Author's Note: This story was requested by an anon on Tumblr. You guys just want me to torture poor Matthew some more. How could you?

Enjoy and please leave a review if you can! Reviews are my fuel. :D

Have you ever wanted something so bad it hurt? Ever got up at three o'clock in the morning and imagined it being so close you could pick it up and put it in the palm of your hand? Ever think about it all day and night—the whisper calling out from the far back of the stadium—come and catch me before it's too late?

What's the point of life if you can't have your dreams? If you can't have some kind of beacon guiding you a step closer to a better place each day? If you can't have something worth fighting for?

Since Matthew first learned how to walk, he has wanted to play hockey. He remembers dragging either Papa or Dad down to the rink every Saturday morning at the break of dawn, and before he ever knew how to skate, he would watch in awe as others glided down the ice. It was like they were floating on air.

It was magical.

Somehow, Matthew could always feel that the ice was where he was meant to be, and the minute he watched his first hockey game on TV, he knew he wanted to be just like those players in their oversized striped jerseys. It just clicked. He could see himself standing there among the rest of the team—a number on his back and fans cheering his name.

He remembers getting down on both knees in his parents' bedroom and begging them to sign him up for professional skating lessons, and after weeks and weeks, he'd finally convinced them. He learned how to make the ice an extension of himself—learned to float on it like he'd been watching professionals do for years.

Winter was always his favorite time of year. As soon as the pond beside the house would freeze over in mid-December, he would march outside with his skates and get Alfred to play hockey with him, except Alfred has never taken to the ice as naturally as he has. His brother is clunky in his movements—clumsy on his feet as he slips and slides over and over again, giving Matthew the upper-hand.

Matthew has tried to be his teacher, but it's a craft Alfred doesn't care to learn. Years later, he will realize that not everyone shares the same dreams. Some people search forever and ever to find their dream but never do. Perhaps it can sometimes be better not to know.

In high school, Matthew joins the hockey team. Dad doesn't want him to do it at first—he's afraid he'll get hurt, but Matthew tells him that not joining the team will hurt him even more. So, Dad can tell him as many horror stories as he wants about hockey players getting permanent brain damage, getting their coronary arteries slashed open, and breaking multiple bones, but none of that succeeds in swaying Matthew because you can't just give up on your dream whenever you want to and tell it no. It follows you and demands to be heard, no matter how hard you try to forget about it. Real dreams stick.

Thus, even Dad, who has seen countless athletic-related injuries in his years of experience working as a physician, surrenders and gives him permission to join the team at long last.

The four years that follow are fulfilling and beautiful and every other magnificent adjective one can come up with. Some days, Matthew stays late after practice or as late as he can get away with before the skating rink's personnel kick him out in order to improve his technique.

But when he gets to his senior year, suddenly everything becomes about college. His mind runs wild with the possibilities of what it would be like to be awarded an athletic scholarship from an amazing school that would allow him to continue playing hockey throughout his studies and potentially open the door to a future opportunity to play professionally.

What people don't tell you enough about dreams though, is that life can stomp all over them whenever it feels like it. It can be random—coincidental. Or maybe you're one of those people that believes everything happens for a reason. Matthew isn't. He just believes things happen, and you can't control them. It's a lottery, and most of the time, your number isn't the one that gets called. So, you can be anything you want to be as long as it's within the confines of the cards you're dealt.

How's that for a motivational poster?

It all starts at the end—the end of the season, that is. It's early March, which means it's high time for the regional tournament. It's the biggest game Matthew has ever had to play yet, and there will be talent scouts there. If he can prove himself tonight—if he can play better than he has ever played before and can show he has a raw gift and the drive to develop it, he can be guaranteed a full-ride to the university of his choice.

All he has to do is make sure he's at his top form.

That morning, he forces a protein shake down his throat for extra strength, cleans his skates, and blasts his "ready-to-take-on-the-world" music playlist on his iPod. Everything depends on this one night—but no pressure or anything.

"You're coming tonight, right, Papa?"

"I wouldn't miss it."

"And Dad's going to be there this time, too?"

"Oui, we will both be there to support you."

Support sounds a lot like "we're counting on you not to mess up," even if that's not how Papa intends for it to sound.

"Dude, you need to chill It's just one game," Alfred says as he pours himself a bowl of cereal. "Don't get your panties all twisted."

Of course Alfred doesn't understand. How could he? He's never dedicated his entire waking life to one dream.

The game is set to start right after school, and although Matthew attends seven classes that day, he can't recall a single word that is spoken in any one of them. He's too busy imagining himself skating to victory while he practices his internal pep talk. He's never been this anxious about anything in his life. His entire future is in the hands of just a few hours.

