Rich!
He clenched his teeth, trying hard not to let out a groan as his shoulder sent bolts of pain throughout his body. His personal trainer's practice had been brutal today because the charmed bludgers and snitches had their velocities accelerated to triple their normal speed. Matt was sure he had never flown that fast or that hard, and after a one-two bludger punch to the cheek and shoulder sent him flying through the air and into the stands (yep, they'd hit him that hard), he'd been ushered into the medical center to recuperate.

At least he'd survived the first half hour of the frantic practice. That had to equal about three hours World Cup time, yeah?

Using his good arm to push himself up onto the examination table and let out a breath, slumping. He was more than excited about going to New York and performing on the world stage, but hell if he wasn't just as nervous. Was he the only experiencing this sort of stage fright? He couldn't be, right? Maybe the rest of the team was just better at hiding their nerves.

Or maybe he was the only one that was acting like a ickle first year.

The door to the room opened and Matt looked up with a genuine smile, "I think it's dis--"

His smile waned at the sight of the healer and he looked around, he was in the right room, right? What was he doing here?