Naeva Quinn
The slow walk home made me feel really nauseous, the boys had still not given me their permission to play but I wasn't going to let them think for long. How hard could hockey be? I got home, tip-toeing to my room window where I could sneak in, I slipped inside, careful to land softly on the carpet, and closed the window behind me. My jacket was stiff from frost, and cold mist clung to my body as though I had dragged the winter air inside with me.
Immediately I stepped further into the room, light flooded the room, I froze mid-step. My eyes adjusted, and there he was—my father, sitting in the chair by my desk, waiting. He didn’t raise his voice. He never did when he was disappointed. That was worse than any anger. His eyes, dark and steady, locked on me. “Where have you bee
