Have you ever had a feeling of complete and utter peace? Quiet with no movement around, it's only you and no one else. It takes you to an invisible world that can't be seen by anyone else, and it's tailor-made just for you. I truly hope you've felt it before, because it's absolutely stunning. Maybe you get it from reading, or painting, or drawing.

I get it in the oddest place to find quiet. Hockey. Nothing makes me happier than skating down the ice, adrenaline pumping through my veins, while trying to score a goal for my team, which I play on with my brother, Dean. He, however, is a bit more intense than I am, and a bit, maybe more than a bit, more physical.

I wish every day we lived in a more rural area with a pond behind our house. Or at least a non-crowded ice skating rink that I only get to practice at when I'm with my team. But, no, I'm stuck in a little, stuffy apartment with nothing but a wall between me and my brother's room. God, I hate his heavy metal music. Why hasn't Dad told him to turn it down or off?

I stand up from my twin bed, tossing the book, which I was trying to enjoy, onto it. I walk over to the sunshine yellow wall and pound on it. "Will you turn that down!?" I yell, hoping that he'll hear over his racket. I remain still for a minute before I come to the conclusion that I will physically have to go into his room and tell him.

I pull open the white door and grumble over to my brother's room next door. I turn the knob to see him jamming to his ear-piercing music, and I tap my foot impatiently. Despite the physical resemblance of my brother and I with our soot-colored hair and woodland brown eyes, we were polar opposites, besides our love for hockey.

"Dean," I say, attempting to catch his attention. "Dean. Dean!" Finally, he turns around and grins at me. "Can you turn it down? I'm trying to do something productive. Maybe you should try it sometime." I tell him. When you talk to me, it's either sassy and sarcastic or serious, no in between.

"No-can-do, Nutmeg," he responds using his nickname for me, "Dad left, so I can have it on loud until he comes back." I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. "Oh, and he left me in charge," he adds, sending me a wink.

I throw my hands in the air in defeat. "You know Dad'll be majorly pissed if he gets another complaint about your music from the neighbors." He shrugs at my warning, not caring in the slightest. "Dean, you know how stressed he is," I sit on his bed, praying he'll shut the music off and listen to me for two seconds.

Thankfully, luck is on my side when Dean ends his crazed dance session and flops down next to me. "I know, I know," he sighs, hands running through his hair, knocking his bandana off his forehead. "Work has him exhausted, and he has us to take care of and blah, blah, blah." He falls down onto the mattress, his back against it as he stares up at the ceiling, though his feet still touch the floor.

I look down at his face while sitting crisscross, frowning slightly at his expression. It looks so down, just like mine. I know how he feels, because I feel the same way.

Our mom left us when I was seven for a younger man. They got married two years after she ran off, and they're expecting a second child soon. Once she left, my dad buried himself in his work, leaving me and Dean by ourselves a lot. Dean's raised me in a way, and he's really overprotective but he's the only person I have to rely and trust. It's hard sometimes, knowing that the only person who cares is your brother, but I'm okay with it, because Dean is my best friend, and I care about him too.

"Maybe if he didn't work so much, he'd have time for us. It's not like he's working because we are in desperate need of the money. Sure, it's good to have the extra, but we're stable," Dean mutters, his way of dealing with annoyance. He had to stop punching things because Dad got sick of paying for repairs.

Tears brim my eyes as I continue his statement, "Dad works to get away from us." It's a sad reality, but it's the truth. No use hiding behind stupid lies. My walls of sarcasm and sass fall down as the tears roll down my cheeks. I hide behind those walls because I don't want to be hurt like I was when Mom left.

Dean glances at me before sitting up quickly. He wraps his arms around me, hugging me close to him. If you saw my brother, you would not see him as the affectionate type, since he's tall and muscular and looks like a senior in high school even though he's not. But, he isn't the affectionate kind, he's only like that towards me.

"Shit, Meg. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything," he apologizes, as I unattractively rub my fingers under my eyes, taking the tears off my cheeks. The walls rebuild themselves once the tears are gone, and I feel like myself again.

"It's fine. I don't know why I haven't gotten used to it to be honest," I force a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles at my sad attempt and stands up, pulling his bandana back onto his head. "I know what'll make you feel better, Nutmeg," he says. I raise a concerned eyebrow. This can't be good. He switches on the music again, pretending to play the guitar with his nearby hockey stick.

I groan, but can't help smile, as I exit his bedroom. I break into a small chuckle when I hear him turn the music down, finally.

I turn into my room, ready to continue my book, when the doorbell rings. I mumble a "seriously", as I walk towards the front door, but not without banging on Dean's door, saying "doorbell".

With Dean behind me, I pull open the door to be greeted with an older-looking man with curly grey hair in a business suit. "Are you Dean and Meghan Portman?"

"Depends on who's asking," Dean speaks up, a hand on my shoulder as I nod in a "yes" to the man's question. I feel Dean staring a stern look into the back of my head, but I'm not going to play the guessing game with this guy.

