Trade.
Since I didn’t get a call from management, and I didn't get one from Evvy, I knew neither of us was shipping out. For sure my best friend would have phoned me right away if he were getting sent off to god knows where.
So if not us, then who?
The whole thing sucked. Most days, I enjoyed my job—especially the cheers of the crowd when I knocked a guy down on the ice—but I loathed trades. They were by far the worst part of playing a professional sport. At any given moment, my entire life could be uprooted. Within hours, I could be required to pack my crap and get my ass on a plane to a city I didn't know, with nowhere to live, a bunch of teammates I'd never played with before, and on top of all that–I would still be expected to give my very best performance on the ice. Sometimes that very same night.
Thank god it hadn't happened to me… yet. I reached out and quietly knocked on the wooden panel of the nearest row of wardrobes to prevent a jinx. I left Canada for a reason, and just the thought of getting traded to a team north of the border sent my terrified balls crawling up into my body.
On a deep inhale, I stiffened my spine and, after disrobing and hanging my suit in the first changing area, which consisted of a simple row of upright wardrobes, strode into the second changing area. No one wants their suit to smell like used, sweaty hockey gear, so everything is kept separate. Clad in only my boxer briefs, I padded into the actual locker room and approached my cubby, the one I use to store my gear and uniform and where I dress for practice and games.
Nearby, a small gathering of players huddled around a guy who—since I was staring at the guy’s back—I didn't recognize. I didn’t, however, miss the fact that whoever it was, was one tall motherfucker and had blond hair. What I did know, was that he wasn't one of my teammates, which meant he was new. From there it wasn't hard to put two and two together and figure out I was looking at the back of Unlucky Traded New Guy’s head.
Someone thumped me in the arm and I heard a familiar cackle.
“Ow! Shit, Evvy. What's your problem?” Ev isn’t exactly the gentle type. I grimaced and rubbed my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I caught him grinning like a lunatic.
Still smiling, and still creepy as fuck, Ev leaned in to conspiratorially whisper in my ear.
“Lookie who we got.” As Evvy said the words he tipped his head in the direction of Unlucky Traded New Guy. “It's your number one favorite person in the whole wide world,” he sang. “After me, of course.”
I narrowed my gaze and focused on the back of the big, dirty blond head that sat perched atop a super tall, super wide, super stacked body, and wracked my brain to figure out who the hell it could possibly be.
Almost as if Unlucky Traded New Guy felt me staring at him, he slowly twisted his thick neck until I got a good look at my brand new teammate.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I murmured, only not nearly as quiet as I thought, because Ev snickered, and at the same time, Bastard New Guy’s mouth curled into a sneer.
New Guy wasn’t the unlucky one. That particular prize went to me.
Because I was staring directly into the Cro-Magnon-like face of Rocco “Sasquatch” Calloway.
He’s my new teammate? What the ever-living-fuck? Why would they send that shithead here?
I dropped my chin to my chest and sighed.
Aw, fuck.
Last week, our best defenseman, first line player and one of the coolest guys on the team, Gordon Hatcher, broke his ankle. And yeah, in theory I knew they’d have to replace Gordie at some point, but never in my worst nightmares did I think his replacement would be Rocco Calloway.
The sour look on Calloway's face reflected my exact thoughts—basically, a summary of every single obscenity in the Urban Dictionary.
“St. Clair,” Calloway growled.
Great. Just great. Put a cherry on top of the shit sundae and call it a day.
In an attempt at awkward politeness, instead of walking up and socking the guy in the solar plexus like I was dying to do, I cleared my throat and remained calm-ish.
“Uh, hey Calloway. Does this mean you're one of us now?”
Twitch, twitch, twitch.
Dammit. I blinked in a futile effort to stop my spazzing eye. If I was gonna have to play with Sasquatch on a daily basis, I needed to try to make things a little less weird, right?
One thing I learned at an early age is that you don’t disrespect your teammates. They’re your family. Granted, it looked like we were about to be a big-ass fucking Sasquatch family, but still a family. The trade also meant the two of us wouldn't face each other on the ice anymore, which was kind of irritating. Punching Rocco Calloway was one of my favorite pastimes, plus I wouldn't get another chance to break the guy’s ribs.
