A/n: This little project is very personal for me. I'm currently in a situation very similar to Oliver's and writing about it has helped me a lot. I hope you enjoy.
"Well," the sports healer sighed, watching the tip of his wand glow as he passed it over Oliver Wood's right arm and shoulder. "You've certainly done a number on your arm."
"But you can fix it, right?" Oliver asked impatiently. He was already missing valuable practice time as it was—he didn't need a healer telling him something he already knew.
"Tell me again how it feels?" the healer asked, avoiding Oliver's question. Oliver held back an aggravated sigh.
"There's some pain up here," he said, gesturing with this left hand to the top of his right shoulder, "and then there's a kind of burning feeling down the back of my arm." It was his fourth time repeating the symptoms, and his third to this healer alone. He was beginning to wish he'd never mentioned it to the team captain.
"Any loss of feeling in your hand at all?" the healer asked. Oliver thought that was an odd question.
"No," he decided. "Listen, can you fix it or not?" he asked.
"It's a bit tricky," the healer started. This time, Oliver couldn't suppress a frustrated sigh. "The inflammation around the area is giving me some conflicting readings. It could be a tear in your rotator cuff, could be a pinched nerve, or possibly just some muscle strain. I suggest taking some steroid potions to decrease inflammation and we can go from there."
"I can't take steroids and play in an IQA match—you know this!" Oliver snapped. He stood up from the cot his was sitting on and pulled his quidditch kit over his head, preparing to leave.
"Well, if you just take some time off—"
Oliver snorted and cut him off. "Fat chance. We're playing France in four days. My arm isn't even that bad; just forget it."
"I can give you some exercises to help strengthen the muscles," the healer persisted. "But if you don't take time off to rest, I'm afraid it'll only get worse—especially if it's a pinched nerve or rotator cuff injury!"
"I do enough exercises in training," Oliver huffed and left the office.
Back on the pitch, Oliver hurried to put his gear back on and get in the air, hoping he hadn't missed anything important. Up to this point on the Scotland National Team, Oliver had never missed a single practice, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.
"What's the diagnosis?" Team captain and star seeker Don Brandenberg hovered a few feet above Oliver, looking concerned.
"Nothing. Just some muscle strain," Oliver lied. Though, was it a lie? Oliver convinced himself that his arm was already feeling better.
"You sure?" Don pressed. "It wasn't 'nothing' this morning."
"I'm fine," Oliver insisted. He kicked off from the ground to meet Brandenberg in the air. "Wouldn't have even gone to the healer if you hadn't made me."
The captain frowned and flew in closer to Oliver. "Listen, Wood, if you need to take this game off to rest up, it's not a big deal. There's enough time—we can get Liu up in the air with no problems."
"I'm fine," Oliver repeated forcefully.
"Seriously, Oliver, as your friend," Brandenberg said. "I don't want you to push yourself too hard."
"Seriously, Don," Oliver said, a bit more mockingly than he had intended. "Drop it."
Brandenberg shrugged and flew a distance away. "If you insist, mate," he said, then called out to the rest of the team. "Alright, keeper's back! Let's run drills C and D!"
Oliver was glad to be back in the practice. In truth, he appreciated Brandenberg's concern, but there was no way he was going to give up the opportunity to face off against France again. After their crushing defeat in the World Cup quarter finals four years previously, Oliver was itching to show them exactly how far Scotland's team had come. And he wasn't going to let a slight twinge in his arm get in the way.
The healer didn't know what he was talking about, Oliver decided. Now that he was playing again, his arm felt perfectly fine. He just hadn't warmed up properly that morning was all. Maybe he pulled a muscle slightly, but no cause for alarm. Really, Brandenberg was overreacting sending him to the sports healer. He was fine.
Chaser Nikita Ramanujen made a spectacular shot towards the left goal post and Oliver practically dove of his broom to catch it. A burst of white-hot pain shot down his right arm in protest.
Okay, maybe he would ice it once he got home. But it was fine; it was nothing.
"You'll have to try a bit harder than that, Niki!" Oliver called playfully as he tossed the quaffle back her way. He massaged his upper arm slightly, but stopped when he caught Brandenberg eyeing him suspiciously.
He was fine. It would go away in a day or two.
Practice ended uneventfully, and the team descended to the locker room for a debrief and showers. Before Oliver could leave, however, Brandenberg cornered him once again.
"Oliver, you need to seriously consider stepping out of the game this week," he said quietly, so none of the other players could hear.
"Don, please," Oliver protested. "I told you, I'm—"
"Fine?" Brandenberg finished for him. He shook his head in exasperation. "Whatever, Wood. Do what you want."
Oliver left practice in a huff, thoroughly annoyed and—though he wouldn't admit it, even to himself—in pain.
The next three days of practice passed in a similar way. Oliver continued to ignore the pain in his right shoulder and arm as best he could, careful not to make any faces or otherwise indicate in any way that he was struggling—especially not in front of Don. At first, Oliver had comforted himself with the fact that his discomfort had not gotten any worse over the last few days of practice, but despite his frequent icings, the pain was gradually getting worse.
It would be fine. He just had to push through.
"Doing okay?" Brandenberg asked him as they walked off the pitch to the locker rooms the night before the match against France.
"Good as new!" Oliver lied, forcing a smile. Brandenberg looked relieved at this.
"Great!" the captain said. "Guess it was just nothing after all."
"Told you," Oliver said with a grin. He felt a bit guilty lying to Don. However, things were sure to get better after the match. There was no reason to bother him with it now.
"Okay, team!" Brandenberg said, addressing the players before him in the locker room. "I don't need to tell you how important tomorrow's match is. France beat us once, but they will not beat us again!" A couple players cheered in agreement.
"We are stronger, we are faster, and we are better than we were four years ago," he continued, "and we're going to kick some French arse tomorrow!" The entire team cheered and broke for the showers.
Oliver took the opportunity of privacy in the shower stall to massage his right arm and shoulder without drawing Don's attention. His shoulder was sore, and the burning sensation had spread further down the back of his bicep to his elbow.
But he was fine.
One more day, he told himself. He could push through one more day of Quidditch like this. Then, maybe he'd take Don up on his offer and take some time off. Maybe.
By the time Oliver left the showers, most of the team had already gone home.
One more day, Oliver repeated to himself. I'm fine.
A/n: Read & review, please! x