The Sinner

by Heather C. Leigh

  I don't get it. St. Clair is still with Atlanta yet he's also with Charlotte.

  A streak of red flew past my seat and the light behind the Charlotte goalie flashed red. The loud buzzer echoed throughout the arena. As a single unit, the crowd surged to their feet and cheered as the announcer's voice boomed over the PA system.

  “Goal, number nineteen, Sebastien St. Clair. Time of goal, seven minutes, thirty-two seconds of the first period. This is St. Clair's thirtieth goal of the season, putting him on track to set a team record for most goals in a single season.”

  My body moved faster than my brain. Without consciously doing so, I leapt to my feet with the other fans and craned my neck. In the swarm of red and black I located number nineteen. And there it was. “St. Clair” stitched over a one and the nine. He skated in a circle in front of the net, hands and stick over his head as his teammates jumped all over him and slapped their gloves on the top of his helmet.

  No way. Two St. Clairs? How did I not know this?

  While the rowdy crowd continued to go berserk over the goal, I sat back down and flipped the program to the Charlotte roster. Halfway down the list I found him. Wow. The man in the photo next to the player's profile definitely held a resemblance to Sebastien St. Clair, but there were subtle differences. For example, he had dirty blond hair and somehow looked… kinder than his brother. It was in the eyes. Even though they’re the exact same intense, bright blue shade as his brother’s, they appeared less jaded, less hostile. Less angry. At some point, something hardened the elder St. Clair. Something that didn't touch the other. I looked past the picture to read the bio.

  •Rèmy St. Clair, number 13, age 21, 6’1”, 230 lbs, right winger, born in Trois Rivières, Québec, Canada. Charlotte Rush.

  Ohmygod. Two of them. The brother is young, and probably new to the NHL. But more important, how had I failed to put two and two together? After that gruesome show and infuriating wink he gave me in DC, I should have remembered the game was played against Atlanta, which meant I should have realized the assholey Sebastien St. Clair was one of Rocco's new teammates. For a future journalist, I felt mighty unobservant making such a big gaffe.

  Mid-chastise, an ear-piercing whistle stopped the game, and I glanced up from the program. The two refs and the two linesmen huddled at center ice, probably sorting out a penalty. I used the break in action to pull out my phone and quickly Googled the St. Clair brothers. Two seconds into my search, the announcer broke my concentration.

  “Penalty, Atlanta. Number nineteen, Sebastien St. Clair. Two minutes, hooking. Ten forty-four of the first period. Power play, Charlotte.”

  The crowd booed and did so loudly and enthusiastically, protesting the call. Hmph, of course it was Sebastien St. Clair. Typical. Except for noting the name of the player, I paid zero attention to whatever else the announcer said. I was too busy holding my breath and scrunching down in my seat in an effort to look as small as possible, because the sexy as sin, penalty-loving jerk in question was skating in my direction.

  When St. Clair stepped into the box, it highlighted just how close he was. The back of the penalty box, and the tall sheet of plexi that separated it from the crowd, stood less than two feet from my chair and, oh crap, he turned and stared at me the exact moment I stared at him. St. Clair’s eyes widened comically and his gaze fell to my Comets jersey. That wicked smirk of his emerged—the provocative one I remembered all too well—and when he raised a dark brown in question, I knew he was mocking my shirt. Embarrassed, I crossed my arms over my chest.

  Ugh!

  The guy was so infuriating! He had an unnerving, and totally annoying, expression of approval on his stupid handsome face. Despite loathing the man, my stomach did a somersault and landed at my feet. While St. Clair continued to smirk like the cocky jerk he was, he threw another of those irresistible winks my way, then turned around to wait his two minutes.

  Once his eyes were off of me, I was able to exhale. If I could sink into the floor and disappear, I would. The tempting and frustrating Sebastien St. Clair was Rocco's teammate.

  Oh. My. God. Kill me now.

  During the intermission between the first and second periods someone tapped my arm, and I flailed at the unexpected contact.

  “Excuse me.”

