VII

~ Game ~

A few days following the incident in the gym and the Titans and Cheerios were preparing for the first major football game of the season. The match was set to take place after school that day and McKinley maintenance had gone out of their way to repaint the lines on the pitch, clean the bleachers and to make sure that everything was well, including a full stock of the school's giant foam fingers, banners and apparel for its supporters to use. However, as everyone in school appeared pumped in anticipation for the match, the actual footballers along with the cheerleaders had nerves fretting with unease and worry. All were on edge, because judging by their anxious and incessant fidgeting, the game was starting to really get to them.

The Titans, it was infamously known, had had a very embarrassing and continuous losing streak ever since last year. Every match there was pressure to end this humiliating reign of defeat, yet this couldn't have been further from the truth when it came to the Cheerios, who had been winning ribbons after medals after trophies for months now. It appeared they were McKinley's real prized possession, something Kurt admired Coach Sylvester for. The woman knew how to win. She knew how to push her squad into a high enough gear which obviously eclipsed that of Coach Tanaka's Titans and she knew that sometimes, more often than not, her cheerleaders were the main entertainers to see at these McKinley home games.

However, this fact only seemed to make Kurt's nerves fly even higher, as if his body was catapulting his spleen right into his throat. He was petrified. Granted he was doing progressively well in the Cheerios and his ability to learn complicated choreography in limited time had improved considerably, but he was not ready for a game. He was not ready to put himself out there in front of hundreds of screaming McKinley supporters. It was too soon. What if he were to trip and fall? What if were to forget a move, and worst of all, what if he were to be laughed at by everyone? They were horrific premonitions enough to racket the pen out of his fingers in class and quiver his breath on every trembling intake of air he took. Fuck!

Yet Kurt's emotionally fragile condition wasn't solely reserved entirely for reasons concerning the big game. Ever since the wildly unusual gym class of Ms Sosa's, the boy had become a lot more wary of those around him. He felt slightly paranoid, as if were expecting to be pounced on, as if all of a sudden someone was going to plaster their lips to his, but this time, rip them off. He constantly kept his eyes peeled, his sight trained on the other male students who he shared gym with; enforcing a subtle tactic, just to prevent them thinking he was eyeing them up. Sneakily and discreetly, he would peer at the boys whilst also carefully studying their faces, the way they moved and how they reacted to those around them.

It was creepy behavior and very stalker-like on Kurt's part, but amidst all those males was his mouth raper, and no, he was not being overdramatic by referring to them as that. He'd been physically assaulted, and under teacher supervision. It was a appalling. Kurt had the right to know who'd eaten at his mouth that day. He had the right, God dammit. The rash around his mouth, or the hickey that was similar in appearance to symptoms of severe hives had luckily dissipated, thanks to layers upon layers of over-the-counter creams and ointments. The treatment process had reminded him of when he'd been on Accutane where his lips had been so dry they'd inflamed. It was depressing. His first kiss, stolen, and he was in pain.

While Kurt was recovering from his mouth-to-mouth attack, Rachel had taken it upon herself, without his permission of course, to inform the remaining Glee club members of what had happened in gym. Although everyone at first had been surprised, they'd all believed Kurt to be exaggerating his condition, until he'd wiped the camouflage makeup off his face to reveal a sight that had left them all gasping. Mercedes had then wanted to know exactly what had happened, as if she were some giant leech ready to suck his story dry of anything worth tweeting about or at the very least, gossiping. Yet in the end, they'd all been genuinely concerned. Some believed it to be a dirty trick whilst others believed it to be the work of a very bad kisser.

The support and lovely words of consolation Kurt had received from his fellow Glee mates was much appreciated by the boy, until they'd went a tad far with it. Rachel, Tina and Mercedes had joined him in scouring each male gym classmate of his, whilst Artie had refused, claiming they'd never discover the identity of Kurt's mouth raper the way they were doing it. Kurt had agreed, yet the girls hadn't, leaving Kurt wishing they'd taken after Artie's grown-up like example but, of course, that simply wasn't in their nature. In fact, they were so enthused about finding Kurt's kissing partner that by the time the actual game came around, all three of them had sat themselves at the front of the bleachers to squeeze in more spy time.

Kurt had begged them to leave, claiming that they must have had better ways of spending their time, that surely they had more pressing matters to attend to. Even bitching about how all the Cheerios looked like they were on the cusp of organ failure, with bodies resembling relief maps of veins or at the very least, dancing skeletons with pulses was miles better than acting as his own set of undercover agents. Yet a unison of shaking heads was all he had received in response. They were to invested in this whole thing and there was no talking them out of it. Rachel had even brought along a pair of binoculars, a magnifier and... was that a swap? The girl was one pipe, mustache and deerstalker cap away from becoming Sherlock.

