AN: Special thanks to the lovely chanalizah for her very dedicated and insightful reviews! Thanks, of course, to everyone who reviews. You guys are the best.

Chapter Twelve
Crazy Beautiful Life
I'm in love, alright – with my crazy beautiful life.

There is really nothing like being confined in a hospital to really, truly appreciate the freedom of everyday life. Two weeks into my stay, I had no qualms at all bidding my healers a fond adieu, nearly skipping out of St. Mungo's, complete with my glorious clean bill of health. Papers were sent to Coach, I signed several temporary contracts and within a week, my life was unrecognizable. I was almost immediately enrolled in team workouts. While Puddlemere continued to play one of their second-string chasers in games, I was thrown into practices. It was exhausting. Oliver had, obviously, been instructed to get me back into shape – not that I was fat or anything - because let's be clear right now guys: I am not fat.

I had, however, gotten a little… softer than I was when I was playing quidditch all the time, with a slightly embarrassing belly and – I'll admit it – a total inability to run more than a mile. Plus, sitting on my butt in St. Mungo's for half a month hadn't done anything to help. I'd been planning to lose the weight, but, well… I like to ease into things slowly. Maybe I'd run every other day or so, or gradually cut out, I don't know, chocolate. No, wait, I love chocolate. Something else unhealthy.

But there is no such half-assedness in the Wood household. We were up every morning at six, Oliver pulling me unceremoniously from my bed, tossing trainers and workout clothes in my face. After running (panting and spluttering) our three-mile circuit the first few days with a headache from the crack of my rubber soles smacking me in the face, I actually started to wake up enough to catch them.

"Come on, lass!" Oliver was insultingly peppy in the mornings, prodding me in the back as I faltered on our runs, heart pounding pathetically. Most days, the only thing I said to him was a constant, under-my-breath chant of "IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou…", even though he did have the good grace to never laugh when I took a desperately needed walk-break mid circuit. Seemingly overnight, such breakfasts like bangers & mash and pancakes were no longer an option – yoghurt and granola and fruit was all our flat was stocked with. I must admit, the first day, I threw a bit of a fit.

"Hang on, you've been playing Quidditch all this time, and you haven't had to eat like a bleeding diet queen."

"Nope," Oliver agreed, blending up a frighteningly green protein shake, "But I'm a bloke with a massive metabolism. And I was playing games every week and practicing every day. Once you get into game mode, we can lay off the diet food a little. But I ate like this while I was on the reserves. Coach wants you in the best shape possible as quickly as possible. Drink up."

I could barely argue, mainly because I was so tired. We ran, we did cross-fit exercises and weight-training all morning – and that was before I even saw the rest of the team. I joined them on drill practices every other afternoon, and observed – taking notes at Coach's command – all of the game play practices the other days. If anyone is an expert in Puddlemere tactics and plays, it is this girl here.

"Coach'll put you into those practices after the next game," Oliver explained. "For now, we need Colin – the reserve player – in strategy practices. He's got to know what's going on, but this one coming up is probably his last game. He's capable, but predictable. No one's seen you play. We've got a month of no games after this one – he'll start you then. 'Til then." He grinned mischievously. "You're mine."

Cute, until you realized that what he meant was that I had more time for more friggin workouts. For a while, I had forgotten what a Nazi Oliver was at Hogwarts. I had fond memories of our Quidditch days, reminisced about the long practices and team camaraderie. I promise you, I remember now. I totally remember how insanely fanatical he was back at Hogwarts. I can recollect the miserable, rain-filled dawn practices. Frankly, I mused, nursing my aching limbs, stretched out sweaty and weak on the carpet by the television, I think he's gotten worse.

On that note, want to know something that's not fun? Working out with your crush. Have you ever tried to look cute sweating and exhausted at six in the morning? It's pointless. Seriously. Normally, I'd at least try to tame my hair back in super-tight double French braids – it takes at least an hour or two for my hair to work its way out. But at six? I'm lucky if I remember to whip my hair into a ponytail. Make up's out of the question. I don't even get time to brush my teeth, half the time. I don't think my unbrushed, unwashed, exercise-maddened self could really present a less attractive image.

