Gumshield
It was a glorious sunny day, a rare occurrence during a Piltover September, and Vi could think of nothing better to do with the day than spending it playing a marvellous game of rugby.
Violet had always found herself drawn to combat sports. In stark contrast to her day job actively training for war, she found peace in the controlled chaos around strapping on a pair of boxing gloves or tucking in her gumshield and tackling the shit out of someone.
And that’s exactly what rugby was: 80 minutes of hellfire between 30 players and one referee, then a beer or six in the clubhouse after.
The women’s changing room was buzzing with atmosphere as Vi entered, slinging her gym back into her designated locker for the year. Rihanna blasted from a tinny speaker perched atop the rows of lockers. The sickly sweet scent of moldy cleats clung to the air as the girls crouched down to get dressed into their kit: blue playing shirt embroidered with the school logo in glinting golden thread, navy blue socks and bleach white short-shorts.
White shorts for the season had been an interesting choice by Coach Sevika. Unbeknownst to her the girls all had a wager on for who could get their shorts as dark with mud as possible during the season.
As Vi pulled her playing shirt over her head and body, proudly sporting a giant number six on the back, she couldn’t help but relish in the familiar feeling of pre-game nerves. It was something that caught up to her before each game, no matter who they were playing or where.
Nerves were good. Nerves meant you had your head in the game, grounded to the soil, determined to make a difference and hit fucking hard.
The stakes were high for this game. It was the opener for the university league, playing against their sworn rivals, University of Piltover. A local derby which had been going on for generations before them and that would definitely go on for generations to come. It was accompanied by the familiar slogan, chanted through the crowds, a phrase which had been passed down from student to student and cadet to cadet:
GO ARMY, BEAT PILTIE
“Alright, girls, huddle up,” their captain, Dylan, called into the changing room.
Vi let a fellow player finish taping up her ears before heading into the circle. She didn’t normally tape her ears for a game, but after a near-miss with UoP last year nearly getting her ear ripped off in a maul, she didn’t want to take any more chances with the vicious team.
“Grab a shirt,” Dylan commanded calmly. The girls slung their arms around each other and gripped each other’s shirts, Dylan joining them.
They were a real mismatch of players: some short, some tall, skinny, stocky, some with scrum caps and tape on, some without. If you saw them normally one might wonder what they all have in common with each other.
But here, wearing each other’s shirts, they were a team. One living, breathing organism, who played for each other. For PMA. For the thrill of the game.
Vi chewed on her gumshield, one half in her mouth and the other half out, as she listened to the captain’s speech.
“You all remember what happened last match,” Dylan started slowly. “We should’ve had that. That wasn’t the PMA I know. That’s not the PMA I see when I look around at you all now.”
“There is no way in Hell we walk into our house, onto our pitch, and let those posh dicks take the win away from us. Not today. Today, we prove a fucking point.”
A few girls whooped quietly but then simmered down. The music had been switched off at this point.
“Hit low, hit hard, hit fucking fast. You all need to be off the defensive line as soon as that ball goes into play. Attack the gaps, draw out their pods, get in their heads as much as you can.”
Dylan went silent again, her careful eyes scanning the face of every other player around her, before continuing. “Whose house?”
“Our house,” the team responded.
“Whose house?” Dylan repeated, louder this time.
“Our house!” the girls shouted in response.
“Whose house?”
“Our house!” The rhythmic sound of studs beating against the cold concrete floor flooded the room, accompanied by whoops and jeers from everyone in the circle.
The noise didn’t stop as the girls ran out of the changing room and down the tunnel, straight into the jaws of war.
***
An electric atmosphere hung heavy in the air at the Piltover Military Academy sports stadium. Seas of navy blue filled the bleachers, rippling with life as the excitement tore through each fan. Above their heads, cameras flashed and zoomed across the pitch to get better views, sitting idle as they too awaited the teams to exit the tunnel. The University of Piltover fans were sat in the away stands opposite the PMA cadets, their bodies becoming a blur of green as they too sported their college colours.
It wasn’t just academic success that Piltover Military Academy prided itself on. A large chunk of their budget was put aside each year to invest in its facilities, and the proof was in the pudding. The PMA memorial sports stadium was state-of-the-art, containing ten different locker rooms for the different sports teams to rotate with, multiple large gyms, and a seating capacity of just over 12,000 people. It drew in crowds from all over Piltover on game day, regardless of which team was playing.
The pitch was a soccer field, rugby field, football field and lacrosse field all rolled into one, but more importantly, it was their battlefield. Their land to take and fight for no matter the odds.
Caitlyn sat a couple rows away from the pitch, taking her time to soak in the atmosphere. Although she wasn’t a huge sports fans, and loud environments like this would normally make her squirm uncomfortably, she couldn’t help but feel a bubble of pride ebbing in her chest.
“Told you I’d be quick, Sprout,” a voice said next to her. Jayce slid into his bucket seat, two bags of popcorn and two hot dogs carefully balanced in his arms. The smell of freshly popped kernels and delicious cooked meat quickly filled Cait’s nostrils. He handed her a bag of popcorn. “Thank you for coming along.”
“Is this my repayment?” she managed through mouthfuls of her snack.
Before Jayce could respond, the crowds burst into triumphant applause, and Cait’s attention was drawn to where the Piltover Military Academy and University of Piltover players were now sprinting out of the tunnel. Their boots quickly met soggy muddy ground as the two teams lined up against each other on the pitch as the PMA Marching Band assembled on the sidelines and sprung into life to spur their team on with music.
The PMA crowd refused to quiet down for even a second, fighting against the roar of the saxophones and drumline of the band, quickly jumping into their infamous chant:
“GO ARMY, BEAT PILTIE!”
Thud-thud-thudthudthud.
“GO ARMY, BEAT PILTIE!”
Thud-thud-thudthudthud.
“Why do they sing that? What’s the point?” Caitlyn said loudly into Jayce’s ear. Her friend was entranced with the experience, watching each action and chanting along like an eager puppy.
“It’s what they’ve always sung!” Jayce shouted back. He took a quick bite of his first hot dog and continued to talk, still chewing food in his mouth. “Ten Noxus Bombers got banned last year, so everyone’s extra angsty to make more noise!”
Cait groaned in disgust as she looked over to see half of Jayce’s meal still in his mouth and scolded him. “God, Jayce, chew with your damn mouth closed!”
“Sorry!”
The two teams assembled at their ends, their pre-game chat drowned out by the sound of cheering fans, before University of Piltover broke off first and formed up in an attacking line. PMA scattered their players, ready to receive the kick, and there was a moment of silence before the referee blew his whistle.
The ball flew up the pitch after a powerful kick from UoP, and the game sprung into life, but all Cait could do was stare at PMA’s number six.
Her number six.
***
The first half had become a sloppy free-for-all from the moment the referee put his lips to the whistle.
Straight off the get-go, UoP’s winger had barrelled down the pitch after the ball, catching the PMA’s fullback in a hospital tackle before she even had the chance to bring the ball into her chest. From that moment alone Violet knew the game would be a scrappy and bloody one.
PMA had maintained good possession of the ball, chipping it up and down their wings as they took more ground from UoP, however their defence was significantly stronger than last season. Their forwards were dropping their shoulders before each tackle, making sure they made contact with the meatier bonier portions of their body, effectively disabling whoever they’d picked as their target each time.
The scrums, however, had been the worst part of the game, and that was nothing to do with the physicality of it.
Scrum-halves were notorious for being the cocky little shits on each team, no matter which badge you found yourself wearing. And it seemed as if the home and away scrum-halves had dialled their attitude up to 11 that morning.
At a PMA scrum half way through the match, the opposition scrum half started stepping on her opposite’s boot, jostling her shoulder as the other girl tried to pass the ball in to the hooker. The referee had blown his whistle once, gave the two a stern talking to, and let the play commence – but the shenanigans refused to stop there.
As Piltover Military Academy’s scrum half stepped around the scrum, waiting for the ball to feed back to her, the other player stuck to her like a second skin, poised down, ready to pounce as soon as the ball became live again. Soon enough, the ball exited the scrum, and the UoP player launched herself into her enemy in a phenomenal tackle.
As the two girls went down, however, what was once a perfectly legal (and pretty damn good) tackle quickly spiralled into the two launching fists and open-handed slaps into each other.
At one point, UoP’s scrum half had twisted her fingers into the opposition’s hair, tugging it away from her scalp and asking with a snarl, “You like that, bitch?”
A shit-eating grin spread across the face at the receiving end. Without missing a beat, the other player retorted, “Only when your boyfriend does it.”
Vi had bitten back a smile as she dragged her smaller flailing scrum half away from the other player. Both received a yellow card and time in the sin bin for their actions.
“Fuckin’ worth it,” they’d both muttered under their breaths before doing the walk of shame back to their respective coaches.
The first-half soon drew to a close, and both teams retreated to the opposite sides of the pitch to switch before the second half. The midway score had frozen at 15-12 to the University of Piltover, its numbers solemnly displayed in neon lights hanging over the stadium for the fans to see.
Panting and gulping down water as the PMA players recouped themselves, Vi pulled Dylan away to talk to the captain privately about their second half approach.
“The girls are fighting hard, but they’re exhausted,” Vi told Dylan. She took her mouthguard out and washed it down with a water bottle.
“I know,” Dylan breathed. “It’s getting too physical. We’re not making enough ground.”
Vi pursed her lips for a moment. “Their wingers are new, not the same from last year. We need to draw our attack out to the wing.”
Vi watched as the cogs in Dylan’s brain turned. “Do you think you could take them?”
“Easily,” Vi said with a scoff.
“And could you get to the wing on time?”
Vi frowned. “What are you thinking?”
Dylan took a long gulp of water, wiped her mouth, then looked back at Vi. “If we carry on like this, they’ll walk all over us, and it’s back to square one. Everyone’s pissed off. We need to make some power plays. I want you to move out to the wing. Kick and chase.”
“Hm.” Vi thought for a moment, nodded, and shoved her gumshield back into her mouth. “Just tell me when you want me there and I’ll go.” Her last sentence was muffled by the protective rubber covering her teeth.
“Okay. Thanks, Vi.” Dylan gave her one last fistbump before jogging over to her team to relay the plan.
As the interval ticked over, Vi took the opportunity to scan the crowd, and couldn’t help but feel disappointment as she saw the look of dissatisfaction on the Piltover Military Academy cadets’ faces. This game wasn’t just about winning; it was proving a point, making a statement, getting the boot off their neck.
Money can’t buy talent. And it can’t buy wins.
Her attention was drawn to one spectator jumping up and down, flailing his arms madly in a wave, grinning madly. She waved back at Jayce, who gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up, and gave a brief wave to Caitlyn, who sat calmly next to him.
Now she had to prove a point. Shit.
The already burning stakes of the match just got higher.
Principal Heimerdinger sat in the front row, his assistants sat either side of him, hands folded as he watched the players closely. His head just visible above the metal barriers encircling the stands, he gave Vi a nod, and she returned it curtly as the referee blew his whistle to call the players back to the pitch.
To the left of Heimerdinger, an assistant leant into his ear, whispering something furiously. Vi watched as Heimerdinger’s eyes filled with concern before hurriedly sliding out of his seat and making a beeline for the exit.
A second whistle rang across the pitch, and the second half commenced, every single one of the 30 players on the field launching straight into the danger zone.
The physicality of both teams had ramped up for the next 40 minutes. With a new sense of purpose and a brief break, PMA laid down even more devastating tackles, with Vi’s highlight being an outstanding try-saving dumptackle and jackal which took a University of Piltover’s forward down with a loud thump.
Even with the increased performance, the score still sat steadily at 15-12, and stayed that way until the 78th minute.
Piltover Military Academy had just been awarded a free kick for a high tackle one of the UoP players had made. Dylan strode up to take the ball off of the referee, looked over to Vi, and wiggled two fingers down towards the ground.
Kick and chase.
As soon as Vi heard the sound of Dylan’s boot impacting the ball, she sprinted down the left wing, not even looking where the ball was in the air.
Her legs pumped furiously and adrenaline coursed thickly through her veins as Vi sprinted downfield. She could feel blood surging through her ears, her heart hammering in her chest as her senses went into overdrive. In one sleek move, she scooped the egg-shaped ball up and carried on running, chasing down the tryline as it grew closer and closer into vision.
She took a split second to glance up at the clock. 79:10. 50 seconds left.
As Vi did so, the University of Piltover’s fullback grew closer and closer in her peripheral vision, aggressively giving chase to Vi as they both barrelled towards the tryline.
But Vi had seen her first. As soon as UoP’s player came into arms’ length, she stuck a fist out and grabbed her shirt just under her neck, handing her off and sending the other player tumbling into the cold wet ground.
The screams and thumps of joy of the home team’s fans droned off into the distance as Vi leapt over the tryline and dug the ball into the try area as if trying to bury it.
The entire stadium exploded into a plethora of celebration. Camera lights flashed, liquid flung into the air as students leapt up to cheer, cadets hugging each other and pumping their fists high to the sky.
Another chant spread through the stands and an infectious smile spread across Vi’s lips:
“LET’S GO ARMY!”
Thump-thump-thumpthumpthump.
“LET’S GO ARMY!”
Thump-thump-thumpthumpthump.
Adrenaline slowly ebbing out of her system now, Vi retreated for a brief celebration with her teammates as the kicker went up to take the conversion, before lining back up for the final whistle.
Dylan stepped up to take the kick again, and sent it spiralling off of the pitch, killing the ball and ending the match at the 80th minute.
The final score hung proudly over the winning team as PMA squealed with delight and celebrated, a warm glow of light displaying the final score: 19-15.