Bringing his fingers to his temples and rubbing them around in concentric circles, Kurt parted from the girls. He didn't have time for them, he had the upcoming Cheerio performance to worry about, yet as he ran a quick scan of the bleachers, he caught sight of his father further up in the stands, waving at him and calling out his name. Burt knew of his involvement in the Cheerios and the man had congratulated Kurt on his entry, yet the boy hadn't thought his father would come and see him cheerlead. If he'd been a Titan, it would have been different, Burt might have been more interested, yet the man was here, shining a proud smile down at Kurt through the many heads, a smile that had his son enthusiastically returning.

As Sylvester ordered her Cheerios into position under the scorching hot sun, Kurt assembled his first stance for the introduction of their school team. The band behind them commenced the music, its sound erupting, sending the melody high into the air and the spectators on both bleachers roared to life as the Cheerios began dancing energetically, their chants barely heard over the commotion from the spectators. As he weaved his way through the choreography, Kurt caught sight of the school mascot, a Roman warrior, riling up the crowd with waves of his hands as he trotted out onto the pitch closely followed by the Titan footballers, fully clad in their eye-catching red and white football gear and helmets.

Entering the opposite side of the field, flanked by their own set of dancing cheerleaders were the opposing team. To Kurt, their footballers looked very much like the Titans, only in blue with their mascot being a shark with large biceps. They looked formidable enough, gave an impression of being a worthy foe for McKinley, but then again Kurt didn't know much about football and as both teams took up their positions, their bodies hunched and ready to play, the boy took time to observe them all. They all looked like they wanted to massacre each other rather than win a simple football game. As if behind those face guards burned red eyes and ready to rip those fingerless gloves apart were claws deadlier than any meat cleaver.

Then again, the way they were behaving towards each other was all to do with intimidation, trying to scare off your opponent. Kurt had once heard his father going on about it on one of those rare occasions when they had both sat down together to watch a football game. In fact, Burt had gone into quite some detail about it, using the Haka as an example. However, most of what the man had said had entered one ear and out the other, and Kurt had only lasted thirty-seconds before he'd pulled out his iPhone to start playing Rayman. It was just that jumping up and down as a video game character with a dodgy smile and no limbs was so much more thrilling than watching a ball being fondled by teeth-baring men.

"Hey! Pasty-faced ghost boy, get over here now; you're going to ruin the routine if you don't move your ass!" Santana screamed as Kurt snapped himself out of his thoughts and whipped around to see the Latina storming towards him, her breasts that had so obviously been shoved into a pencil sharpener, leading the way. They'd just ended their first routine and were meant to start the second, but as his mind had been elsewhere, it seemed as though he was really pissing people off.

Grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him into his position, Santana let him go before fixing him with a fierce stare, yet his attention was stolen to the field as the game commenced in the wake of a howl of thundering cries, with a decibel high enough to shatter one's eardrums. However, his face was forced back to face Santana as she seethed. "Don't make me move you like a puppet again, lady boy, or I will personally ram your head against a window before pushing it through!"

Without thinking of much else to do less he be hit, Kurt nodded clearly as Santana stormed off before taking up her own position at the front. Yet as Kurt glanced around, he came to see all his other fellow cheerleaders looking at him with uncomfortable expressions, the sort of look you pulled in the presence of a child who'd just been grounded, the awkward air. However, Kurt refused to look embarrassed. He stared back at them all, daring them to call him out and one by one, they began to look elsewhere. That's right, if they wanted to look at him, they'd have to settle for his eyes. If they wanted to catch his expression after having being scolded, they were not going to get it, because Kurt was not weak. He was not.

Now closing his eyes, Kurt steadied his breathing before reopening them again to the sight of the football game before him. He'd once read that relaxing one's body before a performance made it more likely for it to be at the person's beck and call. The dancer was like a sculpture. Before one could start shaping an expressive figurine, one had to soften the clay, in this case, the body and so he let the energy almost simmer in his veins. His fingers flexed one by one, his muscles seemed to massage themselves as he remained perfectly still and Kurt simply allowed relaxation to wash over him as if he were lying on the beach, the tide caressing him gently. Then the music was heard. Then the speakers roared.

I can't take this anymore
I'm going to take care of this somehow
I don't know anything but your old style
if I were to produce you, do you have any idea how cool you could be?

The Cheerios burst into action, their hips popping, their arms waving and their faces showing off their killer attitude. It was obvious that they had done this a thousand times before, but it only made Kurt compare himself to a measly untrained novice in a performance crowd of professionals as he did what the music asked of him, as his body became its slave. Yet, despite how the choreography seemed to integrate every one of them into its grasp like a mother to its children, Kurt began to notice that whilst every Cheerio had been nervous as hell before the game, none of them appeared to be so now. They appeared comfortable and at ease, blithe and dare he say, mellow. How did they do it? How did they avoid the fear of it all?