Rocco Calloway, it appeared, held no such standards in keeping things civil. Likely due to the fact that less than a week after our fight in Atlanta, the one where Calloway knocked me out cold, we had our second epic rumble in DC. The one that went down right in front of Hot Blonde—a.k.a. she of the hideous taste in hockey players. The woman who currently haunted my dreams and left me with a perpetually chaffed dick from the never-ending need to rub one out.
“I’ll never be one of you, asshole,” Calloway spat as he took a step toward me. Naturally, the others caught on to the suddenly hostile environment, and being a bunch of immature brats, reverted to second graders and called out “ooooooooh” as Calloway puffed out his Sasquatch chest and stalked in my direction. He sported an expression that let me, and everyone else in the locker room, know he was itching to turn my face into an unrecognizable smear.
At six-foot-two, two hundred and forty pounds, I packed pure muscle and was in no way small. During a game, I have zero reservations extracting a little pain from someone as big as Calloway. Off the ice, well, that's another thing altogether. Going toe-to-toe, without the benefit of pads and skates that made me look bigger and taller, Rocco Calloway made me feel like the Keebler fucking Elf. The dude towered over me, his blond-haired, behemoth body, big enough to eclipse the sun.
Calloway came to a stop mere inches away and extended a thick, rock hard finger to stab me in the chest. I growled and fought the urge to snatch Sasquatch’s fat digit and snap it in half.
“You stay the hell out of my way and I'll stay out of yours, St. Clair.”
The familiar dark fury awoke from its slumber. Deep inside, it churned and pulsed as the pressure grew more intense by the millisecond. I growled again, but before I had the chance to lash out with one of my patented, highly insulting, and expertly wielded verbal slap downs, Rocco spun on his size sixteen heel and stomped off, then—
Everyone in the locker room, including me, sucked in a loud breath and cringed.
Holy shit! That was close.
Sasquatch had to have been beyond furious to make such a careless mistake. Idiot didn't look where he was going and almost stepped directly on the white and red Comets logo woven into the black carpet in the center of the room. At the last second, Calloway tottered on his tippy toes and took a clumsy leap to the side to narrowly avoid it.
Asshat. He almost broke the golden rule of hockey. The near miss of his big fat Sasquatch foot on the logo brought on another round of “oooooooohs” from my useless teammates. Not that Calloway didn't deserve it. Everyone, from old-timer to rookie, knew you didn't step on the team logo. Ever. That was peewee hockey 101 right there. I wouldn’t have minded lending a helping hand in giving the inevitable, and well deserved, beat down, had Calloway actually stepped on it.
I sighed and scratched my chest where I still felt his phantom finger jabbing into me. Too bad that beat down would have to remain a fantasy. Stupid Sasquatch reflexes.
Once Calloway left the locker room, I dropped onto the bench in front of my cubby, scrubbed my hands down my face, and groaned. That was when another of my jerk teammates decided it was the perfect time to kick me when I was down.
“He good addition to team, da?”
Next to me on th
e bench, Evvy silently laughed. Traitorous jerk’s shoulders shook and Ev covered his mouth with his hands. I stared up at Hajek and frowned at the goalie’s unwanted two cents.
“Yeah, fucking wonderful, Hazey. It's gonna be so awesome to skate with someone whose number one wish in life is for me to drop dead.”
Hazey’s face lit up. “Da, I agree. It shall be quite entertaining to watch.”
With that, Hazey, clueless as usual, turned and walked away. I heard him cackling like a hyena and realized Hazey might not be as clueless as I thought. Fucker. Evvy was no better, I suppose, my friend now bent in two, clutching his stomach as he burst into hysterics.
Ha-fucking-ha.
Entertaining for them, maybe. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to have anywhere near as much fun with Calloway around as the rest of my team.
