The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers Book 1)

by Heather C. Leigh

  Why couldn’t I ever stand up to him?

  “Promise me you won’t ever do that again?”

  I blinked to clear away the tears. Mistake. When Rocco came into focus, his devastation and distress were as plain as day. My stomach cramped at the sight. I’d take anger any day of the week. Rocco wasn’t angry. No, my selfless, generous, well-meaning brother was hurt. Because of my thoughtless actions. My possibly, maybe, a little bit deliberate thoughtless actions. It’s not that I specifically set out to be reckless, it always just kind of happened.

  Except, deep down, hidden in a place no one will ever find, I know I wanted Rocco to catch me doing something stupid, if only because subconsciously, I needed to scrape up what little bit of control over my life that I could. And with Rocco around, the only thing I could control was acting out of control.

  “I won’t.” The lie rang hollow in my ears. I ducked my head, knowing if I continued to look at my brother and that pitiful, dejected expression, I’d fall to pieces.

  “Thank you.”

  In the span of the next breath, I found myself wrapped in my brother’s arms, cheek pressed against his broad chest.

  Protected.

  Loved.

  Smothered.

  Caged.

  “I love you, Ky.”

  Throat burning, I wound my arms around Rocco’s waist. There would be plenty of time to shatter later. At that moment, all that mattered was making my brother happy and wiping away that heartbroken look.

  What did my own happiness matter? It’d been so long since I’d had anything that resembled a life of my own, I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

  Seb

  A blue and yellow streak flashed in my peripheral vision as I flew down the ice, the colors tempered by a familiar, hazy red veil. Rocco Calloway. The near murderous fury that built up in the week since Rémy’s injury sat like a hard, heavy ball of lead in my gut.

  I quickly calculated speed and distance. The big bastard would reach the puck first. Didn’t bother me. New plan devised, I grinned around my mouthguard.

  Perfect.

  Calloway made the mistake of his life the night he illegally board checked my bother. Just like me, Rém plays right wing, only I play for the Atlanta Comets and he plays for the Charlotte Rush. Our identical position on the ice meant we both faced Calloway when either of us played against the DC Kings. Armed with righteous fury and a thirst for revenge, I wouldn’t go down as easily as my brother.

  I shook it off to concentrate on the present and not the video footage I tortured myself with, watching it over and over—Calloway slamming into Rémy so hard it cracked one of his ribs. To add insult to injury, the prick only got two fucking minutes for that bullshit move, though later the NHL fined him for targeting. Still, not nearly enough in my opinion. That left it up to me to even it up.

  We were on my home turf in Atlanta, and as the old saying goes, “payback is a bitch.” Calloway was about to get his comeuppance, St. Clair style.

  “Sebby, what are you doing?”

  I ignored my teammates as I flew past the bench. It’s not in me to give a single voluntary shit that technically speaking, I’m not an enforcer. Never stopped me from inflicting a little damage here and there. Head-butting, slashing, throwing a few elbows… I can’t help it. I need it like I need air. The violence. The high I get when I lash out and hurt someone. It makes me a head case and I know it, but if I don’t have a way to release the snarling knot of pent-up fury that made itself at home inside me, I’d lose my goddamn mind.

  The anger would build, its intensity ratcheting higher and higher, growing like a physical presence and burning my insides to ash, until I had to let it out. If I didn’t, it would burst free and take matters into its own hands. And that, I couldn’t have. Of course I made exceptions and set the fury free on purpose, such as when an overzealous asshat broke my brother’s rib.

  And when I it loose, all bets were off.

  It didn’t matter that Rocco Calloway stood roughly the size and shape of Bigfoot. I certainly didn’t give a shit that the gargantuan defenseman is not only bigger than me, but that Calloway actually is an enforcer, and arguably the most vicious one in the NHL. Fury isn’t rational. The second my brother’s rib snapped, my course was mapped out, the future unavoidable.

  And there we were. The future became the present.

  When I got like that, my rage at mushroom cloud proportions, only two things could calm me down, fucking or fighting. Since I was already at the arena, geared up and on the ice, fucking was off the list. That left fighting.