Stage fright usually occurred when one became disconnected from the onstage action. This disconnection, Kurt had read, might be the result of a momentary lapse in concentration and before you knew it, you found yourself rocket-propelled out of the world of the dance and hurled into a vortex of 'What happens next? What am I doing? What do I do?' Yet Kurt had rehearsed this choreography too often for it not to have been ingrained into his head like a searing hot poker, and he meant hot. There were no questions to be asked, he knew what he was doing and so as he traveled towards the front of the group, Kurt pulled himself together, right out of his thoughts and into the dance, moving himself very rhythmically to the beat.

Come on, come out from the classroom
from the office desk, from your uncleaned room
sunglasses shading my eyes from the hot, blinding, stinging sunlight rays
the tingling feeling of biting the ice in your mouth, the sky is clear and blue…

The score was currently in the Titans' favor, something that offered a pleasant surprise to most and, by the look of it, they were set to win. Each and every one of the McKinley warriors were on their game. They weren't taking any hostages and they seemed to be channeling all of their frustrations of not winning a single match last season into their often brutal and deadly tackles. This seriously was no laughing matter, nothing to take lightly. No mercy was given to the opposing team no matter how ruthless it was. In fact, the spectators would often wince in discomfort as their eyes followed bone-breaking attacks and collisions that seemed to echo with screams! Cracks! As if splinters of bone were turreting out from flesh.

Kurt had a weak stomach when it came to gore. Just the image of carnage like butchery and blood and he'd faint right to the floor. It just made him that much happier that he was fully preoccupied. He couldn't afford to let his eyes wonder, to be looking at how skilled the players were or if anything bad were to happen to them, for all his attention was trained on getting his moves right. Sylvester had warned them that nothing stood out more than when people didn't know what the hell they were doing. Even the straightening of clothes, the minor adjustment of hair to the smallest finger flick in the wrong direction could be picked up easily from afar and Kurt be damned if he were to have his head mounted on a spike for doing it.

Hot summer, a hot, hot summer
hot summer, a hot, hot so hot
hot summer, a hot, hot summer
hot summer, a hot, hot, this is definitely to my taste...

Coming to the midway point of the song as the first chorus ended, The Cheerios began to round off the first half of the choreography. At this time, Kurt should have been comforted and relieved that they were half way done, yet he was actually going to miss doing it. He'd grown quite attached to the melody and would forever associate it with the Cheerios, along with the catchy moves they were performing, fully stocked with hand shapes in the forms of fire and flame, robot-like tilts of the head and wagging fingers of a teasing nature. He enjoyed being a subtle flute, upon which the range of his humanity could play. He could access a multitude of nuances and present them to everyone through the apparatus of his hip-popping body.

Occasionally half the squad would freeze whilst the rest would perform around them and then vice versa. Synchronized dancing had only been reserved for the choruses while the verses were like human echoes of movement, corresponding, reverberating and working each with other to create a near work of art. It seemed like the coach had gone full out to incorporate different moves from every single type of dance out there from Ballet to Belly to Erotic to Street and to not just stick to the plain old generic contemporary. It was refreshing and if, for instance, Kurt was going to receive the boot from the squad tomorrow, at least he would have been able to learn to a small degree a large collection of dances out there.

Let's show the sweating foreigners here
if it's too hot, wear something long and black
Yeah! It must be burning 'cause I got you sweating in this weather
all them heads be turning, true that, you know I got it...

Everything was going well. The bridge of the song had just ended and was building up to the final chorus. However, as Kurt was about to access his new position out of nowhere came an arm, hurtling towards him and smashing him dead on in the face. There had been too little time to dodge or even to prevent the accident from happening and whether it was done deliberately or not was yet to be determined. All he could do was yelp in agony as his hands shot up to his nose; his unsteady legs stumbling back as he bumped into the cheerleader behind him. There he was pushed back into his position in a vain attempt to cover the hustle, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and it could get worse from here.

Due to the sheer force whichever cheerleader had accidentally pushed him, Kurt lost his footing, tripped on a mound of earth in the grass and fell to the ground, his head hitting the warm hard ground below with a thud. Immediately, His vision began to blur until for several seconds he couldn't see. His brain felt like it was expanding, adding increasing pressure to his skull like an out of control tumor. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. It was as if he was completely paralyzed there on the floor in front of dancing girls, his legs shaking, trembling in spurts as if in mid seizure and as Kurt lay there, feeling the mortification wash over him and looking as pathetic and pitiable as ever, his eyes swelled with tears.