  Once my heart stopped trying to beat out of my chest, I glanced up to find an usher standing next to my seat. The sweaty young man wore a red polo embroidered with the Atlanta Comets logo. He clutched an envelope in one hand and balanced a large flat box on the palm of the other.

  Annoyed that he startled me, and irritated with myself for being so jumpy, I squinted up at him. When he said nothing, I held back the urge to roll my eyes. The usher literally looked so nervous I thought he might pass out, and there was no way I was doing CPR on him. Okay, fine. I would do CPR, but I didn’t have to like it.

  It seemed as if we were going to get anywhere, I'd have to speak first. I raised my brows. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m, uh, supposed to, uh, give this to you.” The usher held the box as far from his body as possible, thereby, shoving it in my face. He sounded so nervous I felt kind of bad for him. Wisps of blondish-red hair stuck to his forehead and his fair cheeks flushed bright red. Even his hands shook. The guy couldn't have been any older than me, maybe not even. In all likelihood, he was new at his job, and it showed.

  Baffled, I gave him a blank stare as he squirmed and tried to work out whatever the heck it was he needed to say.

  After an eternity, the usher cleared his throat. If the entire situation weren’t so weird, I would think the his life depended on him delivering whatever it was he held in his trembling hands.

  I scrunched my nose and looked at the box as if it were a live grenade, or maybe a basket of venomous snakes. Who the heck would send me a gift? And why? And during a game of all things?

  “Are you sure that’s for me? I'm not expecting anything.”

  “I’m, uh, positive.” The usher's head went up and down, over and over, like a deranged bobble head doll.

  Okay, now I just wanted to get rid of him. “Fine. I guess.”

  He exhaled much too loud and his shoulders visibly slumped. Then the sweaty usher threw the box in my lap and tossed the envelope on top of it. Good thing I have quick reflexes, or the corner of the box would've poked my eye out.If that happened, the top would've flown off and then there would have been snakes everywhere.

  Carefully handling the package, I treated it as if it were an IED, one jostle away from blowing up in my face. When I turned to thank the sweaty usher—for what I have no idea, as the kid almost blinded me—he was halfway up the stairs.

  Okaaaay…

  Whatever. I set the box flat on my thighs and picked up the envelope. Still trying to process the peculiar notion of being sent a gift during a hockey game, I held the white rectangle and ran a fingertip around the edge. The paper was high quality, thick and weighty. Naturally, because nothing in my life is easy, the outside of the envelope was blank and had no distinguishing features or watermark. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I had the oddest feeling that someone was looking at me.

  I glanced around the rink as chills rippled down my spine. The whoosh of my pulse thundered in my ears, dulling the noise of the enthusiastic crowd. Was someone watching me right now? The thought released a burst of adrenaline and my anxiety skyrocketed. I gave the envelope a suspicious glare and flipped it over several times, wondering who, and why, until my head hurt.

  After several minutes of freaking out, I straightened in my seat and huffed, feeling stupid. I wasn’t in a James Bond movie. Besides, I had nowhere near the qualifications to be a secret agent or double-crossing spy worthy of receiving a Mission Impossible-style exploding message. It was a hockey game for god’s sake.

  Relax, Ky. It's a note.

  Before I could torture myself with anymore overthinking, which would only cause more stress, thus, more anxiety, I jammed a finger under the flap and tore open the envel
ope. Tension broken, I exhaled and only then did I realize I had been holding my breath. Annoyed, I yanked out a neatly folded sheet of the same thick paper as the envelope. Hmm, maybe Rocco sent something? Maybe he couldn’t meet for dinner after the game and it was his really, really strange way of apologizing?

  No. I shook my head. If that were true, at the end of the game my brother would simply send a text. Even if Rocco did need to cancel dinner, it wouldn't explain the box. Rocco isn't the gift giving type. He prefers to show his love through actions, not material things.

  I skimmed the note and the first thing I noticed was the personalization at the very top. From the desk of Frank Vernon. Next, my gaze landed on a tiny Comets logo in the corner. Frank Vernon, Frank Vernon… I'd heard that name before, but for the life of me, I couldn't place it. The scrutiny continued as I took in the sum total of the note—a few meager lines of messy scrawled ink. Definitely a man's handwriting, and not Rocco's. I read the brief blurb then froze, the paper ready to slip from my fingers.

  What the—?

  I reread it four more times.

  I'm glad to see your taste in teams has improved. I wonder if your taste in players has as well? Meet me after the game in the lobby bar of the hotel attached to the arena and maybe I can persuade you to root for someone else.

  My mouth hung open and my pulse skipped. Three sentences. A mere handful of words. Words that said so much yet told me nothing. No signature, no indication who it was from. Was it from him? Sebastien St. Clair? The Sinner? That was the only thing that made any kind of sense, and that was a stretch.

  Nervous and twitchy, I fumbled and almost dropped the note. It had to be from him. And he wanted to meet. For what? My brain downshifted and conjured up a bunch of inappropriate and filthy images. Images of Sebastien St. Clair doing things to me. Things I would only admit I wanted in my darkest fantasies.

  Face flaming hot, I glanced up from under my lashes to scan the—

  Oh my god.

  One thing I learned in journalism school was to trust my instincts. If it felt like you were being watched, you were.

  Sometimes, I hated being right.

  As if drawn to his presence, my gaze landed on Sebastien St. Clair. He sat on the Atlanta bench, and despite being all the way across the ice, I could clearly make out his bright blue eyes as he studied my face. My bright red face. It didn't matter that a little over eighty-five feet separated us, the scorching heat in his intense stare was unmistakable, as was the way his lips pulled into that annoying smirk.

  The smirk may as well have been a sensual caress because my insides burst into flames, the desire so potent it left me feeling raw and exposed. The sensation grew and thrummed and made my body respond in ways I didn't want it to. My complete lack of control over my reaction made me angry and I gnashed my teeth.

  I hated him. Okay, fine. It’s not that I hated him, so much as I hated what he did to me. Hated the way my stupid body reacted to him. Was drawn to everything about him. I was drawn to him. There was something about Sebastien St. Clair, a buzzing undercurrent of danger that he emanateed, and that was what easily seduced my reckless side.

  Feeling a little bit humiliated and a lot furious, I broke the connection first and dropped my attention to the box in my lap. Well, if it was from Sebastien St. Clair, it most likely wasn’t a box of snakes. I inhaled a shaky breath and closed my eyes. What was he playing at? Besides the obvious, which was a full out assault on my senses with the singular goal of driving me insane with lust.

  The Calloway stubborn gene kicked in. I refused to give St. Clair the satisfaction of knowing he got under my skin. I focused on the gift in my lap, steeled my expression, and kept it neutral as I lifted the lid. After peeling back several layers of red tissue paper—and no sign of snakes, thank you Jesus—I almost broke my vow to remain straight-faced. It took a lot of effort to bite back the laugh that threatened to burst free. Sitting amongst the tissue lay perfectly folded Atlanta Comets jersey. An odd choice of gifts since I damn well knew Sebastien St. Clair saw the one I had on. His note confirmed the fact.

  No longer caring whether or not he saw me react, I frowned. Honestly, I should have just slammed the lid back on the box and shoved it under my seat. Made the guy sweat it out by refusing to accept his stupid gift and his even stupider suggestion that we meet.

  Yeah, no.

  I was way too curious to give in, and that made me even angrier. The fact that Sebastien had me curious. Infuriated by my lack of self-control, I lifted the present out of the box and held it up. My eyes narrowed.

  What a pompous jackass.

  On the back of the jersey, embroidered in bold, thirteen-inch numbers, were a one and a nine. Above that, in three-inch lettering, was the name St. Clair, stitched horizontally over the shoulder blades.

  “Nice shirt. He's a really good player.” The woman in the seat behind me had taken it upon herself to look over my shoulder and comment on my gift. “And he’s sexy, too.” She chuckled and went back to watching the game.

  I grimaced. Like I needed or wanted anyone's opinion on Sebastien St. Clair. Even though I knew he was waiting, dying to see me lose my cool, I couldn't help but cram the stupid thing back into the box and force the lid on. So what if he knew I was mad? He’s clearly a first-class jerk, so why should I care?