Whatever. I suited up in home gear and ignored the ribbing. Eventually they would get bored of the St. Clair-Calloway rivalry and shut the fuck up. As a unit—minus Calloway, whose selfish ass must've already gone on ahead—we trudged through the tunnel to emerge onto the ice. Coach was in rare form, already barking out warm-up drills like Cujo on crack as fans trickled into the arena. When I snuck a glance over at Coach, I half expected to find foam dripping from the man's dangling jowls. A half-hour later, all red-faced and wild eyed, a rabid looking Coach shouted for us to get our sorry asses off the ice.
We gathered in the tunnel and waited for the game to start. I patently avoided the harsh glare aimed in my direction. It wasn't that I feared Calloway, it was that I feared I wouldn't be able to hold back. Once the rage overflowed, there was little that could get me to stop. Beating down my teammate would certainly get me ejected from the game. Or fired. My hands were completely tied, and not in a good way.
It sucked.
Kylie
I double checked my ticket stub and reread the seat number for my very first game in Atlanta. It wasn't as good as Rocco’s seats in DC, but I certainly had nothing to complain about. Like DC, it was in the front row. The problem was that it was on the opposite side of the ice from the players’ bench. Opposite from where I’d been sitting since I was thirteen years old, doing my homework in the arena while I waited for Rocco's game to begin. Also, the new location meant my seat was directly behind the penalty box.
Just perfect.
Now I'd have to listen to the nonstop, unique and colorful, curse-filled rants the players unleashed when they spent their big-boy version of a timeout in the bin. Not that foul language bothers me. My brother is a hockey player after all and I practically grew up at the rink. I figure I know every single possible swear word in English, a bunch in French, a handful in Russian, and a whole lot more in languages I couldn't even begin to guess at. I’ve been known to drop a swear or two myself now and then, so I couldn't care less about the cursing. I watched the games for one reason and one reason only, to support Rocco. It was not being seated up against the ice that bothered me. Especially since my brother tended to be prone to fighting.
To say Rocco had been upset when he got the call that he was traded would be the understatement of the twenty-first century. Rocco played for DC since he got drafted seven years ago. The memory of the day we moved from Minnesota and left the only house we'd ever known was as clear as if it happened yesterday. Rocco purchased his Georgetown condo with his signing bonus and we’d lived there ever since. Because I went from a family of four to being raised by my brother in a city thousands of miles away, I didn’t have time to grieve for my parents until Minnesota was gone. Moving to DC and leaving everyone I knew behind, made it that much more difficult to adjust. Moving again, this time to Atlanta, felt almost as traumatic.
When word of the trade came down, Rocco went bat-shit crazy. He was beyond livid. If he wasn't my brother I would have been seriously afraid of him, that's how angry he was. The look in Rocco's eyes could only be described as borderline murderous. The only way I got him to calm down and accept the trade—after he shouted he was going to quit the NHL—was to agree to move to Atlanta with him. Apparently, the thought of leaving his little sister to fend for herself in DC sent my overprotective brother into one of his patented, full-blown, uber-controlling freak outs. This time with a serious injection of flat-out rage over the unexpected trade.
To Rocco, it didn't matter that I was twenty-one and one semester from completing my journalism degree, or that most of my peers already lived on their own. Nope. My insanely uptight and overbearing big brother made it perfectly clear he wouldn't be going anywhere without me. After everything he sacrificed for my benefit over the years, I wasn't willing to let Rocco quit the NHL and ruin what he worked so hard to achieve over something as stupid as where I finished school. It didn't take any prodding on his part to get me to agree to the move. Luckily, my journalism advisor said I had enough core courses to get my degree. All I had to do to complete the remaining credits was find an internship in Atlanta.
Which was how I ended up at the Peach Dome, sans Nat, wearing a Comets jersey of all things. Just a generic one with no number on it, since they hadn't printed any with Rocco's name yet. How could they? He only got the call thirty-six hours ago and everything else happened in a such whirlwind I could barely remember. I spoke to the University while Rocco arranged to have our stuff packed and shipped as he began to search for a place to live. Temporarily, we were staying in a suite in the enormous hotel connected to the arena via an upscale shopping mall. The move was so sudden, I rushed around like a chicken with its head cut off and still only managed to pack a single suitcase. I was so frazzled, I forgot to bring my beloved hair straightener and my favorite pair of heels.