Come on, come out from the classroom
from the office desk, from your uncleaned room
sunglasses shading my eyes from the hot, blinding, stinging sunlight rays
the tingling feeling of biting the ice in your mouth, the sky is clear and blue…

Whimpering as he raised his head, Kurt spread his hands out over the ground, his fingers grasping at the blades of grass for support. He wanted to pull himself up with any remaining energy that hadn't yet been beaten from his body, yet he stopped as he felt a warm trickle of liquid descending down his chin, forming a small pool of red underneath. Kurt gasped in shock. Wiping his nose with one of his trembling fingers, he looked on in continued horror at the collection of blood that was now staining his pale flesh. At the same time his vision began to become clearer and clearer to the point where he realized there was lot more blood than he'd thought. It was enough to make him heave, until a sudden pain shot through his nose.

His nose. Oh no. What if he'd broken his nose? What if what had happened had broken the baby nose his mother had given him? Kurt pleaded with hope to keep his injured nose very much intact, to keep it in shape, to keep it as it was as it bled profusely. Yet at this distressing thought, his watering eyes nearly made free with cascading tears. He couldn't believe this was happening again, due to the set of events he had caused through someone else's incompetent behavior. He just couldn't believe it. With each tear drop that fell, a droplet of blood accompanied it on the ever green grass below. Drop, drop and drop. It seemed never-ending, painful to witness forever, until a set of hands landed on his arms.

Hot summer, a hot, hot summer
hot summer, a hot, hot so hot
hot summer, a hot, hot summer
hot summer, a hot, hot, this is definitely to my taste

Finally being helped back onto his feet, his legs now struggling to support his weight, Kurt turned to see both Quinn and Brittany scanning him for any further injuries except for his bleeding nose and bruising head. He was begging them to say that it wasn't that bad, that the pain was just deluding him into thinking it was, but by the looks of alarm that seemed to widen their eyes and clasp with hands to their gasping mouths, he knew the delusion was very much real. As a result, his tears flooded out like the Hoover dam. He felt like everyone was staring at him, looking at him as if he were a circus freak trapped behind bars in a cage and if there was one thing he hated above all else, was to feel like someone with no way out.

His nosebleed had not at all ceased flowing like a crimson river which meant by this point, his hands was rapidly finding themselves fully drenched in blood. Brittany had closed her eyes to stop herself from becoming queasy at the sight and, as a result, she had left him in the care of Quinn, the blonde winding her arm around his waist as his tears streamed down his cheeks. Carefully weaving themselves through the pointing and whispering Cheerios, Kurt kept his head forever down, his dignity now forever buried. His attention was fully focused on getting himself to the nearest sink, yet as he began to hear chants and calls of the Titan's running back by his fellow team mates, Kurt raised his head to see one peculiar sight.

Puckerman was jogging there in the center of the field, having just caught the ball, but instead of running down to score, to lead his team to victory, he was looking Kurt's way, coming to a stop, now standing motionless. Kurt couldn't make out the jock's face very well, what with it hidden by his helmet some distance away, but he knew those traveling hazel eyes were on him, the bloodstained doll, that full baby face now emaciated looking, dazed, with bruised eyes looking right back at the precarious positioned running back, holding the ball. He was the center of everyone's attentions. He was in the limelight of the steaming sun, yet in for an early exit as the players on the opposing team charged at him, war like, all trained to kill.

Yet Puckerman remained exactly where he was, with studded shoes that didn't move an inch, as if he didn't seem to want to, as if he was more concerned for Kurt's well-being, as if he of all people was more perturbed by the sight of Kurt harmed, completely dismissing the game he was playing, almost asking it to go screw itself. The scarlet glove Kurt was now sporting, smelling of sweet copper, with his bloodied and tear-stained face sure did present an eye-catching picture, but that wasn't it. It didn't seem like it anyway. Although his vision was compromised with white stars dotting his upper eye line, Kurt thought he saw a brief expression of worry and fear cross the jock's face, his eyes shining with an emotion akin to genuine care.

The whimpering, the confusion of it all. Kurt was confused at the sight of those hazel eyes following him like ball bearings rolling in their sockets, staring at him as if Puckerman had never stared at anybody else, staring at him as if he'd now ceased to know what he was doing, and it was in this helplessness in him, a kind of sick drowning look in his face - and that face, that jocky, macho face - that lodged deep in Kurt, now asking to himself, 'isn't this what this boy wanted? My blood?' As if Kurt was his injured girlfriend with the jock set to ditch the ball and run over to him, to ask him if he was all right, to scoop him up in his arms and dash him off to the nurse's office as if he'd just suffered a fall, with blood at his crotch, weak, the baby dying.