  I pressed my lips together in a hard line, knowing what I was about to do. I couldn't help myself. I was weak. With a sigh, I gave in to the urge and glanced over at the Comets’ bench to locate Sebastien St. Clair, so I could glower at his arrogant ass. He needed to see just how much of a jerk I thought he was. Only, instead of leveling my best stern glare across the ice, I flinched and let out a humiliating high-pitched squeak.

  It was patently obvious my luck was nonexistent when it came to all matters St. Clair. Because the teams swapped sides for each period, the man for whom my glower was intended was standing mere feet from where I sat. His position at right wing meant he was directly in front of my seat, skating in slow, sensual circles while he waited for the ref to set up the puck drop.

  Of course, because I’m me, he stopped skating right in time to catch me staring. Those glittering blue eyes locked on to mine and I became helpless. Sebastien was so close, I could see the desire that burned in his heated stare as he unapologetically checked me out, raking his gaze up and down my body without shame.

  A current of electricity crackled through the air between us. My body tingled and my blood sang as my breath hitched in my lungs. I was trapped. Frozen. Held in place by Sebastien St. Clair as surely as if he were physically pinning me down with his strong hands, and damn if that thought didn’t unleash a jolt of desire that quickly spread low in my abdomen.

  Screw what I was supposed to do. What I wanted to do was worship at his feet. Prostrate at the altar of St. Clair.

  I blinked a few times before I shook myself free of his trance, and put a hand to my blisteringly hot cheek. It grew hotter as I wondered if Sebastien St. Clair knew how much I wanted him.

  I glanced back up and his lips twitched. Of course he knew. Did the man miss nothing? Then, Sebastien did the unexpected. He didn't smirk or laugh or wink. No, the man smoldered. The look Sebastien St. Clair aimed my way was so scorching, so intense, so consuming, my entire body went up in a conflagration of invisible flames. The air grew so hot and sticky, sweat beaded along my temples and a single drop trickled between my shoulder blades. My overwhelming response to the man reminded me of something Nat used to say whenever she spotted a hot guy.

  “Ky, call 911. My panties are melting.”

  God, how I used to tease her about it. Told her no one was that good-looking. I was wrong. I'd never make fun of Nat again. It seemed I finally found the one man who could actually make my panties melt.

  Unfortunately, it just so happened to be the infuriating, frustrating, devastatingly sexy jerk, Sebastien “The Sinner” St. Clair. God, he was such a bad idea. There wasn't even a word for how bad an idea he was, and that only kic
ked Reckless Kylie’s interest up another sizzling notch.

  Nat, call 911. My heart’s about to stop and my brother is going to kill me.

  Because I knew, no matter how stupid it was, I was going to meet Sebastien St. Clair at that hotel.

  5

  Seb

  I showered and dressed faster than I thought possible, wanting an advantage over Calloway when I confronted him. Or beat the snot out of him. Whichever. The guy had been a dick throughout the game, even refusing to speak to me about plays, which was unacceptable. The team shouldn’t suffer because one guy wants to be a bastard.

  Speak of the devil… Sasquatch emerged from the showers, a towel wrapped around the tree trunk he called a waist. Wearing my NHL mandated suit and tie, I at least felt like I had the upper hand as I approached, what with Calloway half naked and all.

  The big defenseman's back was facing me when I came to a stop a few feet from Calloway's cubby.

  “Calloway.”

  His heavily muscled shoulders bunched up tight. Oh yeah, Sasquatch knew I stood behind him, yet the rude asshat continued to get dressed, forcing me to wait, which pissed me right the fuck off. Twitch, twitch, twitch… The brushoff combined with the infuriating spasms in my left eye sparked an all-too-familiar wrath deep in my gut. My emotions, and actions, were about to spiral out of control if I couldn't get a grip.

  I closed my eyes, clenched my hands, and breathed. In through the nose… one… two. Out through the mouth… one… two. I continued breathing as I pictured the invisible demon that rode me for most of my life, and with both hands, pushed back at my infamous temper. In… one…two. Out… one… two. When I was calm enough to open my eyes, I found Calloway in his suit, looming over me, scowl firmly in place.