Yet, despite my grumpy attitude, my various sore body parts and ridiculous hours, life on Puddlemere, so far, has actually been… pretty amazing. I spend a ridiculous amount of time with Oliver (even if most of it is out-of-breath and sweaty in the totally PG and non-fun way), the team has welcomed me with open arms, and for the first time in a long time, I have a goal. Meandering through life was all well and good but now, having something real to work towards is oddly exhilarating. I seriously recommend it.

Plus, now I have boundless time to try and coax out Charlotte Greene's secret badass. It's becoming a pet project. I'm pretty psyched.

xoxox

Two weeks into our workout regimen, Oliver strode into my room at six to find me sitting, fully dressed, shoes tied, cross-legged on my bed. Hair braided, I might add. He stopped short in the door, his mouth falling open stupidly.

"Oh, you don't have to look quite so surprised. I mean, sure, I'm not a morning person, but it's not like I enjoy you chucking all my things at me." I giggled. It had taken waking up twenty minutes earlier than normal, but Oliver's shell-shocked face was entirely worth it. Plus it felt kind of… good. I kissed him on the cheek as I squeezed peppily past. "I was thinking the loop that cuts through St. James Park? Brilliant." I nearly skipped down to the street.

Did I regret choosing the longest loop afterwards? Sure.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

xoxox

"Oliver, another minute of this and I'm going to fall asleep on my broom."

"Your reverse pass is still sloppy, Katie. Again."

"No."

"Think fast!"

I whipped around too late to see the Quaffle whizzing at me, my aching arms moving automatically to cover my face, braced for impact. I opened one eye. My whole field of vision was obscured with red. The quaffle had been frozen in midair by a fuming Oliver.

"You didn't even try!"

"I didn't have time to think!"

"You shouldn't think! It should be automatic! A reflex!"

"It's two in the morning, Oliver!" With impending face-smashing avoided, I didn't even have enough energy for a proper row. I whined like a five year old, slowly slumping closer and closer to my broom handle.

"Quidditch games don't have a time limit!"

"Oh, and I am not running tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep, and four hours is not enough." I waved feebly at my face, now cuddling with the smooth wood handle. Honestly, anything was comfortable at this point.

"You need to be able to play under all conditions!"

"Mmm."

There was a dead silence for a little while. I was debating the safety of falling asleep in midair, against the, almost equal danger, of Oliver's wrath.

"Is it really two?" Oliver had flown a bit closer, sounding the closest to human (as opposed to fanatical Quidditch robot) he'd sounded in hours.

I held up my wrist as confirmation.

"When did we start?"

No response.

"Kates?"

I jumped. I might actually have drifted off a little there. I smacked myself in the face and sat up, determined not to fall asleep.

"Huh?"
"When did we-"

"After practice."

"Six?"

"I haven't touched ground in eight hours."

"Ah."

I thought about that for a moment.

"You suck, you know that?"

"You'll thank me later."

"No, no I won't-"

I was swaying dangerously, and in one easy movement had slid off the side of my broom. Flump.

"Was the ground always this close?" I asked conversationally, gazing up at my broom and Oliver's darker shape, maybe five feet over my head.

"We've been skimming for a while."

"Mmm."

"Don't go to sleep, Katie."

"Mmf."

"Katie-"

I snuggled deeper into the dewy grass, entirely uncaring.

There was a deep sigh on the edge of my hearing.

"Come on, then." There were footsteps by my head and-

"Ow! Ow! Put me down! Put me down, you great lump!"

Oliver had thrown me unceremoniously over his shoulder in a well-practiced fireman's hold.

"You kick me, Bell, and I'll drop you on your head. Don't push it. I will make you walk."

I stopped struggling and awkwardly reached around to pat him on the head as best I could.

"Nevermind. You're a brilliant pack horse. Nice boy."

He snorted, but kept carrying me valiantly towards the changing rooms, even when I subsided into a sleep-deprived case of the giggles, mumbling something about ponies and oats.

Yeah, you know, for a girl who just broke her back and skull, who broke up a bar fight and now is subject to a maddeningly insane workout schedule from a Quidditch-obsessed, sanity-starved fanatic, I'd have to say I'm pretty happy.

I must be mad.

Crazy Beautiful Life - Ke$ha