“Sorry, kid, I’m not.” The MD replied, rechecking his charts, “There appears to be a strain through your left Achilles’ tendon, and a partial tear in your ACL ligament.”

Kurt couldn’t believe it. One false landing when doing a handspring for the cheerios’ new routine and he’d managed to bust major parts of both his knee and ankle. This was all Sue’s fault. If she wasn’t such a crazed perfectionist and didn’t run training sessions like a drill sergeant, he wouldn’t even be here.

“How long will I be out for?” Kurt asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Well, with regular physiotherapy and massage, we’re looking at three months. At best.”

“Three months?” Kurt sat bolt upright, “Are you insane?! I can’t be out for three months! The
Cheerios need me to compete. A-And what’s all this talk about massage?” exclaimed Kurt, “It’s a pseudoscience; it doesn’t even work! It just makes you think that you’re feeling better, when really, you’re not. It’s all in your head!”

The man in the lab coat looked slightly exacerbated, as if he’d seen this reaction far too many times before.

“Look,” he began, “I know it’s hard to grasp right now, but you’re seriously injured-”

Kurt scoffed. The doctor ignored him.

“-and if you don’t let your body rest and recover, you could be faced with a lifelong injury. Plus, without massage or physiotherapy involved, the recovery time increases from three months to six months.”

Oh. Kurt was silent. He didn’t have a biting comeback to that. Maybe this was serious after all… Maybe.

“Now put it in perspective. Would you rather not be able to cheer-lead for a few short months or never be able to fully use your left leg again?”

The doctor’s remarkably penetrating gaze bored into Kurt’s. Kurt stared back for a few moments, deliberating.

“Alright, fine.” Kurt sighed, relinquishing. He still was not impressed. Not in the slightest.

Breathing out heavily, the MD proceeded to sit in his office chair. He wheeled the contraption over to his desk to type up Kurt’s diagnosis and treatment options at the keyboard.

“Okay, so I can arrange an appointment with the hospital’s physiotherapist for you. He’ll organise a pair of crutches to get you from a to b with as minimal stress on your leg as possible. I’ll also arrange you regular sessions of massage therapy.”

He studied the computer screen for a moment then glanced up at Kurt, “Is 4 o’clock tomorrow afternoon alright with you?”

Kurt dipped his head in reply. The doctor turned his focus to the computer again.

“Fortnightly should be sufficient, but if you feel this isn’t often enough for you, you can sort that out with the masseuse after your first appointment.”

Isn’t often enough? Kurt had just said he didn’t believe in the supposed “organic healing properties” of massage. He didn’t want to go to some new-age hippy clinic to get poked and prodded by a flower child who thinks cowboy kicks and long skirts are timeless pieces of fashion. No, just no. As soon as he could, he would be out of that misplaced piece of Haight Street. There was no way Kurt would be caught dead voluntarily spending any unnecessary time there.

Click, Click. The doctor swivelled the computer mouse and hit “PRINT”. The printer beside him whirred to life, producing Kurt’s paper-work. Once the entirety of the paperwork had printed, the older man glanced over it, checking for faults before signing at the bottom of the page.

“And if you could sign below as well please, Mr Hummel?” The MD indicated to a blank line at the bottom of the page with his pen. Morbidly, Kurt was reminded of a devil tempting a man to sign his soul away. He snorted at his own melodramatic consciousness. Maybe Rachel was more of a powerful influence than he thought.

Zoning back into reality, he took the pen reluctantly and signed “Kurt Elizabeth Hummel” in elegant cursive in the vacant space.

Well, he had to go through with it now. Kurt had always been a man of his word.

* * *

A few hours later, Kurt hobbled toward the exit of Lima Sacred Heart Hospital on his pair of newly loaned crutches. The electric doors slid apart with mechanical precision to let him out. Luckily for him, there hadn’t been any doors he needed to push or pull open to escape this sterile institution. Manually opening doors and cripples on crutches don’t mix. That would not have ended in a dignified way.

Kurt sighed. He may not be competent enough to open doors by himself anymore, but at least he could still drive. After all, he only needed his right leg for that. He wasn’t completely helpless. He continued to where he had parked his Navigator, wishing he’d parked it just that little bit closer.

Now all he had to do was deliver the bad news to Coach Sylvester. Kurt winced. As if these last few hours had been cruel enough.

Well, if his day was about to get worse he might as well get it over and done with… He stuck the keys in the ignition, coaxing the vehicle into life. He took the first right, heading straight to McKinley High's Football fields.