Ronald Darby—2015, second round, 50th overall pick by the Buffalo Bills. Sadly, in his two seasons there, he barely got any real chances. It wasn't until he transferred to the Philadelphia Eagles in his third year that—
He shined.
Darby believed in his talent, his ability, and the potential he hadn't yet shown. All he needed was a little trust and the right scheme to give him a platform—like this moment, right now.
5'9" (180 cm), 193 lbs (88 kg).
Darby's build was very similar to Lance—slightly lighter, but not by much. He knew most corners in the league hated dealing with Lance. The recent wave of oversized CBs from the "Crimson Tide Boom" era made them bulkier but less agile. Against someone like Lance, with elite change-of-direction and speed, they just couldn't keep up.
That's why they called Lance the Edgewalker.
But Darby wasn't afraid.
Speed. Agility. Fluid hips. Positional instincts.
All his strengths.
In the first half, the Chiefs often used Kelce to match up against him, which left Darby spinning. He'd been holding in that frustration. But now—Lance had walked into his trap. Darby was licking his chops for a welcome party.
He bent his knees, dropped his hips, bounced on his toes.
He was ready. Arms open in a tackling stance. But that was a feint. His real play? Mirror him, box him in, talk trash.
Hey, rookie, ready for this?
Then—
The image in Darby's pupils ballooned. He lunged slightly forward to sell the threat, but his weight stayed light, ready to shadow Lance's next move.
Suddenly—an anomaly.
Or rather, what Darby expected—an abrupt cut or hesitation—didn't come. Lance kept moving laterally toward the sideline.
That faint didn't land. Darby didn't gain the edge.
They were back to even.
Time to show his twitch. Darby reset, mirrored Lance stride for stride across the line.
One step. Two steps.
Still, he stayed aggressive—reaching in, bumping, testing.
Shoving. Leaning in.
Trash talk:
"Garbage."
"Trash."
Again and again, hurling insults under his breath, mixing in vicious barbs, trying to unnerve him.
It all happened in a split second.
Darby even allowed a twisted smile to curl across his lips, bloodlust brimming—until he was stunned—
Blank.
One moment they were trading contact, locked in a shoulder battle, each jostling for leverage.
The next—Lance braked. Hard.
Darby flew past, carried by his own momentum. His face changed.
Shit.
He'd been pressing for control, but Lance had drawn him in—only to spring the trap.
But—
Darby reacted quickly. He grabbed at Lance's jersey—
A hold? Fine. Worth it.
But—
Lance didn't evade. He stepped forward, slammed into Darby head-on.
BOOM.
Darby's chest collapsed inward from the impact—he literally left the ground.
He couldn't believe it. No time to dwell—he tried to react, but his limbs were locked. He froze.
That heartbeat—just one—
Lance exploded.
Stop. Step. Burst. Sprint.
It was seamless—braking, pivoting, and launching forward all in one fluid motion. His reaction speed and directional agility shined again. He cut straight ahead.
Right shoulder against Darby's right.
Contact—impact—release.
UNGH.
Darby grunted as he spun like a top, full 360. Humiliated. Off-balance. Embarrassed.
Still, no time to stew. He chased.
Stumbling. Staggering.
Teeth clenched, Darby lunged, reached, clawed at Lance's shoulder—
But Lance kicked it up a gear.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Faster. Faster.
Darby watched helplessly as Lance pulled away.
He tried to push—his steps faltered.
Next second—
His knee buckled.
He dove—face-first—straight into the dirt.
Dammit. DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!
He lay on the turf, watching No. 23 disappear downfield. Helpless. Powerless.
F—
He slammed his fist into the ground.
But Lance wasn't done.
Stride. Push. Run. Accelerate.
He hit full speed, past the 15-yard line, now storming the red zone—a crimson hurricane.
Third-and-ten—easy as breathing.
His nimble feet danced along the sideline, flirting with the edge, but never breaking stride.
Then—
Safety Malcolm Jenkins stepped in, locking onto Lance.
He lunged—arms spread wide.
Must tackle. No more retreat.
Jenkins leaped—his shadow engulfing Lance.
But Lance didn't slow. Instead, he let his momentum carry him into a perfect clockwise spin—dodging Jenkins with grace.
Shoulder to shoulder. Back to back. Slipstream.
Then—
Lance leaned in, bumped Jenkins out of position.
Jenkins tried to counter—leaned in too.
Didn't expect it.
That contact? It stabilized Lance.
Then Jenkins' shoulder slipped—and Lance bolted ahead.
Jenkins: …
He turned, dove—missed.
Just a flash of red—No. 23—sailing away.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
Touchdown.
The Edgewalker struck again.
U.S. Bank Stadium went wild.
"Touchdown!"
"TOUCHDOWN!"
"Touch…down…"
Cheers cascaded like a tidal wave, sweeping the stadium into euphoria. Philly fans slumped in despair. Chiefs and neutrals? Ecstasy.
The second half had just begun—with a touchdown.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates