Chapter Text
The locker room light was sterilely bright, fluorescent lightbulbs glaring loudly above Virgil’s head. Bodies rushed back and forth in front of him, occasionally bumping into his knees or ruffling his hair. A hand clapped his shoulder but between the padding on his shoulders and the distance of his mind, he hardly felt it.
He sat on the wooden bench, neck bent, eyes closed, and breathing deeply through his nose. He did this before every game. While his other teammates hyped each other up- yelling and pounding each other on the back- he would go somewhere far, far away. It was how he got centered before all the chaos, how he rose above the adrenaline pounding in his heart, how he won. But today was different. Today he had to win.
“Hey, sleeping beauty, you ready to smash this game?”
Virgil grinned as he opened his eyes and turned to look at his fullback, Remy, “Yeah, dude. We’re going to wipe that smug grin off Prince’s face once and for all.”
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Roman Prince sat in a tight huddle with the rest of his team, wearing a smug grin. This was the homecoming game, basically the most exciting three hours of Roman’s year. Besides, this was his senior year and his last chance to show the rival school where they belonged. (That is to say, in the dirt).
With one last shout, the team started jogging out of the locker room, jumping as than ran and yelling at each other occasionally like they couldn’t even remember how to talk. The energy was electric. Roman lived for moments like this. The only thing he loved more than the pre-game hype was the post-victory euphoria.
He grinned and ran out into the field. It was dusk, a dark blue sky fenced off by the bright flood lights ringing the stands. He was hit by the strange combination of smells that was only found on high school football fields- funnel cake and sweat and turf and axe body spray and face paint. He waved at the cheering stands and blew a kiss at the opposing bleachers who booed at his arrival. This was his world and that ridiculous West Shore High didn’t have shit on him.
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Virgil glared across the field at the pompous tackler from Monarch Knights. He was currently blowing kisses over towards his team and it made Virgil want to punch him. The boy was just so full of himself. Unfortunately, he had some right to be. On defensive, he was like a wall- one that simply refused to be knocked down. When he played offense, he moved like a tractor through the other team, mowing them down like they were cards and he was a quickly approaching tornado.
Remy laughed next to him, “I don’t think staring at him is going to do anything.”
“Well, if you do your job, I won’t have to do anything to him,” Virgil shoved him lightly in the chest.
Remy pushed back and it sent Virgil stumbling back a few feet. Virgil was by far the smallest on the team but he didn’t really mind; his job was to be light and fast. Being the halfback meant he got the ball and ran like his life depended on it. All the brutes around him were supposed to keep the field clear enough for him to sprint all the way to the end zone.
Usually it worked out well. Remy would run ahead of Virgil, knocking any threats out of the way and Virgil would carry them all the way to victory. Usually. Sometimes they would come across teams with some on-steroids sort of defense. Sometimes Remy would get pushed to the side play after play and Virgil would spend every down trying to weave his way through an oncoming river. Sometimes Virgil would get trapped in front of an oncoming wall and could hardly run an inch the entire night. More specifically, sometimes they played against Roman Prince.
Monarch Knights was the only school they had lost to the entire season. But not tonight. Virgil refused to be made a fool of.
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Roman could feel that stare from across the field. Hundreds of eyes were on him at the moment, but none were so venomous.
It was the little creep who played offense for West Shore. He was one of the strangest people Roman had ever had the displeasure of playing against. Virgil Tempeste was like a chihuahua- tiny, aggressive, and buzzing with energy. Standing next to him felt just as idiotically risky as standing three inches from a lightning rod in the middle of a thunderstorm. When Roman had been forced to shake his hand earlier in the season, he had been half convinced that Tempeste was going to bite him.
As difficult as it was to admit though, he was Roman’s biggest concern this game. The halfback was fast and he knew how to weave through even the best defense lineups. He moved across the field like an ice skater across a rink.
Roman tried to give the little weasel a wave, but he was too busy bickering with the boy next to him to see Roman. Is was oddly disappointing; Roman would have loved to see how mad he could make Tempeste before the game even began.
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The pre-game niceties passed by Virgil in a blur. Someone sang the national anthem, a coin got tossed, and the Student Body Leaders said something over the speaker system but it just sounded like overly enthusiastic static.
All that mattered was that they had possession of the ball. That meant Virgil could start his sprint from the very start of the game. Virgil liked his position. He was important, he had purpose, it gave him an opportunity to use all of the anxious energy he had bouncing around inside. Most importantly, his position was the very back of the formation which meant he got to see everyone else’s asses.
He looked out across the field and over his team. Past Remy, their quarterback, and the long line of guards and receivers, the red uniforms of the Knights blazed an angry red. It was such an arrogant colour, bright and brash and filling all of Virgil’s senses. Every time they played against the Knights, those stupid uniforms bothered him a ridiculous amount. Maybe that’s why they wear them- like that thing the matadors do with the red capes.
Virgil shook his head. He needed to stay focused; the game was going to start in seconds at most and he was idiotically thinking about the opposing team’s colours. But if he craned his back he could just see Prince...
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Roman glared at the brute in front of him. His mouth guard sat heavily against his teeth. The bitter taste of plastic couldn’t mask the coppery adrenaline that coated his tongue and flooded his brain.
This was his game. His to win, his to conquer, his to dominate. And none of those Concord-grape-looking fools were going to get in his way.
The beast in front of him growled and Roman rolled his eyes. He really thought he could intimidate Roman? Bitch, please. He looked like the type of guy who would hurl slurs at Roman for wearing eyeliner just because he was insecure in his own sexuality (and probably thought that Roman was just a little bit hot). That type stopped scaring him a long time ago. Besides, he could brush that guy off like a fly.
The real threat was several feet behind him. Roman had come to refer to Remy Ristretto and Virgil Tempeste as Team Rocket because they were just as annoying and undermining- except they were often more successful than the cartoon characters.
Roman stopped trying to see Virgil and made eye contact with the wall just a few feet ahead, giving him a wink. He might as well have fun with this. Anyways, he’d have plenty of time to bother Tempeste later in the game.