"Ready?" Brian asked me. I put on my mouthguard and nodded. This time I was.

Our next game was at home, which seemed to infect all of us with a certain euphoria. We were surrounded by family and friends in our home rink, their cheers adding to the adrenaline that was certain to pump in our blood. I was in the bench, waiting for the puck to drop in the middle of the ice, and I joined my team mates as we banged the sideboard. The puck dropped and the action begun.

Dad was nowhere in sight.

I tried to focus on what was going on in the ice more than on who came and went in the bleachers. But I couldn't help myself. He'd promised to come tonight, and like a fool I'd believed him. I had to recall the same happening a year and a half ago, when I had my first amateur match at a juniors competition. He'd also promised to come watch, but inevitably something or the other kept him at work. Miguel had been the sole witness to my victory that day, and he treated me to dinner at the Leaky Cauldron at Universal.

As the first period came and went, and as I realized my dad's face was still not among the crowd, I became more and more agitated. It wasn't like I wanted my dad's approval for playing, but I did want to show him I was just as good as the boys, as fast, as aggressive. I wanted to show him it was a bad idea to underestimate me. He had to see that whatever the circumstances I was a fighter.

Because I sincerely doubted he understood that sometimes.

At the start of the third period I was pissed that I'd let him feed me false hopes again and like a fool I'd gobbled them up. I wondered when I'd learn my lesson as I skated as though my life depended on it during a particular play where the opponent had closed in on our Captain. Their D-men were stuck to him like velcro, elbowing him and using their sticks as a way to try to trip him. Too bad for them that Dean was as skilled a skater as an olympic figure skater. I saw him jump and do a ridiculous pirouette that freed him from their mark for a few precious seconds. Enough to score us a goal.

The entire arena roared with glee. We all piled up on our Captain in a big crunch of limbs. Play resumed amidst a chant of go, Bears, go, and it seemed like our opponents were raring for more violence. My role in the team became critical as I rammed into as many of our rivals as possible and even though it was freezing outside, I was going to have no option tonight but really submerge myself in a tub of ice. I looked at the crowd once more, wondering if dad had made it after all and if he'd force me to quit the team if I asked him to stop at the gas station before heading home so we could buy a few bags of ice.

It was as if life took a peak into my thoughts. I saw dad in the crowd then, clear as day, as though there was nobody else around. At the same time, the pain that I was already feeling became nothing as I was tackled from behind and rammed against the glass sideboard so hard that my head bounced off of it.

Everything went blank.

I woke up disoriented, thinking for a hot second that I was just opening my eyes after a long night of sleep. You know, like when your eyelids are so firmly glued together that it seems to take titanic effort to just lift them open. I blinked a couple of times, trying to get rid of the weird light that was blinding me until I realized it was just the overhead lamps. A shadow fell over me as someone peered down at me. The sounds started registering then. First a shout and then a hundred. More shadows fell over me and someone groaned. I think it might have been me. I attempted to sit up so I could look at what the big deal was that everybody was looking to.

Somebody clamped a vice on my shoulder that kept me pinned down.

"Don't move."

"What's going on?" I asked, and I was surprised that it sounded as though I had a ball of cotton in my mouth.

I blinked some more until I was able to focus better. I saw as my entire team seemed to be agglomerated all around me and both of my coaches poked and prodded my body for reaction. Assistant Coach Gauthier stood up and nodded at somebody in the distance. What felt like forever later, but must have taken only a couple of minutes, two men I didn't know came by with a stretcher and that was when I started to panic.

I sat up like a springboard, so fast that it made me dizzy. "I'm fine," I shouted over the din of voices telling me not to move. I flexed all my limbs and looked around, wide eyed and trying to convey the message that they were overreacting. That I was fine. If dad was seeing this hell was going to break loose and I wasn't ready for it.

"Really, I am. See? I can move everything. I'm okay."

That was when I noticed Dean kneeling next to me. His brow cast a shadow over his eyes that hadn't been there before the game.

"Coach Gauthier will tell," was all he said, voice so deep that it sounded like gravel. It sounded like he was angry at me, as though it was my fault I got felled by a cheap shot.

I was lifted onto a stretcher and taken out of the arena to dim applause. I ground my teeth, hoping that at the end of the day all I'd need was a few bags of ice after all.

They took me to the locker room. As they set me down and I sat up again, Coach Martel stood by the door and spoke to his Assistant Coach. "Can you take care of everything, Gauthier? I have to go call Charlie's guardian."

"No!" They both looked at me with surprise. "I'm fine, you don't need to call my dad."

Whatever they were going to reply was muted by the sudden uproar that came from the audience in the arena. All three of us and the two other men looked at each other, wondering what the deal was. Coach Martel left and I sighed, because I was sure he wouldn't comply with my wish. It still sounded like madness out there as Gauthier kneeled before me and begun to examine me for what I guessed was a concussion. It was the same drill as Paco, my boxing coach, followed every time I got knocked by a particularly nasty combo of punches. Then again I'd been told repeated that I had a hard head, so I was sure I was fine.

To my surprise he pulled out a first aid kit and took out some gauze that he held against my nose and mouth. Pain so intense exploded in my face that I cried out.

He nodded, serene as though he was just making some breakfast toast instead of torturing me like a medieval executioner. "Your nose is broken."

I dropped an F-bomb so loud it must have been heard all the way down to Florida. I wasn't as attached to my looks as most girls probably were, but damn it, I was still a girl. I didn't want to look like a witch with a crooked nose.

"I have to set it back in place," he said and I froze.