Within the next minute, Puckerman had been thrown to the ground, suddenly in a harsh tackle that had him both roaring in both pain and anger, cries of protest erupting from the bleachers with Kurt now quick to look away with eyes tight shut, so tight he was wincing. He was not to see how the ball was stolen from Puckerman's grasp or how the jock had eyes only for him as he lay sprawled on the ground, getting up, panting like a dog. Kurt was to see none of it, for he could feel it, as he could feel the blood gushing like a broken faucet; Puckeman wishing to run over to him, to snatch him from Quinn's grasp as if she was touching his property, barking 'get your hands off of him!', and to whisk Kurt away, the boy astonished, frightened.

Rounding the corner of the bleachers, Quinn directed him to the entrance of the school, it's halls quiet, empty; all they could hear now was the sounds of their footsteps along with the faint ravenous roar from the game outside. Quinn's arm was still wrapped supportively around him like a human crutch, surprisingly strong as they neared the nurse's office, to get him help. There had been aiders on the pitch, reserved only for the actual players, but Kurt needed more than mere flimsy bandages to wrap around him like a post surgery patient. He wanted painkillers to flood his system, to pop them like candy, to wash away the many thoughts inside his skull, like a cascade of shattered flying glass, thoughts of his trip up, thoughts of Puckerman.

.

Glee

.

Originally there had been a cloth with ice chips wrapped inside to press to his head, his face so hot he melted them all, yet it was replaced with a fresh pack soon after, though no less damp. The droplets made to dampen his now unruly and unkempt hair, his nose had been cleaned up from the blood that had been pumping still, some drying. He'd lost a lot of blood, or so he was told, but dizzy when told, the nurse having had to snap her fingers in those blue eyes to keep him awake, to keep him blinking. She'd told him to go home and rest, to take the pills and to take them responsibly, no overdosing, warning him not to after he'd allegedly pleaded her for them, again as if he was a kid wanting candy. The pain would disappear soon enough.

His return journey to the boys' locker room, however, was interrupted as with a bang that awakened the throbbing in his head, he looked down the hall to see Satana storming towards him, having flung the doors open with such force they'd bounded off the walls and swung once again, leaving plaster to crumble where the handles had stabbed them, the glass now perilously rattling in their frames as if they were about to crack and break. If they had, they would have rendered the Latina's entrance that much more domineering, how she marched up to both him and Quinn, her hands on her hips like jugs, nostrils unattractively flared to let forth breath that had that smell of anger, mottled red raged anger that had her now screaming.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Hummel?! What was up with fucking up our performance like that?! You ruined everything!" Barked Santana as both Kurt and Quinn took a step back. "Now because of you, we had to perform the final routine with two Cheerios short and all because you went and clumsily fell over like a rag doll! I mean what the hell was with that?! Are you purposefully trying to give us all new material to use against you?! Because if you are, then keep going, you're on a roll!"

Adjusting the ice pack on his head, Kurt attempted to reply to these accusations but was stopped as Santana ploughed on. He'd never seen her this furious before. The vein on her forehead was close to popping. "Sylvester's going to kill you, you know! She's out there right now planning how to tear you limb from limb so I hope you're fucking proud of yourself, Hummel! I said you would cost us everything and I was right! You've weighed us all down and you've fucking cost us everything!"

Kurt's blood froze. Amidst all that had happened, he'd completely forgotten about Sylvester. Now he was really going to get it now. After this, he'd cemented himself as the bad luck charm to every performance he'd performed in to date at McKinley. It was Sylvester, not Santana who was going to end him now. "And what the hell was with that look you gave Puckerman afterwards?! I saw you looking at him, the lovey-dovey looks you gave each other, I saw it all! Don't think I didn't, Hummel!"

Blinking in her wake, both Kurt and Quinn frowned at her denouncing words. The boy knew what Santana was talking about; the look he'd shared with Puckerman was still fresh in his mind, but 'lovey-dovey'? Where had she got that from? Judging by Quinn's equally confused expression that was etching deeper onto face, neither did she understand the Latina's delusions. There was always the possibility that Puckerman had been staring at her after all, as Quinn had been right next to Kurt. It was likely and even if it wasn't the case, in the end, it made far more sense than what he had envisioned originally, but yet even Kurt didn't believe that. He and Puckerman's eyes had connected in that moment, in that time. What had it meant?

One thing for certain was that it hadn't meant along the lines of 'lovey-dovey'. Santana's anger and possible jealousy were driving her to say things that so weren't true. "Santana, what is your problem? I barely looked at your stupid boyfriend. He's the one who stopped playing in the middle of a game; I mean you should be taking this up with him. It's not my fault he gets so easily distracted. Just goes to show the kind of attention span he has in football as well as… other areas."

