The Cocky Hockey Captain

Prologue ● Dreams of Coffee

Then a man I'd never seen before squeezed his way into the driver's seat. I screamed for my mom again, but the man turned around and smiled a horrible sneer for a smile and said, "Tu mamá está muerta, sifrinita. Y si no te callas la vas a acompañar."

Then, my mom's voice. "No!"

He turned back to the door and leveled his gun down, pop, pop, pop, before he closed the door and slammed the pedal. I craned my neck around, looking for my mom as I struggled with the seatbelt and the lock of my door. The SUV moved too fast for me to see the details, but I will never forget the lump he'd left behind of what a few minutes before had been my mom. Alive. Colorful. With the scent of fresh coffee clinging to her.

The memory of those last three shots that sentenced her were precisely what woke me up. That was usually where my nightmares stopped. The events that transpired after my mother's death paled in comparison and were not worth rehashing, when the true horror had been losing her.

"Charlie?"

I groaned and blinked my eyes open repeatedly, trying to will the blurs of colors into shapes that made sense. Eventually I was able to find my bearings and pull myself up to sitting. My coach, Paco, hovered over me with an expression that was worry at the top of his face and annoyance at the bottom.

"What the fuck was that?" He threw his hands up in the air, his Mexican accent thickening. "You could've blocked that hit. Were you thinking of Justin Bieber again, or what?"

I lifted a gloved hand and I hoped he could tell I was giving him a middle finger. He liked to antagonize me by bringing up teenage heartthrobs, as though that painted me like an immature teenage girl. One way or another, it worked every time.

"First of all," I said after spitting out my mouthguard on my lap. "I hate Justin Bieber, and second of all, shouldn't you be checking if I have a concussion or something?"

Andy, the other girl I'd been sparring with, spoke up then. "You dropped your block. It wasn't my fault."

Paco kneeled in front of me and went through the motions to see if my brain had gone kaput. With a decisive nod he said, "Okay, good. You don't seem hurt. Which means you're in all your faculties to answer my original question."

I pulled one of my gloves out so that I could brush the strand of wet hair away that had clung to my face. He stood above me, crossing his arms and nose flaring like he was about to burst into a volcano of temper.

I rolled my eyes. "What was your first question?"

"What the fuck was that?" He exploded.

Right.

I stood up and was pleased to note my legs were steady. Activity around the boxing ring had resumed. Andy was in the corner doing some shadowboxing and the rest of the regulars were back to their drills. Across the gym, the 10:30am fitness boxing class was going strong. Paco handed me a towel and a bottle of water. He wouldn't let it go unless I gave him an answer, but the problem was that I didn't have one. One moment I'd been facing Andy, watching out for her jab, and the next second my mind drifted to that morning.

And then it clicked. Somebody had made a fresh pot of coffee in the break room and the smell had drifted to me. It was bad quality coffee, nowhere similar to the guayoyo mami favored, and yet...

I faced my coach again and gave him the kind of shit eating grin that pissed him off. "Don't worry about it, it won't happen again."

"Damn right, it won't. I won't let you on this ring until you screw your head on right."

I groaned. "That's not fair, Paco. You know I'll never find the screws I've lost."

He was 15 years older than me and by all accounts a super intimidating guy. Boxing was his life and it had altered his very DNA. It was clear, even from yards away, that the muscles in his body were not there for show, that his meaty hands were not made for flower arrangements and that his ears weren't busted because he'd put on too many earrings. When he was in a rage, like he was right now, his opponents in the ring cowered. He was 27-3 in his pro matches, and with the winning streak he had this season it didn't seem like he'd notch a fourth loss any time soon. But I couldn't help seeing him like the big softie he was, and I couldn't help exploiting his weakness — which was the fact that I reminded him a lot of his little sister Lupe, who was still in Mexico.