When the final bell of the day rings, he bolts out of his seat and heads straight for the rink, heart pounding and hands shaking like he's about to give a presentation in front of a thousand people. It's all a nervous blur, and there are butterflies going wild in his stomach when he changes into his uniform and joins the rest of the team for the pre-game motivational speech.

Their coach recycles the same words he said at last year's final game, insists they have fun above all else (yeah, right), and then they're off and making their way onto the ice, skates scraping softly against the smooth, glassy surface.

The crowd erupts with noise, and Matthew has to battle the urge to vomit. He doesn't even try to spot his family in the crowd—doing so would definitely make him puke. It's as though the whole world has suddenly dropped itself onto his shoulders. Everything feels heavy—his shoulder-pads, his skates, even the air.

The buzzer goes off, and he works his way across the ice like it's second-nature. He has practiced so often that this is an art form to him. He plays a forward position—always has. He can predict what the other players will do just by the placement of their feet and their posture—can pick out who will dive for the puck too late or make a poor pass.

What he doesn't predict, however, is that another player will bash into his side and slam him against the stands so hard he sees stars. His body ricochets against the stanchion by the opposite team's bench, and there's a horrific bang of noise. He swears something rattles in his head upon impact, and his ears begin to ring as he loses his footing on his right skate and falls back-first onto the ice. The air in his lungs gets knocked out of him, and before he can attempt to move, a third player fails to stop his momentum and crashes into him a second time, accidentally hitting him in the face with his hockey stick.

He thanks his protective gear for taking at least some of the brunt of the collision for him and tries to stand up, only to become aware of a burning, excruciating pain that radiates around his hip and chest. Within seconds, he collapses, causing the crowd to gasp with concern. It's like there's lava running under his skin and his muscles have been beaten with a hammer. He doesn't dare to try to get up again.

Hardly a minute into the game, and he can already hear the sound of his dreams whooshing past him as the talent scouts undoubtedly shake their heads and probably point and laugh at how much of a fool he is.

It feels like he lies there for an eternity, arms curled around his chest as a silent scream passes his lips. He has never been in this much pain, and his heart starts pounding in fear as his vision gets blurry. He looks up at the bright lights above him and thinks maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die right here and now—at least he'd be spared from experiencing further embarrassment.

The game stops, the crowd goes silent, and he swallows thickly, hoping this is all a nightmare. He'll wake up in his warm bed any minute and laugh about how screwed up his subconscious mind is.

Everything he has ever worked for is gone, just like that.

"Matthew!"

"Sir! Get off the ice!"

"I'm his father!"

He knows that voice. Within seconds, Dad is kneeling beside him, green eyes wide with worry as he appears in his field of view. "Matthew, love? Can you say something?"

"B-Broken," he groans out in response, coughing from the ache in his chest. Everything is broken—his dreams, his plans, and probably all two hundred and six bones in his body. Unable to protect himself from the emotion clawing its way up out of his gut, he lets out a sound that is probably a sob and cringes when a number of tears fall from his eyes.

"Okay, okay," Dad mutters, hands jittering even though he's usually able to keep his cool at moments like this. "Hold still...No, no, don't sit up! What did I just say?" he chides, keeping a steady hand against Matthew's chest.

The warmth of Dad's touch makes him feel a dozen times better already, like someone is pulling him up from rock bottom and wrenching him out of the darkness. It's the last straw needed to make him burst into a waterfall of tears and before long, he's wailing.

"Shh, shh, poppet," Dad says, desperately trying to soothe him. "It's all right."

"MATTIE!"

He lolls his spinning head to the side and sees an ashen-faced and terrified Alfred come rushing to join Dad's side. Papa is right behind him.

"Oh, God. Are you alive, bro? Jesus Christ, man. That looked awful!"

"Mon chou! Are you all right?"

Dad glares at the two of them and barks, "Stop it! You're frightening him! Give him some room…Matthew, I'm just going to check something. Don't move."

That's never a sentence he enjoys hearing Dad say. He watches through watery eyes as his father pulls up his jersey and places his fingers against his right hip, and instantly, he screams out in pain, sweat cropping up on his forehead. He's surprised he hasn't fainted yet.

"Don't kill him, Dad!" Alfred cries out, afraid to get too close.

"Shhhh, it's okay," Dad croons, ignoring Alfred. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls for help, keeping his calming hand on Matthew's chest. "Yes, I need an ambulance at the ice skating rink between Hamilton and Sixth Avenue. My son was in a hockey accident and can't walk… Otherwise responsive and conscious, yes…Thank you."

An ambulance? Please, no.

Dad puts down the phone and sighs, regaining some composure. "Just hold on, love."

"D-Dad, it hurts," he says helplessly, and even the heaving breaths of his cries become painful.

"I know, my boy. Help is on the way."

It's then that Matthew's coach chooses the wrong time to approach them and says, "We need to get him off of the ice."