Quinn snorted in amusement before quickly bringing her hand up to muffle her laughter, laughter Santana didn't welcome well. She glared daggers at the smug-looking boy before nearing him, her hands forming themselves into fists. The girl was getting worked up over nothing. She was purposefully picking a fight and was going to use whatever less than supported reason to achieve it. It was possible that whilst Kurt hadn't been around to shout at, Sylvester may have taken out her anger on Santana, the Head Cheerio. The Head Cheerio was the leader of the squad, seconded under the coach or matriarch, Sylvester, and so who ever was closer to her in ranking was unfortunately closer to the brunt of her infamous temper.

"Why are you even threatened that he looked at me anyway? It's not like you believe he's anything short of being heterosexual, right?" Asked Kurt sarcastically. In the last seconds, he'd learned of Santana's relationship insecurities and amidst all that personal doubt lay a bond of trust that didn't exist between her and Puckerman. Interesting. "I mean, your boy dared to do the unspeakable, glance at the same sex. What are you going to do? Call out the National Guard?"

"Don't get smart with me, Hummel."

"I'm only making up for your lack of intelligence."

"What did I just say?"

"Um... that you're stupid."

"You know Hummel, if you hadn't nearly been beaten to a pulp out there then I would have had no problem with going all Lima Heights on your rainbow glitter-crapping ass right here, right now," Santana threatened as Kurt proceeded to take a few steps back from the menacing Latina, who was still walking towards him, hoping to close the distance between them. Yet as she continued with her verbal onslaught, Kurt couldn't be more convinced that her relationship was as phony as they came.

"I don't trust you Hummel, you or Little Miss Peroxide over here. You can act innocent and fucking clueless all you want, I don't care, because I know something is going on. Puck doesn't just stop in the middle of a football game to look at cack pipe cosmonauts like you, even if they do catapult someone like Becky Jackson to supermodel stardom in comparison, so just back off, stay away from him or you and your uphill-gardening ass will be in world of pain."

Barging through them, and purposefully shoving Kurt's shoulder aside as she made her way over to the girls' locker rooms at the end of the corridor, Santana stormed away, her pony tail moving from side to side at such a rate that Kurt swore he could hear it swishing. Yet at the pain that shot up his shoulder like a bullet, he winced as he rubbed it soothingly with his hand, throwing the Latina the deadliest glare he could dredge up as she disappeared around the bend. She knew he had been roughly injured, she knew he'd just come from the nurse, but she had still taken it upon herself to take advantage of his handicap, as if she were always picking the weakest link in others before smashing it with as much force as she could.

"Kurt, are you alright? She didn't hurt you too much did she?" Asked Quinn in concern as she took in the way Kurt was now nursing his shoulder. Turning his head to face his friend, the boy's glare morphed into a small smile as he shook his head. In truth, it had hurt, but not that much. It felt as though his body was now prone to bruising like a peach, both inside and yet as Quinn escorted him back to the boy's locker room door; he felt the pain dissipate as the blonde continued to speak.

"Don't worry about it, Kurt. You just have to learn to stay out of her way; otherwise she doesn't pose that much of a threat. I heard that when she was young, her dad would often swing her into traffic, order her to take candy from strangers and ask odd-looking men if they had a van. I don't know about you but there might be a link there that no one else may have noticed. Anyway, do you want me to stay outside and wait for you? Do you think you'll need help in there at all?"

"I think I'll survive, Q. I mean the game must be finished by now so I think most of the players will have changed and left by now. Plus, my dad is here and he'll be able to drive me home, but thanks for the offer," replied Kurt gratefully as Quinn nodded and pulling him in for a friendly hug. Yet as she pulled away, Kurt held onto her arm, a smile on his face "Thanks Quinn, for helping me back there on the pitch. You didn't have to, but you did, and it was very good of you, so... thank you."

"Oh Kurt, you know I'd have helped you no matter what. I couldn't have left you lying on the ground like that, it wouldn't have been right," smiled Quinn, laying her hand on Kurt's as she spoke earnestly. She'd not seen who'd hit the boy, she actually wouldn't have put it past Santana, but when Kurt had fallen, she'd darted over to him as quickly as she could. "However, apart from the little tumble, I've got to say that you were great out there. You really were good. I'm so proud of you."

"You think so? Oh, that's good. Fingers crossed it'll go better next time. That's if there's going to be a next time. Sylvester might kick me off the squad, but at least I had fun whilst it lasted," replied Kurt as the thought of being kicked off the Cheerios seemed to affect him more personally than he'd thought it would. Huh. He'd really grown to like being a cheerleader. "We'll still be friends if I get the boot, right? I mean we can still hang out together. You, me and Britt?"

"Don't be ridiculous Kurt, of course we will. Whatever made you think we wouldn't? I mean, even if Sylvester does throw you out, which I'm pretty sure she won't, she is really that fond of you, Brittany and I will still talk to you," assured Quinn. "The social status in this school can go fuck itself; it won't stop me from inviting you round for slumber parties. Oh, which reminds me, I'm having one next week. Wanna come? We're going to make Tiki Death Punch, have pillow fights and make out."

