The Cocky Hockey Captain

Prologue ● Dreams of Coffee

The sound of my body hitting the ground was not enough to jolt me awake. The pain didn't, either.

It was the sound of gunshots what did.

In the span of maybe a minute I'd gone from standing up on my own two feet, lucid and alert to what was coming my way, to immersed in the deep rabbit hole of my mind. I couldn't tell you what was the trigger. The sounds all around me were as familiar as the smell of coffee in the morning. As familiar as mi papá saying he'd be late for dinner because of work.

Those were two things I was raised with. Having been born in a tropical country with the best coffee grain in the world, there hadn't been a single day without the aroma in my house. Of course, having been born in a what also was an oil country with a dad who was the CEO of an oil consulting firm, also meant I was used to seeing his face in picture more than in person. That morning, when everything changed, had been an exception.

I remember our maid woke up me up and helped me get ready for school. I walked out into the hallway, decked in my private school uniform as I chased the wafts of the dark drink. Guayoyo, we called it. Watered down coffee that by virtue of its quality did not lose its taste. Translucent amber in color, it was how mi mami preferred it. In the kitchen I saw my parents embracing and looking at each other like it was the first time. I was old enough to guess at what had maybe transpired beforehand, and I made a face. My dork older brother had the same idea, because I spotted him in the corner mock gagging just before tucking into his arepa con queso.

"Are you sure you don't want to drive together?" mami asked papá. "It's not a big detour from the kids' schools."

Papá shook his head and gave her a quick peck, laughing as my brother and I made sure they knew how gross we found them.

"No, it's okay, Carolina. I have a meeting early and I don't want to rush you and the kids."

I got distracted by our maid as she placed a plate with a small arepa for me. It had more cheese in it than it should, just as I liked it. I asked for a cup of coffee, just like I always did, and she smiled and patted my head as she ignored my request, just like she always did. Coffee is bad for kids, she told me once. In her point of view, kids already have too much energy.

I recall my dad kissing my brother's head and mine before he left. Some half an hour later we climbed onto mami's Ford Explorer and set out the familiar route. We dropped my brother off at his school first and then continued on the road to my school, all girls. It was farther down, but I had demanded to be enrolled in it. I couldn't stand the one boy I was forced to have in my life. My brother was gross, dirty and mean. It was unreasonable to expect that I put up with more of his kind. My parents had no problem with this; to them, it was one less thing to worry about.

And we seemed to have been without a worry until then. Or I had been. I lived on the fringe of a society with cancer that didn't seem to spread too close to me. It was contained, for other people to suffer living in one of the most dangerous cities of Latin America. Caracas. They'd still called it a franchise of heaven too long after it had become the gateway to hell.

I remember the motorcycle swerving out of nowhere, hitting the driver's corner. Mami and I screamed. I didn't for a second think we were in danger, instead I was afraid we'd hurt someone else. My mom stopped the car and opened the door, commanding me to stay put and not see. I couldn't, anyway. At that second my hands were too shaky to try to unbuckle myself. But I heard her asking, clear as day, if the man was okay.

But all I heard as a reply was a gunshot.

I jumped in my seat and screamed for my mom, the pop of the gunshot still ringing in my head. No answer.