Sorry, this is uploaded later than I planned. Life got in the way. All mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

III

I got hurt in the Cornell game.

Honestly, it was my own fault. In a moment of anger, I couldn't help but refer to Zizes, one of their throwers, as 'sexless Peter Griffin' a little too loudly. Not that it would bother me usually, I have razor blades all up in my hair, and plenty of Lima Heights hospitality to dish around. But this girl was fucking huge, 5'10" and 350 lbs at least. It goes without saying that even with my fair few retaliating slaps, she literally crushed me. To add to this humiliating experience, I was the one who got the penalty. And not a common one either, five minutes for fighting. I could see my Coach, Sylvester, practically tearing her hair out as I climbed into the box, and barking one of her ridiculous insults at me.

Berry called a half time, and Fabray made her way over to me quickly, medical kit in hand.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Lopez," she muttered repeatedly, her cold fingers working over my face with a cleansing pad. It was only then that I realised the left half of my face was covered in blood and bruises. It hurt like hell, but I wasn't going to show it.

When she was finally done, Fabray opened a tube of Dettol, and with fumbling fingers, began to smear it over my face. Stinging tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I bit them back. Santana Lopez never cries.

The whistle was blown, and my team defeatedly made their way back onto the court. There was no point in even trying, and I didn't even bother watching the remainder of the game, instead staring blankly at my shoes. Motta was hit. Tanner was hit. Berry, Fabray, and finally Wilde. We'd lost the game, the championship, and most importantly our winning reputation. The Cornell fans whooped and bellowed from across the court. I hung my head in shame.

By now, the fans for both sides had forgotten my existence; NYU's side stony and silent, Cornell's screaming and cheering. Only one spectator (if you could even call her that, she'd sat throughout the entire game with an indifferent expression on her face) still had her eyes on the penalty box. I looked up, and swore under my breath. Sitting directly opposite me, was mi Abuela, Alma Lopez.

Across the court, the old witch observed in expressionless silence, not even moving to blink. I rolled my eyes. What was she thinking? That I was the family failure, the black sheep, the sole person who had let down my school? Or words to that effect? Or maybe even nothing at all. Of course, who could even tell what she was thinking? Alma Lopez was a walking, surprisingly often talking (but only insults, until the age of five I was convinced that my name was garbage face), Pico de Orizaba.

Fabray stalked past me with barely a glance in my direction. Her face was flushed red, and were those tears in her eyes? She had never lost a game in her life, let alone something as important as this one. And this was our last game of the season. Which we lost horrendously.

After the game, X-rays determined that there were no broken bones, although I was going to have a bruised cheekbone and black eye for the next few days, and 4 stitches were sewn into my cheek. Thank god for foundation. As she was working on my face, Pillsbury, the self-appointed guidance counsellor and medical assistant gave me a long, boring lecture on my fighting. I ignored her completely, only speaking to thank her at the end. Then I left, leaving her to see to Berry, who was insisting that her knee was broken. Fucking hypochondriac.

Back at the locker room, no one was inside. I guessed they had already left, not wanting to even see me, let alone speak to me. I scoffed, and after taking a brief shower, gathered my bag and walked outside. There she was, looking as disapproving as ever, a sour expression on her face. I took a deep breath, and with the fakest smile I could muster, moved towards her.

"Hola, Abuela."

She nodded in response. "Santana."

I felt my blood boil. She wasn't even going to acknowledge me properly?! This was a blatant reminder about why I never came home, never wrote and barely called.

She scrutinized me.

"You've put on weight, Santana." I glared, ready to spit out some of my best insults. As if sensing my almost-explosion, she put her hand on my arm, and with a vice-like grip, pulled me to walk with her. I sighed. It looked like it was going to be a long evening.

At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which commence with 'How've you been?' and conclude with 'Anything I can do?'

"How've you been, Santana?"

"Fine."

"How's your face?"

"Fine."

It was hurting like hell.

"And how's school going?" By that she meant, 'are you top of the class?' There was no way that she cared whether I was enjoying it, or making friends, or even doing well.

I made a non-committed noise. She frowned.

"And do you have a boyfriend yet? You won't stay young forever."

I choked.

"N-no," I spluttered, going red in the face. She hmphed.

"Santana, I told you before; your rude behaviour is going to have to change if you want to settle down and have children. Men don't just go for a pretty face you know."

I hissed under my breath. "Too bad this pretty face doesn't go for men." She glared, oblivious to what I had said, but knowing full well that I was making a smart ass comment.

At this point, I decided to study the menu.

As the main course was served, the old bruja launched into another bout of smug preaching, this

one, if I recall-and I try not to- concerning victories and defeats. She noted that we had lost the title

(very sharp of you, Abuela), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning but the

playing. What she really meant, was that we had done fucking terribly, but was taking a kind of sick pleasure in patronising me. I ignored her, and continued with my meal.

"Santana!" Her sharp eyes were flashing. I must have forgotten to pretend to listen, or something.

I swallowed my mouthful, and answered as expressionlessly as I could. "Si?"

"Tell me, mija," the 'mija' being sarcastic, "Why did you stop courting that nice Evans boy?" I gave a disgusted snort, provoking a disapproving glare from her. Who the hell even said courting anymore? You couldn't even call what Trouts McChapstick and I had, a 'thing'.

"I'm not into wet, drippy boys with a revolting hairstyle and a slimy, oversized cakehole." That shut her up.

At about eleven-thirty, I walked her to her car.

"Anything I can do, Santana?"

"No, Abuela. Good night, Abuela."

And she drove off.

I went back to the motel to phone Brittany.

It was the only good aspect of the whole evening. I told her all about the fight (obviously exaggerating most of the factors, which I'm sure she noticed, but didn't seem to mind about) and I could tell she enjoyed it. I mean, I'm a pretty hot aggressive lady.

"Did you at least bitch-slap the girl that hit you?" she asked.

"Yeah. Totally. I creamed her."

I could feel her pout through the receiver.

"Saaaaaan," she whined.

I rolled my eyes playfully.

"C'mon Britt. It's not dodgeball without me kicking the crap out of someone."

She giggled.

"More like you got beaten the crap out of by her. I know you San. You don't have to try to impress me." Her voice was soft, and I hated the fact that she could see right through me.

I stayed silent, content with listening to the rhythm of her breathing on the other end of the line.

She spoke again.

"I wish I coulda seen it. Maybe you'll beat up somebody in the Yale game, huh?"

"Yeah."

I smiled. How she loved the simple things in life.

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