"That's not going to happen until a stretcher is available. He can't stand, and he can't be moved any other way, or we run the risk of worsening his injuries," Dad says firmly, leaving no room for dissent.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, now kindly allow me to do my job."

The coach slumps his shoulders, apologizes, and walks away, too intimidated to offer a helping hand.

Alfred smirks and punches Dad in the shoulder playfully. "Good work. You're pretty scary when you're angry."

Dad narrows his eyes, unamused, and turns his full attention back to Matthew. "I'm going to take off your helmet now, love. Stop me if it causes you any pain."

The helmet slides easily up and off his head, and that's when Matthew realizes his nose is wet. He reaches up a hand to wipe at it, but Dad stops him midway and pulls his hand down again.

"Don't touch it. Your nose may be broken. Breathe through your mouth for now…That's it. Does your head hurt?"

"Yes."

Dad clicks his tongue and doesn't seem the least bit happy with this news. "Look straight up at me…Good," he murmurs gently before pulling up each of Matthew's eyelids in turn and flashing a light into his eyes.

"Oww, oww, oww!" Matthew whines, gnashing his teeth, and Alfred starts rocking around restlessly on his heels, wanting to do something to help.

"Mon Dieu. Arthur? Is he going to be all right?"

Dad nods encouragingly at Papa's question and carefully dabs at Matthew's nose with a handkerchief. "Does your shoulder hurt as well?"

"I have to finish the game," Matthew mumbles, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as he evades the question. Yes, his shoulder is killing him, and his ears are still ringing.

"Absolutely not. You're in no condition to continue. You're in need of multiple x-rays, a CT scan of your head, and rest."

"This was my one chance," he pleads, tears rushing down his face. This is a battle he knows he can't win, but he wants to put up a fight anyway. "I may never get an opportunity like this again."

"Your health comes first. You won't be doing anything until these injuries of yours are checked over."

"But—!"

"No, Matthew. That's my final decision…I'm going to feel your abdomen now. Let me know if anything hurts or feels tender."

Another sob escapes him, and Papa rubs his left leg, trying in vain to cheer him up.

"W-what's wrong with me? Why can't I stand up?"

What if he can never play hockey again? What if—?

"Any pain when I press here?" Dad continues, staying focused as he pushes a hand against the right side of Matthew's stomach.

"No… Dad, what's going to happen to me?" he whispers through gritted teeth.

Dad purses his lips, grabs Matthew's wrist to check his pulse, and says, "You likely have a contusion on your hip—commonly referred to as a hip pointer. Generally, it isn't dangerous, but it can cause a great deal of pain and make it difficult to walk. I'm more concerned about the possibility of a fracture or a broken rib…Take in a deep breath through your mouth."

He does as he's asked, but his tears increase in number, and he starts shaking with fear.

"Shhh, shhh," Dad hushes him again, smoothing his hair back carefully. "It's okay, you're doing just fine, my boy…Can you cough for me? Does that hurt?"

Matthew coughs as asked and shakes his head.

"Excellent," Dad murmurs before softly laying both of his hands on Matthew's chest so that his fingers form a W-shape. "Take another deep breath."

Immensely curious, Alfred leans in and asks, "Uhh, what are you doing?"

"Checking for a fractured rib or collarbone," Dad explains, brows furrowed as he tries to concentrate, "and ruling out any damage to his lungs…Everything seems fine. Francis, find out whether that ambulance is here yet, if you wouldn't mind."

Papa hurries off, and now it's just Dad and Alfred that are hovering over Matthew, equally concerned.

"Hey, Mattie, I have a really solid knock-knock joke. Wanna hear it?" Alfred asks.

"No."

"Well, I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Knock-knock."

Matthew groans and shuts his eyes, dizzy. Someday, he will appreciate his brother's attempts at lightening the mood, but not today. It's too soon. "Who's there?"

"Cows go."

"Cows go who?"

Alfred laughs softly and says, "No, silly, cows go moo."

Against his will, Matthew opens his eyes, cracks a smile, and chuckles. "You're such an idiot."

"A knock-knock joke a day keeps the doctor away, bro," Alfred insists, resting a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "You'll be good as new in a little while. Right, Dad?"

Dad nods his head and smiles, pleased with Alfred's attempt at comedy. "Everything will be just fine."

"See, bro? You heard it from the expert himself—you're gonna be okay. Hang in there…Here they come with the stretcher, Dad."

"Step to the side for a moment, Alfred," Dad says as the EMTs arrive—two young men. He summarizes the night's events for them, gives a quick background of Matthew's medical history, and then helps them lift Matthew onto the stretcher, minding his head. "Suspected hip pointer, possibly fractures of his nose and shoulder, and a grade two concussion with a post-traumatic migraine."