  My lizard brain had already downshifted into fight mode. That illegal body-checking piece of shit more than deserved whatever I dished out. Hell, Calloway probably expected a fight. It wouldn’t be the first time we dropped gloves, but it was the first time—for me anyway—that my motives went way beyond the game of hockey.

  I was enraged.

  Sasquatch should have thought twice before injuring my brother in such a bullshit and cowardly manner. Body-checking Rémy at full speed after the whistle was hands down, without a doubt, the number one way to land at the top of my shit list. The crack of Rémy’s rib flicked a switch that turned me from my usual semi-rational self, to a slave to my emotions, namely, anger.

  I pushed off my back blade and skated toward Calloway, no delusions that what I was about to do would catapult the Calloway/St. Clair rivalry over the walls of Hockeyland to land smack dab in the center of Personalville.

  Bring. It. On. Sasquatch was about to get schooled.

  I watched Calloway reach out with his stick to pull in the puck as it slid along the boards near the crease. Like a raging bull set loose on the streets of Pamplona, I gathered speed and, without slowing, charged directly into my target, hip-checking the ever-living shit out of Rocco Calloway. A deafening crash followed when the impact sent us both into the boards. I hit Calloway so hard my teeth rattled along with the divider. The reverberations rippled outward and shook the high boards halfway to the center line.

  The force with which we slammed into the wall, Calloway sandwiched between me and the boards, should have knocked the air out of my lungs, but because according to most people I’m a bit insane, I grinned. Calloway might be strong, but his size made him slow—okay, not slow per se, but slower than me—and because of that, Sasquatch struggled to stay on his feet while he fought to keep the puck on his tape. Idiot didn’t realize I wasn’t after the puck… yet. He would figure it out soon enough.

  I checked him again, this time throwing an elbow into Calloway’s throat while I spewed a bunch of crap, in English and French, each taunt specifically chosen to rile the guy up.

  “Ta copine a sucé ma bite. Fucking pussy. Can’t take a little hip action? Such a shame. Your girlfriend loved my hip action last night when she was swallowing my cock.” I smirked around my red mouthguard. “Then she screamed my name until she passed out.”

  To my great amusement, like the silly cartoons Rémy and me watched as kids, you know, the ones where a light bulb flicks on over the character’s head when he catches on to something? Calloway grimaced and the gears clicked into place. I could practically see the glowing bulb hovering over his helmet.

  Finally with the program, Sasquatch?

  It seemed Calloway’s pea brain caught up. He knew my vicious attack had zero to do with the small black rubber disc trapped between our skates. I saw the exact moment Calloway put two and two together. Behind his visor, a spark of anger lit up his near-black eyes. Unfortunately for my plan, his reaction was a big fat disappointment. The guy did nothing. No payback, no cursing, no hitting. I was itching for a fight, lay one right at his big fat feet, and he wasn’t interested? I scowled. Calloway, the bastard, ignored me and turned his attention back to the game.

  I lost track of the puck, too busy pouting over my failed attempt to instigate a fight. Sasquatch had no such issues and took full advantage. He threw his stupidly enormous elbows up and expertly jostled me right out o
f his space. Calloway had to know I was out for blood because of what he did to Rémy, so of course the jerk refused to be manipulated into a brawl.

  At least, not easily.

  I had my ways.

  The swell of rage that began the sequence of events that led up to that very moment wouldn’t dissipate on its own. Wouldn’t be satisfied until I heard the sweet, sweet sound of one of Calloway’s ribs cracking, preferably in half so he’d get benched for the next four to six weeks, just like Rémy. Maybe poke a lung.

  Quick as a viper, I struck and jammed my stick between Calloway’s legs, only instead of snagging the puck, I yanked back… hard, illegally hooking Calloway’s skate and sending Sasquatch and his ugly mug crashing face first onto the ice. As a single unit, the Atlanta crowd leapt to their feet and let out a loud roar. Shouts and cheers echoed throughout the arena, fans chanted my name along with a beautiful chorus of, “Fight, fight, fight…”

  Then… chaos.

  The leaden ball of rage was set free, and the accompanying release was so satisfying it felt almost orgasmic.

