words wouldn't come. "Thank you, Lance, you don't know what this means to me."

Tongue-tied. The words failed her, spilling out uneven, half-formed. She didn't even know what she was saying anymore.

Finally, she hugged him. Tight, desperate, as if pouring all her strength into her arms. "Thank you," she whispered.

Then she turned quickly away, head bowed to hide her tears. She hugged Mahomes and Kelce too, mumbled a greeting to Jenna, and hurried off.

Jenna, after settling Annie in the car, came to Lance. "Karen… this week has been a lot."

It showed. She was thinner, worn down, the weight falling off her body as clearly as the color drained from her face.

Jenna's lips twitched. "But that's our duty. To worry, to care, to be strong…"

Her voice trailed, her thoughts slipping away. In that silence lay a pain only parents of sick children could truly grasp.

Lance wanted to comfort her, but she cut him off, breathing deep, forcing a smile. "Thank you. For being silly with them tonight."

The subtext was clear—she knew the truth about the night's "ceremony."

But she didn't dwell on it. Glancing back at her car, she steadied herself. "Lance, Annie's been so excited for the divisional game. She really wanted to see it at Arrowhead. Jeff and I are grateful for your invitation, but I don't think it's possible tomorrow."

Lance blinked in surprise.

Jenna explained, "Her vitals have been unstable. Good one moment, bad the next. And the weather forecast is ugly. The doctor says she should stay home…"

Lance's heart sank.

He remembered how Annie had asked for help earlier that evening—how she'd sat through most of it, only running once at the end.

"Don't worry," Lance said quickly. "Don't worry about me, don't worry about Annie. If not the divisional, then the conference championship. We'll be at Arrowhead. We're not going anywhere."

Jenna's nose prickled; she inhaled sharply to hold it back. "So confident?"

"Of course," Lance said. "Like Annie told us—we're not fighting alone, right?"

The Chiefs. Annie. Felix. None of them were alone.

Jenna nodded, smiling faintly. "Then let's hope we make it to Arrowhead for the championship. Good luck tomorrow. We'll be watching on TV. Score a touchdown—Annie's praying for you."

Beside them, Kelce piped up, "And me, Mrs. Gallas?"

Jenna chuckled. "Travis, that's Annie's decision, not mine."

Kelce: …

Laughter burst out, bright and warm.