"Make out?"

"You'd be surprised how punch can turn lips into sluts of their own."

"So do you and Brittany drink punch often?"

"Yeah, it makes us dizzy."

"Well, have me film you and Britt doing that to show to the guys here and we could make a fortune," giggled Kurt as he firmly accepted the invitation with an enthusiastic nod of the head. He'd not yet been to a slumber party before. There hadn't been anyone to invite to him to one, neither had there been anyone to invite if he'd wished to hold one himself, but this one sounded cool. Booze and sexual experimentation. Sounded like a party to him. "Alright Q, I've got to go change. See ya."

Leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, Kurt grinned before they both parted ways for their designated locker rooms with smiles decorating their faces. Spirits had been raised since an accident and Kurt now had a spring in his step. Yet his mind was racing with what Quinn had said regarding Santana's upbringing. He didn't know that much about the Latina, not that he cared to know, but it seemed that at this particular high school, students who had suffered due to poor parenting as children had undergone unfortunate transformations into the biggest pricks around. First Puckerman with his father and now Santana with hers. Tapping his chin with his little finger, Kurt frowned. What was wrong with the fathers in this town?

As the locker room door behind him swung closed, Kurt discovered that his prediction, what with practically no one being in there except for two footballers and one of the other male cheerleaders, was correct. Quite a shallow victory if he said so himself. Though it was better than having lots of bummed-out looking boys cluttered around each other with peeved expressions on their faces. It was determined by the success on the fields. In fact, Kurt didn't know as of yet who'd won today's match. He supposed if the Titans hadn't broken their losing streak yet again, venting in the form of annoying taunts would have been such a stress relief for them and the perfect substitute to a punching bag, but it was also quite lonely.

Ever since he'd used the locker rooms, Kurt had been getting dressed and showering by himself with no one to talk to, no one to communicate with, being the one to feel alone. Sometimes it was refreshing to be by oneself with only your many thoughts to accompany you, but that only went for people who were crowded by others with no time to process the mind. Kurt was not one of those people. He never would be within these walls and possibly within Lima's city limits. It only reinforced the loser classification so rudely stamped on his forehead, but now that he was faced with the sight of other people within a room that heavily stank of cheap day old deodorant and sweaty feet; his spirits were raised even further.

"Are you alright, Kurt? You looked like you came down hard back there," came a voice behind him and as he whipped around to see one of the tallest players on the football team, Finn Hudson, dressed in his home clothes with his sport's bag slung over his shoulder, he didn't know what to say. He hadn't really talked to the boy; in fact, this was the first time they'd engaged in a conversation and to say that he was just like the others might have been incorrect.

Finn was never in the crowd of jocks when Puckerman was around to pick on him, though it did seem at times that they were good friends judging by the way they hung out with each other. In fact, sometimes they looked as though they were best friends who'd known each other since kindergarten. Funny how they were so unlike. "I saw you fall and saw the blood and everything. Did you break your nose, because it looked really painful from where I was standing."

"No, it's not broken. It would be if I'd been harder, but no. I still don't actually know which one of the girls hit me but I think that's sort of irrelevant now," replied Kurt, flashing Finn a smile as the tall boy scoured his face for any more painful marks that might have littered his appearance skin. It was a nice gesture Kurt had to admit, as he pulled out his toiletries from his locker, but what he really wanted was to have no one looking at him. He was far from looking at his best.

His injured nose had resulted in his under eye circles tripling in size, depth and darkness, and he knew not even the thickest concealer or the cleverest makeup trick could hide their vulgar appearances. "Don't worry about me Finn, I'll be fine. I just need to lie down a lot from now on and be a lot more attentive to any potential flying arms that might come at me from any direction. At least you did well on the field. Not in the war sense, but you know what I mean. Did the Titans win?"

"No, we drew, but I really thought we wouldn't. I had this feeling that this game was going to be different from all others, but I guess we weren't meant to win… or we could have if Puck hadn't been so distracted," answered Finn, blowing out an annoyed huff of air as he readjusted his bag. He looked over at Kurt who appeared as if he wanted him to continue and so, feeling like he just needed to bash his best friend that little bit more for his less than observant behavior, he relented.

"Well, there we were playing, like not even three minutes in and the ball had been passed to Puck so that he could go score, but instead of running, he just stood there with it in his hand, staring at the fucking Cheerios. I mean, what the fuck? He's screwed most of them but he chose right then and there to stare at them. Then he got himself tackled and the other team got the ball and... God. Coach Tanaka was so pissed," recounted Finn as Kurt winced at the image of a furious Tanaka.