He's concussed? That's news to him, but it makes sense. He groans again as he starts to get rolled off the ice, and Alfred tails them, never letting him leave his sight the entire time.

"Matthew? How is your head feeling now?" Dad asks him, and the question sounds slurred to his ears.

"Mrrugh…"

Dad taps his healthy shoulder lightly, not willing to let him be just yet. "Try to stay awake. I know you're tired, but you can sleep later…Stop, lads, he's going to be sick. Turn him onto his left side."

Matthew feels himself get rolled over by two pairs of gloved hands but has no say in the matter. A moment later, his head is hanging over the edge of the stretcher, and Dad is holding him as he throws up.

"It's all right...Alfred, go and wait with Papa for now and meet us at the hospital," Dad says when he sees Alfred grimace and involuntarily gag at the sight. "Matthew will be fine."

Alfred hesitates and wants to stick around, but then Matthew retches again, and he takes that as his final cue to leave, too squeamish to stay. He's notorious for having sympathy pains and passing out upon seeing too many bodily fluids, and the last thing they need is for him to start losing his lunch, too.

"Better?" Dad asks, rubbing his upper back.

They start moving again, and before he knows it, he's being put into the back of an ambulance. One of the EMTs stays by his side while the other gets behind the wheel.

Dad, meanwhile, sits on a little bench beside the stretcher and holds his hand, trying to offer some comfort. Except, what is he going to do? There's nothing he can say to reverse time and make things better again. He can't magically help him back onto his feet again within the next few minutes. All he can do is sit there and try to be reassuring on some level.

"It's going to be all right," Dad says for what feels like the millionth time, and Matthew wants to hit something because it's not going to be all right. Everything is ruined. "I'm sorry."

Those two words break Matthew more than any physical force ever could. They are words of surrender.

The EMT opposite Dad frowns, vigilantly starts peeling off Matthew's gear and his shirt, and says, "Stay strong, bud. Sports injuries are the worst."

Stay strong? All he can think about is the bang of the collision and how he crumpled down to the ice like a sinking ship.

"Bloody—" Dad suddenly hisses, cutting himself off before more colorful words can escape his mouth. He's staring, bug-eyed, at Matthew's shoulder, and when Matthew looks over to see why, a giant splotch of red and purple bruising greets him. Luckily, he can't see the full extent of how bad it is.

"Is it dislocated?" he asks, scared.

"No, but—" Dad stops himself, running a hand over the swelling. He doesn't elaborate, which usually isn't a good sign.

"How bad?"

Dad is still gawking at the injury. He doesn't say a word and chooses to ever-so-delicately lay an icepack on it.

"How bad?" Matthew asks again, waiting for a real answer.

Dad purses his lips for a moment and finally mutters, "Bad."

Matthew feels his blood become cold, and the color drains from his face. That's Dad-talk for "you can forget about playing hockey for a long time." It means this isn't some minor injury he'll recover from within the week.

When they reach the hospital and he gets wheeled into the ER, his mind is only present for half of what goes on. After some waiting, a nurse and a doctor come in to take stock of the damage, and there is talk of "could be a proximal humerus fracture, but we won't know until we get an x-ray" and "let's get a CT scan of his head, too, and an x-ray of that hip." By far, the most frightening snippet of the conversation is "His nose is broken and will have to be set, but I don't want to torture him right now while he's this anxious."

As if he won't be more anxious about it later! Little does he know, that's more doctor-talk for "we'll give him something to calm him down in a while." So, he ends up earning himself a generous dosage of valium along with painkillers. Against his will, his racing thoughts about what a failure he is and how he'll never amount to anything because he'll never be able to play hockey again are zapped right out of him. He is left feeling hollow. No sadness. No anger. No anything. Maybe that's for the best.

"That's it, just relax. You'll get some imaging done and then you can see Papa and Alfred, all right?"

"Dad…" Matthew hiccups, and even though his brain has been lulled, his body is still stuck in grief. "I messed up."

Dad embraces him carefully so as not to cause him any additional pain, and whispers, "No, you didn't mess up. Accidents happen. Athletes get hurt sometimes, and it can happen to anyone. It's not your fault."

"But I failed my team and the talent scouts."

"Your team just wants you to be safe and sound again. As for the talent scouts, they can bugger off. They wouldn't know talent if it struck them in the face," Dad grumbles, and Matthew has to let out a noise that resembles a laugh at the last part of that sentence. "There will be other opportunities, love. I can promise you that. Life is full of chances, and this won't be your last."

"How can you be sure?"

"I've been living on this planet for longer than I will admit, so I can speak from experience. Don't worry about your next step for now. Let's just focus on making you well again, and it will all fall into place."

Dad still thinks everything happens for a reason.

And he's wrong.