"Is it going to hurt?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

He smirked and it almost seemed like the bastard was enjoying this. I remembered that he was also the school nurse, so I figured gore and broken parts were up his alley.

"I'm not going to lie, kid. It's going to hurt like a motherfucker." Then he chuckled. "Pardon my French. I'm French-Canadian after all."

I glared. "Not funny."

Gauthier shrugged. "If it's any consolation, girls like rugged looking guys with broken noses and a few missing teeth. Plus, you're a Bear and with the way you played tonight the whole town is going to worship the ground you step on."

That was of no comfort at all. I didn't care for girls that way and the town's approval was more important to my dad than it was to me. I did care about a different type of appreciation, though. My teammates'. I hoped I did good by them tonight.

I squirmed under his beady eyes, registering that even though what he'd said was a good sentiment it had come across in a way that made me uncomfortable. I realized that it was just that he made me feel that way, and we were alone now. The two men who carried me over had left as soon as Coach Martel had. I looked at the balding middle aged man in front of me, with sharp features and a small chin. This was the most we'd ever exchanged words, I simply hadn't had a reason to, until now. I hadn't cared for him but even though I hadn't heard anything bad about him I found myself eager to go back to my team, away from him.

I breathed through my mouth as I told myself that I was safe. That my sudden sense of danger was all a flashback to the time I'd been immersed in a similar kind of pain, beat up and abused in the den of the kidnappers that murdered my mom for cash. The knock to my head was superimposing the face of the kidnapper onto that of my team's Assistant Coach.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing my brain to erase the memory. I tightened my fists in my gloves.

I had to change the course of my thoughts, as a therapist had once instructed, to a safe avenue. A safe and harmless topic. 

I picked the stream of conversation back up, hoping not so long had passed the turmoil in my head had shown.

"You think I played well?" I asked.

He looked down his nose at mine, assessing the damage, and nodded in that way that people do when they're actually not paying attention to what you say. He felt around for the break and I flinched at the renewed stab of pain.

"Sure," Gauthier said as he replaced the gauze for a new one. It was drenched in crimson. "Nothing like a martyr to stoke the fires of the hero. Those screams you hear outside? They're surely caused by Hyde showing off in front of everybody. Like father like son."

I wondered if I was really concussed because I didn't understand how that related to my issue. Although the martyr part might be referring to me.

"I'm not dead, though," I said.

His smile was anything but sweet. "After I set your nose right you might wish you were."

My eyes went wide as saucers. "That's encouraging."

"Ready?" he asked, a vague echo of Brian's question at the start of the game.

I sighed and braced myself.

I yowled so hard and with so many varying notes of distress that any passersby would be chilled to the bone. A gush of warmth streamed down my nose after he was done and stepped back with a satisfied little there. That was the moment my dad chose to walk in with Coach Martel. One look at me and he staggered.

I grinned and since the trickle of blood down my nose was steady it probably made the whole thing look worse than it was. And even though it hurt a ton, I was proud that I was still standing even as his steps faltered. I was stronger than he thought and it was high time he learned this lesson.

"You made it," I said to him as though nothing was amiss. "How are you enjoying the game?"

His voice came out in a thin string. "It's horrible. Why are you playing this?"

"Because thanks to you we're in Canada, dad. And when in Canada, you do as the Canadians."

The game ended at the same time I was being driven to the nearest E.R., which was a considerable 40mi away or so. My cellphone exploded with texts saying that we won and that I was badass, and I never felt more proud of myself than at that moment, even if the wreckage in my face might eventually require the magic of a plastic surgeon.

A couple of hours later when I was finally assessed by a doctor they said the damage was not so terrible that my nose would look too different once I healed, but a glance in the mirror told me I looked like I'd been kicked in the face.

Dad sat next to me through the entire ordeal, silent and not looking at his phone a single time. He sighed a lot and kept glancing at me every now and again.

As we drove back home I decided to jump the gun and ask, "Does this mean that you're going to ban me from playing hockey?"

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I don't think I can keep you from doing what you want anymore. If I try I just become the villain, don't I?"

I looked at the darkness outside of the window. The victory would feel empty depending on his answer to the next question. I opened my mouth to ask it, but no words came out for a while. It was only after I was able to swallow past the lump in my throat that I was able to voice it.

"Were you worried?"

His gaze shifted toward me for a second. He set it back on the dark road ahead as he answered.

"I always worry about you, Carlota. You're the reason for everything I do."

My eyes felt the tattletale prickle of upcoming tears.

"Really?"

His head jerked in an awkward nod. "You accused me of uprooting you once, but it's all for you. The move to Florida was so that you wouldn't have to keep living with the fear and the memories all around you at home in Caracas. The move here is also for you, to secure your future."

I looked down at the shadow my hands made over my lap. "What do you mean?"

"The company's in trouble, Carlota," he said in a clipped manner. "I'm here trying to save it, to save our livelihood. I don't want you to go through hardship if I fail. I cannot fail."

I startled. For the first time we had an honest conversation, and for the first time I started to see the huge pressure dad had upon himself. I had no idea. It wasn't like he'd told me anything before. He always kept me in the dark of everything, so as to not worry me, so he wouldn't be the cause of an anxiety attack, but he always shared everything with Miguel. I wondered if my brother knew and had also kept this from me.

They both thought I was fragile.

I balled my hands into fists and even though I was angry at them, I was also scared for us.

"Are we going to be okay?"

It had been forever since dad had last reached out to me. He grabbed once of my hands in his, bigger and warmer, and squeezed.

"Don't worry, chiquita. I'll make sure of that."