I’ve snapped the ball a thousand times, but this one freezes my hands. Rain stings my eyes as I lock onto him—Dexter Lawrence, a mountain in blue, breathing fire across the line. The crowd roars, but all I hear is his voice from last week: 'You’re not done yet, Kelce.' I’m 36, battered, ready to walk away. But every time he lines up against me, it feels less like war and more like… something else. Something dangerous.