"After that, that's when it really started going downhill. He wasn't nearly as focused as he should have been, he wasn't as fast, his stupid mohawked head really wasn't in the game. It was in the fucking clouds. I mean, every five minutes he'd look back at the Cheerios every single freaking time, as if he was picking which one he wanted to screw behind Santana's back. Or at least it looked that way. I have no idea what he was doing. The idiot," seethed Finn has he kicked at the ground.

"Well, Puckerman does have a weakness for the ladies, doesn't he. Maybe Santana's not putting out for him all that much now, I don't know," replied Kurt, quickly snapping his mouth shut as Finn glared back at him. "Look Finn, I know you feel like Puckerman cost you the game, and you maybe want to kill him right about now, but there must have been other things that could have gone better, no? There must have been other contributing factors like... well like..."

The senses in Kurt's mind were blowing as he realized what he was doing; he was defending on a small level, the boy who was single-handedly destroying his high school career. Why was he doing this? It just didn't make any sense whatsoever, but he was glad, however, that Finn had mistaken Puckerman's actual line of sight for something else. If he hadn't, there was more than a likely chance the tall boy wouldn't have been talking to him right now, going onto think exactly what Santana had thought with all that 'lovey-dovey' nonsense. Or maybe not. Maybe Finn would have gone on to criticize Puck anyway and nothing would have changed. They'd still be here talking and basking in their shared hatred of a certain mohawked jock.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, Finn. I least you drew. Depending on how you interpret about it, both of you lost, or both of you won. You've just to think positive," assured Kurt, offering Finn a friendly smile. "You played very well out there, you did your best. To be honest, I'm impressed any of you can play with us dancing around with the girls' skirts so high the world is their gynecologist. Any higher and Puckerman would have been having sex with one right there on the pitch."

"Well that wouldn't have been anything new."

"You're not serious."

"Yeah, he once screwed a Cheerio behind the goal post. Everyone thought he was peeing for a really long time."

"Oh my God... well, at least he had the public decency not to do it again."

"I guess. It didn't bother me before. Same for the Cheerios. You get too emerged in the game to notice anyone in the bleachers let alone the girls cheering you on from the sidelines. If you're not, you have learn to kind of block it out, something Puck failed epically on," replied Finn, bringing his hand through his dark hair in frustration as Kurt sighed to himself, readjusting his hold on his towel and toiletries. He wanted to offer more words of comfort, but they melted on his tongue.

"Look, I have to go Kurt; I need to check up on Puckerman. I think while he was stargazing, the player who tackled him really brought him down hard. He was complaining about his shoulder or arm or whatever. It was good talking to you and I hope you get better soon. See you around," replied Finn, offering Kurt a smile before walking over to the door and exiting the room, leaving the brunet yet again on his own. Yet Kurt's mind was stewing with more thoughts than he could handle.

It was evident that Finn was still harboring deep resentment towards his friend for his poor performance. In fact, every single player on that team must have been blaming Puckerman just like every Cheerio, except for Quinn and Brittany, was blaming Kurt for ruining their routine when it wasn't his fault. Sylvester was going to tear him a new one, and Tanaka had most likely torn Puckerman's Mohawk from his head. To everyone, both of them were to blame, the disappointments, the ruiners. Yet it hadn't really been Puckerman's fault either, had it. Kurt dipped his head and stared hard down at the ground, the grip on his towel and other possessions tightening still. It was neither of our faults. We were like two moths to the flame... and burnt.

Pulling himself from out of his thoughts, Kurt proceeded to undertake another lonely task in a now empty locker room, his spirits which had once raised themselves now plummeting back down from whence they came. He supposed he could take comfort in the fact that no one was around to prank him, as he made his way to the showers, stripping himself of his ruby-stained uniform while switching on the shower. The place was jock free and Kurt reveled in the perks of when being alone wasn't all that bad. However, as he adjusted the temperature of the water before drenching his body in it, the clear liquid washing the anxieties of the match away, little did he know of a set of prowling eyes watching him intently from beyond...


~ PLEASE REVIEW ~

(But if you wish to criticize, may it be constructive. I'm not going to learn from my mistakes and improve if you vent.)

Author's Note: The song used is 'Hot Summer' by the Korean girl group f(x). It's actually a cover of the original by the German Pop band Monrose but I prefer the f(x) version. It's a lot more to my taste you could say. I suggest you check the group out on YouTube or wherever because these girls have serious attitude. The choreography though in the official music video isn't all that impressive by their standards so I've imagined the Cheerios's dance moves to be a lot more along the lines of the choreography in 'Flower Power' by Girls' Generation. Killer moves if I ever saw them.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the characters from Glee since I don't own the show. I'm not earning money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I mean only to please whoever stumbles upon my Love Story.

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