Resigned to making the best of it in Atlanta, I settled in my seat and tried to get a feel for Rocco's new home arena. The five-year-old Peach Dome was impressive, huge and modern with massive hi-def screens that hung over center ice. The seats were bright red in some sections, black in others, and as much as I missed DC and the familiarity, I had to admit these chairs were a lot more comfortable than the ones in the old TeleBank Arena.
After player introductions—during which I was stuck in the restroom, the line much longer than I thought it would be—then the national anthem, the sides took their positions and the puck dropped. Right from the start I knew the game would be exciting, if nothing else. The instant the tiny black rubber disc hit the ice, the game went from zero to Millennium Falcon hyperspace in two point five seconds. Zipping back and forth, up and down the rink, the players were streaks of color—red for Atlanta and teal for Charlotte.
To my surprise the fans in Atlanta were way more animated and into the games than those in DC. So much for the stereotyped genteel Southerner. If they existed, they weren't at the Peach Dome. It made me miss having Nat at my side. Atlanta fans shouted, clapped, cursed, roared with approval, booed their displeasure, and stayed wholly invested in the game from start to finish. Though it felt like swallowing glass shards and betrayal to Rocco's old team, even if it was only in my head, it might very well have been the most fun I’d had at a hockey game.
Rocco and one of the Charlotte players began to tussle a bit and my stomach dropped. The men battled hard for the puck, sticks and elbows flying everywhere, bodies crashing into the boards. Because I wasn't seated right up on the ice, I became frustrated. I couldn't get an up-close and personal view of the brawl, like I did for Rocco's last fight.
Just thinking about it made me frown. Rocco's last fight was with that cocky, sexy, jerk, Sebastien St. Clair. The Sinner. Even though I didn't have my ringside seat, I was close enough to read the name on the Charlotte player’s back without difficulty. It said… I squinted, then my eyes bulged.
Wait… no.
I blinked, knowing it was a mistake. Surely, I misread the name. After blinking a few more times, I waited for the men to spin around so I could read the Charlotte jersey again. When I did, my breath caught.
The guy’s name was… St. Clair?
Thoroughly confused, I racked my brain and
shuffled through my memories, trying to recall the name of the team Rocco played a few weeks ago in DC. The game where St. Clair and Rocco got in that horrific and bloody tussle. The one where Sebastien St. Clair's smug and stupidly handsome face got squished against the boards right in front of me. It couldn’t be…
That exact moment, the Charlotte player looked up and I found myself staring into a pair of crystal clear blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes. When I realized where I had seen those eyes, goose bumps broke out down my neck and arms. I scrambled to reach under my seat, blindly groping for the program an overeager usher shoved into my hands as I went through the turnstile. Flipping through the pages, I found the one with the Comets’ team roster. I quickly scanned the column and stopped on number nineteen. Just as I thought. Right there was a color picture of a man I vividly remembered. The one who winked at me in DC, all playful and super sexy with his big blue eyes. The jerk. After giving the photo a nice, leisurely once over—for research purposes only—and ignoring the way my skin flushed with prickly heat, I read the description.
•Sebastien St. Clair, number 19, age 26, 6’2”, 240 lbs, right-winger, born in Trois Rivières, Québec, Canada. Atlanta Comets.
So if St. Clair is listed on the Comets’ roster how could he possibly be fighting Rocco again, this time wearing a Charlotte jersey? Did St. Clair get traded at the same time as Rocco? I glanced back up at the ice. That didn't make sense, because—I looked back down at the program—Yep, Rocco's name was already on the Comets’ lineup. If they changed Rocco’s trade status, they certainly would have changed Sebastien St. Clair's.
I should've paid more attention to the visiting teams at all those games I attended instead of gossiping with Nat. While I examined the roster over and over, trying to make sense of everything, the fight ended and regular play resumed.
I peeked over the edge of the program. No one sat in the penalty box so it must've been a clean fight. I scanned the ice until I located the Charlotte player with the blue eyes and the number thirteen on his back. Almost as if I expected what I already knew to be fact to have somehow changed, I found myself shocked that it still said St. Clair above his number. Completely dumbfounded, I shook my head.
The Sinner Page 7