The Sinner

by Heather C. Leigh

  I tilted my head and used my shoulder to hold the phone to my ear while I fetched a snack from the fridge. I would kill for a protein shake, but I never got around to replacing my blender after it went FUBAR. Mostly out of fear that the new one would become self-aware and attack me in my sleep or something.

  “My season is essentially over,” I said. “The Comets have no chance at making the playoffs. Your team on the other hand, has a good chance of claiming the Cup.”

  “It is pretty exciting,” Rémy agreed, his voice echoing his obvious enthusiasm. “The Rush hasn’t made the playoffs since way before I joined, and this is their… our best season on record. We still have to win against Chicago, since they already clinched their division.”

  I scoffed as I stacked a precarious mound of turkey and cheese on a slice of bread and slathered mustard on the other slice. “No problem. Chicago’s first line is shit compared to yours. It's not even close. Just because they won a lot in the past and they’re Original Six doesn't make them unbeatable.”

  “True.”

  Rémy sounded so much better. He freaked me out the last time we spoke. It had been a while since I’d been that worried about him. When he hit a dark period during the hockey season, the stress ate at me. Too many games and not enough time off means I can’t go to Charlotte to be there for him, which I take as a personal failure.

  “So, why did you really call, Seb? Because I know it's not to talk about work.”

  I put the sandwich fixings back in the fridge and, with my hands freed up, untucked the phone and stared at it. How the hell did Rémy know that? I returned the device to my ear.

  “You suck.” The little shit laughed, which only made me slap the on the other slice of bread on top of the sandwich and press down hard enough to poke a hole in it. I sucked the mustard off my ring finger. “Fine. I called to check on you. Happy?”

  “Seb, I promised I’d call if anything happened, and I meant it. You know I'm fine. So… try again. Why are you calling me?”

  I sneered. Perceptive bastard.

  I cut the sandwich in half and tossed the knife in the sink with a loud clatter. “There's this girl,” I began.

  Rémy whooped and cackled. “I knew it! I knew it had to be about a chick.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, make fun of your brother. Go on, get it all out.” And boy did he ever. Rémy laughed and wheezed for five minutes straight. Then he goaded me relentlessly, English and French. I ate my sandwich while I waited for him to get over himself. “Are you done?”

  In between breaths, Rémy said, “Whew! All done. I swear.”

  “Whatever, imbécile. Anyway, I have a question for you. It sounds, umm, kind of stupid, but, uh, do you know… I mean, how do you know if you, you know, are in love with someone?”

  Twitch, twitch.

  “Wait. You…you’re in love with this girl?” Rémy sounded as stunned as I felt. Just weeks ago, I would’ve bet money I’d go to my grave without ever having a conversation about love.

  “I don't know. That's why I’m asking, you. Maudit bâtard,” I snapped, frustrated.

  The traitorous shithead started to laugh again. I growled, and Rém forced out a hurried apology. “I’m sorry! I just never expected this, not from you.”

  “Yeah, well that makes two of us.”

  “Well, uh, if you're serious about knowing—”

  “I am.”

  “Okay, well, I'd say just the fact that you're calling me to ask makes me think the chances are pretty high that yes, you’re in love with this girl.”

  I bent over like I took a slap shot to the groin, and dammit, that stupid empty, too familiar ache returned. The hole in the heart sensation. I noticed it at least thirty times since Amanda pointed it out a few days earlier.

  Que je sois damné.

  Rémy and Amanda were right. I was in love. And for the first time in my life I was faced with something I couldn't fight or fuck out of my system.

  Without being able to turn to my tried and true outlets, I had no idea what to do next.

  Shit. I’m an emotionally stunted goat.

  Clad in head to toe hockey gear, I stomped out of Coach V’s office in a dark thundercloud. If the changing room hadn’t been packed to the gills with players in various states of undress, along with the clamoring horde of media vultures, I'd have chucked my Bauer clear across the room. Coach chewed my ass for so long I wouldn’t sit properly for a week. His words screeched at me full blast, again and again, like a myna bird stuck on a loop. What the hell was that? Your head isn’t in the game. Straighten your shit out. God dammit, St. Clair! And my personal favorite, You fucking numb-nuts! By the time he finished reaming me out my left eye was spastic.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch.

  Stupid, bastard, shitstick, eye!

  Unfortunately, I had no one to blame but myself. Everything Coach said was true. I played like I belonged on the fourth line of a peewee hockey team. My head wasn't in the game. I fucked up and it cost us.

  Not in the mood to deal with what would, undoubtedly, be a metric shit-ton of harping about my crappy playing, I hid around the corner until the last of the journalists left—good because the buzzards couldn't pick at my desiccated carcass, bad because without the media’s presence to keep the guys in line, my teammates had no problem firing dirty looks across the room and mumbling slurs under their breath.

  Didn't matter. Anything insult they came up with, I already attributed to myself. The loss weighed heavily on my shoulders and probably would for a while.

  A swell of anger surged and rapidly expanded. Because I’m fucked in the head, I found the sensation comforting. I hadn't felt it in a while, only once or twice since I met Kylie. If it returned, I could take it as a sign I was over her, right? That I could get on with my pathetic life and fill my days and nights with meaningless bullshit—fighting, fucking, and hockey. Then I would remember something about Kylie, some small detail—her smile, her laugh, her smoldering expression when she checked me out and thought I wasn't looking—and I knew damn well that if given the chance, I would go through the pain all over again.

  By the time I got around to buttoning my cuffs, most of the locker room had emptied out. No one spoke to me. They were either pissed I fucked up or had been around long enough to know when I was dangerously close to losing my shit. Didn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Not when there was a six-pack with my name on it waiting for me at home.

  Naturally, nothing in my craptastic life ever went to plan.

  I draped my tie around my neck and began a half Windsor, right as Evvy, the only one on the team with big enough nads to approach me when I was in a mood, walked over. In the mirror, I watch Ev trip over a glove in the middle of the floor. He stumbled and, trying to regain his footing, two hundred plus pounds of defenseman did a face plant.

  I frowned and peeked sideways at him as I pulled the knot tight and flipped down my lapels. Aw shit. