Light shines into the room from the window, hitting me perfectly in the face, like a spiteful bitch. I groan and attempt to sit up, but Dean, who apparently decided we were having a sleepover last night, has his arm thrown across me. His mouth is open and nasally snores come from it.

I poke him on the cheek, which is actually quite squishy, but to no avail. "Dean, Dean," I say, each poke getting harder. I slap my hand across his chest, not in any way that could mildly hurt him. "Dean. Dean!" I raise my hand again, but he catches my wrist lightly.

"Don't hit me again, please," he mumbles, releasing my hand. He turns on side and ignores my try at waking him up.

I roll onto my back, and with all my power, I use my feet and shove him off the bed, causing him to fall on his face.

"Shit! Meg!" He grumbles, his head shooting up from the floor to glare at me. "What the hell!"

"We have to leave in two hours to go to Minnesota. Get ready," I order, pointing to the door. He rolls his eyes, but stands up.

"How's your face?" His eyebrows scrunch together as he realizes he should've worded that differently, especially for a girl.

"It's fine, Dean," I respond. "Go! We're going to miss our flight!" I push him out the door, leaning against it after it's shut.

I grab a grey and black hoodie shirt, a pair of dark-wash jeans, and tan moccasins, and I slip them on, packing clothes in my hockey backpack for after practice as well as sports clothes. I run into the bathroom before Dean and make sure I look presentable after brushing my teeth and throwing my hair into a messy bun.

I grab my hockey backpack, my small backpack, and my suitcases and struggle my way down the hall. I stop at the front door and wait ten minutes for Dean to finish. Once he's done, we leave the apartment, not bothering to say "goodbye" to our dad, and we descend the six flights of stairs. Not sure how we did it, honestly.

Mr. Tibbles sent a cab to our apartment building, so we climb inside and drive to the airport. Neither of us have been on a plane before so I'm nervous, but kind of excited.

The airport is very, white, and clean, full of people. Which is bad, because Dean is not a people person. Other travelers give me and Dean strange looks as we check our suitcases and hockey bags, then trek to our gate, zooming through security.

After an hour of waiting, we board our plane, me in a window seat, and Dean next to me. The plane takes off, leaving Chicago behind. I hope whatever city in Minnesota we're going to is better than here.

***********************************************************************

The flight only takes about three hours, considering Minnesota is only two states from Illinois. We rush off the plane, grab our luggage, and head to the lobby where there is a middle-aged man with a bushy brown mustache holding a sign with our names on it.

"Hello," he says when we walk over to him. "You must be Meg and Dean. I'm Nick, your driver to the hockey rink. I was sent by Mr. Tibbles to pick you up."

We nod and follow the man to his van, climbing into the back. As we drive towards the rink, I notice that we're not in a city. We're in a small rinky-dink town. I sigh, considering I was looking forward to a new city setting.

I glance at my watch, and I internally scream. We only have twenty minutes until we have to be on the ice. ON the ice! I tap my feet, hoping he'll speed up, but he seems to go slower and slower.

Finally, finally, we reach the rink, and I race out of the van and inside, while Dean takes his time. He'll probably be late anyway. I find my way into the locker room, changing into my jersey from my team and putting on my skates quickly. I hurry to the ice, sneaking a glance at the nearby clock. Two minutes.

I smile on the inside as I skate over to a line of four other kids, who must be new. There's a large group of seven kids across the way, all wearing green jerseys that have a duck on them. I stand next to a boy wearing a blue and red jersey that says "South Miami".

"I didn't miss anything, yet, did I" I ask him.

He turns around, and he has dark brown hair and light brown eyes, with tan skin. He's pretty good-looking. "Nah, you're good," he answers.

"Thanks," I smile, and he nods, turning his attention to the two men walking towards us. One is Mr. Tibbles and the other, I assume, is the coach. He has short brown hair that he pushes out of his eyes, and he's wearing a full red, white, and blue track suit that says Coach Bombay. Assumption confirmed.

The coach points over at us, "Tell me about my new kids."

The boy next to me skates up. "That's Luis Mendoza. He's from our Miami club," Mr. Tibbles explains as Luis begins skating around. "He's a real speedster, incredible skater. I clocked him 1.9 seconds' blue line to blue line." Damn he is fast. Luis is demonstrating his speed, which is real amazing. "There's one minor problem," and as Mr. Tibbles says that, Luis crashes into the wall. Ouch. "Has a little trouble stopping."

All four of us skate to him and help him up off the ice. "Yeah, I'm good. I almost had it that time." I hear chuckling and glare at the group on the other side.

"Yeehaw!" a new voice rings out. I can't see what he looks like, since Luis is blocking my voice, but all I see is a cowboy hat get tossed aside. "How's everyone? Ya'll ready to play some puck?"

"That's Dwayne Robertson from Austin," Mr. Tibbles tells us. The kid, who I can finally see since Luis moved, is juggling the hockey puck on his stick and between his legs. His jersey is orange and says "Crockett" on it. "He's the best puck-handler I've ever seen."

"You mean for his age?" Coach questions.

"No, I don't," Mr. Tibbles answers.

"Hey, this is easier than roping hogs! Yeehaw!" Dwayne says, causing me to laugh. He looks up slightly and smiles at me. I look away and hope to God that he didn't see my cheeks turn red. He wasn't supposed to hear that.

"He does have a tendency to showboat," Mr. Tibbles finishes.

"Wow," Coach whispers as a girl with sandy blonde hair moves into goal. Her red and white jersey has "Bangor" printed on the front of it.

"There's Julie 'The Cat' Gaffney. She won the state championship for Maine three years in a row." That's impressive.

"We have a goalie, Goldberg," Coach explains, looking at a chubby kid who moved into goal.

He starts talking, but I can't hear him well, then he falls into the splits which looks painful. "Watch this," Mr. Tibbles says as Julie starts blocking every shot taken. Good for her.

"Well, we could use a backup," Coach nods. Backup? She should be starting, not your chubby goalie who can't control where his legs go. "Isn't that the kid from the Olympics? The figure skater?" Coach motions towards the Asian boy with the white and orange jersey on.

"Yep. Ken Wu. What can I say? I convinced him that hockey had more of a future. We put a stick in his hands and no one's been able to touch him," Mr. Tibbles looks proudly at the boy.

I skate forward since Dean hasn't shown up yet. "Who's that?" Coach asks, signaling Mr. Tibbles to me.

"Ah, that's Meg Por-," he's cut off by Dean skating in, music blaring through his headphones. I roll my eyes at my brother's behavior. Can't he cooperate for once?

"Showtime!" Dean yells.

"That guy's a teenage?" Coach looks flabbergasted at my brother. I know, I know it's shocking. He's huge.

"Don't you know, everything's on fire!" Dean sings, knocking some of the kids down. Please stop, please. His Morgan Park jersey, which matches mine, is ripped and the sleeves are gone.

"Uh, yeah, hormones," Mr. Tibbles nods, a disapproving look on his face. Kill me now.

"He's a goon," Coach glances at him as Dean shoves another kid down.

"C'mon Tex! Sing it with me!" Dean shouts as Dwayne, who looks horrified, shakes his head frantically. My reputation has gone down the toilet. Dean tosses a stick to Julie. "Here you go, sweetie."

Coach shakes his head slightly. "My kids don't play that kind of hockey." His attention is now on Mr. Tibbles and not my brother thankfully.

"I believe they're called 'enforcers', Gordan. When you play Iceland, you're gonna need him," Mr. Tibbles responds.

Dean picks up Ken and sets him on the goal. "Hey! My little man!" Dean skates over to me and makes a quick move toward me that would make anyone flinch. I just stand there, a dull expression on my face.

"How is she not scared of him?" Coach points at me and the exchange that just happened between myself and Dean.

"That's Meg Portman, his sister," I notice all eyes on me when he says that and I instantly curse Dean for causing a scene. "She's a strong shooter and a spectacular defensive asset."

Dean continues to cause havoc, and suddenly the goalie, Goldberg I think, skates over, yelling at everyone. The whole group starts fighting with everyone, while I hang back and avoid it.

"Not the fighting sort, huh?" A Texan accent rings out to me, and I remember the laughing incident that happened a few minutes ago. I turn around, and I'm greeted with the face of Dwayne, where I can finally see what he looks like. Which is anything but ugly.

He had auburn-brown hair that falls across his forehead, and his eyes are chocolate brown. His ears stick out slightly, but that makes him all the more cute. He has a round face and his lips are curved into a smile. "No, not really," I say, thinking of the yelling that I heard when my parents would fight.

"That's okay. Me either," He hold out his hand. "I'm Dwayne," he says, even though he knows I know already.

"Meg," I shake his hand before he pulls it away. "Sorry about my brother," I apologize for Dean, knowing he won't ever do it.

"It's alright. Besides, you shouldn't be the one apologizing for him," he answers. The group ends up near us, and suddenly I have a short dark-skinned boy, and a taller kid with strawberry blonde hair yelling in my face. I roll my eyes as the boys tell me off, but Dwayne calmly says to them, "Relax, alright. Just relax," as Coach blows a whistle.

"Everybody freeze!" Coach shouts, stopping the mass amount of fighting happening in the center of the ice. "Now, we didn't come here to fight! We came here to play hockey! We're Team USA, you represent your country!"

Mr. Tibbles smiles and nods, while standing next to Coach. "That's right!"

Coach glances at him before continuing, "Now I want you-,"

"To be all that you can be, right?" Mr. Tibbles shakes his fist around while Coach glares at him. "You gotta raise yourself up, guys." Mr. Tibbles stops when he sees Coach's face, causing us to laugh at them.

"Alright, let's start with a scrimmage," Coach tells us, raising his whistle to his mouth.

"Great, scrimmage," Mr. Tibbles blows his whistle, and I don't even know why he has one. "You heard your coach," he pauses. "Hey, you don't need me here. I've got an appointment anyway. I've got to see Miss McKay. She's the team tutor."

Mr. Tibbles starts walking off the ice. "Don," Coach calls, holding his hand out. "C'mon." Mr. Tibbles removes his whistle and places it in Coach's palm. "You'll get it back at the end of the school term," Coach says seriously, earning laughter from us. "Alright, Ducks. Show 'em what you got! Let's scrimmage!"