The man extends his hand to me, which I take. "I'm Don Tibbles, from Hendrix hockey apparel. You must be Meghan." He says, pulling his arm away from me.

"How'd you know," I respond, snapping my fingers in a sarcastic "oh, darn" way. Dean snorts behind me as I smile at the appalled man. "What do you want? Oh, and it's Meg."

"I want the two of you to play with Team USA in the Junior Goodwill Games," Mr. Tibbles exclaims, excitedly, obviously forgetting our rude introduction.

"Are you serious?" Dean asks, his mouth wide open. Mr. Tibbles smiles and nods. "Yes! Of course, when do we leave? Where are we going? Do we get paid?"

"Tomorrow. You'll fly to Minnesota to meet with your coach and the rest of your teammates," he hands me an envelope. "Those are your tickets. There's an extra one for your father. I look forward to seeing you in Minnesota." I take the envelope in my hands and hold it like it's a fragile baby. "And no, Mr. Portman, you do not receive any payment." With that, he leaves, and we close the door behind him, not without grumbles from Dean though.

I turn to Dean with an open-mouthed expression and jump around. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" He hugs me tightly, spinning me around, before I strike off to pack my bags. I am not wasting one minute, unlike Dean who probably won't pack until five minutes before we leave.

Shoving clothes into my two suitcases, I basically packed my whole closet. Oh well. I grab my grey backpack, one with a light grey and seafoam-colored pattern on it, and shove in some books, a journal and pens, and my childhood stuffed animal, a cow called Milky. How original.

When I finish packing, after folding and re-folding, the sun is setting, casting a red-orange light over the sky. My dad should be home from work in a few more hours, since he goes from nine to eight.

My stomach growls, so I patter into the kitchen and make a ham and cheese sandwich, eating it quickly in a very unladylike way. I whip up another onto a plate and carry it to Dean's room. I knock on the door, but enter without a response. Surprisingly, my brother is actually packing!

"I made you a sandwich," I say, holding it out to him. He swiftly snatches the plate from me and takes a bite, not bothering with a "thank you".

I roll my eyes and go back to my room, where I spend every second of my time, since I don't have many friends. My only real friend is Dean. Everyone at school hates me because they think I'm trying to "get some" by playing hockey with all those boys, and my team, except Dean, hates me because I'm a girl.

I lie on my bed and continue reading, since I never got back around to it, until I hear the front door jiggle open, signaling my dad's arrival. I hear Dean go outside, probably to tell my dad, so I decide to eavesdrop, because it's more fun than actually joining in the conversation.

Creeping out of my room, I hide behind the corner and listen to Dean and my father's exchange of words.

"Dad, I have real important news," Dean starts, trying to get my dad's attention. Dad's looking at paperwork at the kitchen table, like always, and his glasses are perched on the edge of his nose. "Dad!"

Sighing, my dad removes his glasses and looks up at Dean. "Yes, son, what is it?" A forced smile is painted on his face as he tightly holds his papers.

"Meg and I were invited to play in the Junior Goodwill Games for Team USA," Dean exclaims, attempting to arouse Dad's interest.

"That's nice."

"No, Dad! You don't understand! Outta all the kids in the country, me and Meg were chosen!"

My dad rubs his hands over his face. "Congratulations. Can I please get back to this now, Dean? It's important."

"So is this! Dad, we leave tomorrow to go to Minnesota!" Dean pauses and sends my dad a glare. "You are gonna come, right?"

Dad's eyes flash up. "Tomorrow? Dean, I have to work, you know that. I'll go next year. I have to work, so you and Meg will just have to go on your own."

"Next year? Next year! We aren't gonna go next year!" Dean shouts. He starts to stomp out of the kitchen, completely ignoring me.

"Dean! Dean, get back here!" Dad stands and follows him, but I block his path. "Meg? Meg what are you doing? Were you listening to us?" This catches Dean's attention, stopping him in his tracks outside his door.

I narrow my eyes at him. "You know what, Dad," I say, spitting the words out like acid. "Stay. See if me or Dean give a damn if you come. Why would you start being a father now, when you haven't been one to us ever?" Slap!

I stumble backwards, holding my cheek with my hand. He slapped me. My dad slapped me. I stare at him open-mouthed while the angry expression is printed on his face. He turns around and pounds back into the kitchen.

Tears run down my cheeks like Niagara Falls, and Dean grabs me by the arms and pulls me into my room. Shutting the door, he sits down on my bed, opening his arms to me. I half-fall-half-jump into his hug as he strokes my hair.

He whispers sweet nothings into my ear, as I hiccup into calming myself down. "Don't leave me," I beg, kind of in a "don't leave me tonight" way and kind of in a "don't ever leave me" way.

"Don't worry, Meg. I'll always be here for you," he answers, tightening his hold on me. "I won't let anything ever hurt you again. I'll always protect you. No matter what."