  Fuck, I love this game.

  The burst of adrenaline. The unleashing of the fury and frustration I kept in check since Rémy’s injury. The joy and freedom as I snatched back control of my emotions. The glorious rush of power achieved through savagery and pain. Somewhere amongst the cacophony, I heard the ref’s piercing whistle, but what the fuck ever.

  My focus was singular. Break Calloway’s ribs.

  Colors merged as players from both teams surrounded us, the red and black of my team blurring with the blue and yellow of DC. Sasquatch pushed to his skates and—fuck, that bastard is tall—glared down at me. His jaw muscles ticked, his massive chest heaved, and those black, fathomless eyes shone with raw hatred.

  I never felt more alive.

  I had Calloway on the hook. Now to reel him in. I mouthed my next words so only Calloway saw them. “Bring it on asshole.”

  I don’t know why, but that simple sentence worked like a charm. The everyday obscenity somehow crossed whatever line of restraint Calloway had and the guy was ready to blow. The guy was fired up, about to hurtle head first into my waiting hands. He snarled like an animal and chucked his gloves and stick to the ice. I did the same.

  Showtime.

  Calloway surged forward, but I anticipated his move. In a single smooth motion, I ducked sideways, snagged his blue and yellow sweater in one hand, and yanked the guy’s shocked face into the waiting fist of my other. The blow broke the thin skin of Calloway’s brow, splitting it open. Blood burst from the gash and trickled into his eyes. Unleashing a ferocious growl of my own, I planted both palms on Calloway’s chest and shoved him, satisfied the punch rang his bell hard enough to stun the guy for a few seconds, which would give me the opportunity to pummel his ribcage.

  I grinned.

  Redemption is mine!

  Oh crap.

  Maybe not.

  Calloway was made of stronger shit than I remembered. The brute was hardly phased by my knuckle-sandwich, which threw a wrench into my plans. Calloway caught me off guard and knew it. A left hook flew out of nowhere and smashed directly into the exposed area near my temple, right above my cheekbone and just below the lip of my helmet. I dropped like a stone, out cold before my back hit the ice.

  Fucker.

  Stunned, my eyes fluttered open. Merde, my head hurt. I held my breath as the world swam back into focus. For a brief moment, I expected to see the stained acoustical tile ceiling of the institution. Instead, I took in the familiar sight of the steel crossbeams and rows of lights that hung from the roof of the Atlanta Peach Dome.

  As I slowly returned to the land of the living, skull buzzing from the blow, I heard the scrape of skates. The sound got closer and closer, unfortunately, my brain was too rattled to react. Though I knew what was coming, I couldn’t scrounge up the energy to shield myself as some jerkoff snowed me. Tiny chunks of frozen water shot into my ears, eyes, mouth, and down the neckline of my sweater.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to rise and shine?”

  Hajek. Maudit bâtard.

  With a wince, I struggled into a sitting position and unsnapped the strap of my helmet. I probed my throbbing cheek and eye socket. It hurt, but the bones felt like they were intact. I wiped the ice from my face and glared at my teammate.

  “Fuck you and your little snowstorm, Hazey.”

  Bruno Hajek, our goalie, can never resist adding insult to injury. First, the jerk snows a teammate when he’s down. Then has the nerve to poke my neck with the working end of his huge-ass goalie stick. Not that Hazey’s actions are in any way surprising. Pretty much every goalie I ever met proved to be more than a few twists short of a slinky. Not that I’m in any position to judge. In no universe can I claim sanity. Hell, I wouldn’t even try.

  “Get up, lazy. You have date with penalty box now,” Hazey said in his heavy Eastern European accent. A chunk of ice slid down my back and melted into my waistband. I winced.

  “Shit. Hazey, you asshole. Vas te faire.” I almost always cursed in my native Québécois, but I tried to mix in some English so my teammates would know when I insulted them.

  I sat on the ice and took in my surroundings. My gaze landed on a bulging-eyed, red-faced ref. He stood at my feet with his arms crossed and gave me a harsh, disapproving look. Whatever. It’s not as though I haven’t received hundreds of those exact same looks from my father over the years.

  Next to the furious ref, who appeared about one heartbeat away from having a massive coronary, Rocco Calloway leaned on his stick. Going by his expression, I’d say he was fuming mad. The dark bruise and open cut on Calloway’s brow along with the grisly remnants of a half-assed attempt to wipe away the blood, only added to the menacing look.

  After the guy efficiently, and humiliatingly, took me down, I expected Calloway to act all smug.

  Course not. The big bastard never gave me the courtesy of doing what I expected him to do. Unpredictable motherfucker. Sasquatch zoomed right past Smug Station, pulled into Enraged Enclave, unpacked his shit, and put his feet up on the coffee table.

  Me and Calloway have exactly one thing in common; neither of us are known for our sweet personalities. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Calloway took my attack personally. It was personal. It wasn’t the first time we tangled on the ice and it wouldn’t be the last, though it was the first time I attacked him on behalf of Rémy. We went head to head every time our teams played, and if nothing else, I’m a master at mouthing off. I had a way of expertly poking and prodding until I worked out a player’s weak spot, then I scraped and picked the wound raw until my opponent snapped.

  Being a bastard is my specialty, after all. That’s how I earned the nickname, The Sinner.

  Dizzy from having my brain bounced around my skull like a rubber band ball, it took a minute to climb to my feet. One of my considerate teammates—I’m looking at you, Hazey—already gathered my gloves and stick and handed them off. I accepted the gear and skated toward the box to serve my five minutes, which would have been totally worth it if I actually managed to snap one of Calloway's ribs, which I didn't. Instead, I was the one seeing stars while Sasquatch, though a bit bruised and bloodied, remained upright and in the game.

  At least the crowd didn't disappoint. They love me and my tendency toward fisticuffs, and cheered as I wobbled across the ice. Like any good hockey player, I ignored the pain and grinned.

  Totally worth it.

  Waving my stick high, the spectators roared with delight. I had to hand it to them, hockey fans creamed their pants over a good fight, especially in Atlanta. It was why the violent moments in a hockey game were the perfect way to release my anger. Either that or a good, hard fuck.

  And if the fans wanted action, who was I to deny them?

  “St. Clair! Get your goddamn ass over here.” I turned to see Coach V's upper body dangling over the boards opposite the penalty box. A deep frown added extra creases to the man's loose j
owls.

  I sighed and took a detour from the sin bin across the ice to stop next to the bench. Flustered and with his tie flipped upside down and thinning hair standing on end, Coach Frank Vernon gestured me to come closer. The furious expression on the man's face would have been comical if it weren't directed at me. The shame at being on the receiving end felt worse than usual, especially after such an epic fail at revenge. Coach’s cheeks and neck were flushed a shade of red so dark I’d feel confident calling it purple.

  Coach clenched his jaw so hard I watched, fascinated, as the tendons in his throat twitched. Unlike the angry ref, who in retrospect I realize was merely pissed, Coach was literally one blown gasket away from a massive heart attack.

  “Yeah, Coach?”

  Coach growled, his struggle to hold back from berating me up one side and down the other obvious, though I had no doubt that would come in due time.

  “Get your fucking ass in the locker room, you idiot.”

  "But I'm fine, Coach. I swear."

  “St. Clair,” Coach inhaled through his teeth. “Don't. Fucking. Test. Me.” He stabbed a thick finger into my chest pads. “That little stunt you pulled ended with you taking a helluva hard wallop up to your even harder head and now you're skating like a goddamn drunk. You're done.” Coach shoved his fat thumb over a shoulder toward the tunnel. “Go see the doc for concussion protocol. Now.”

  Pulled from the game? My eye was no happier than me.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch…

  Defeated, I sagged as my left eye spazzed out. Experience taught me there was no point arguing. Not when Coach used his patented “don't mess with me” voice, a voice aimed at me more often than most of my teammates. Simmering, I stomped off the ice and down the tunnel to the changing room, which would have made a much more menacing picture without the skates and pads that made me waddle like a penguin with a stick up its ass. By the time I stripped off my gear and took an efficient three-minute shower, the doc was ready and waiting by my cubby.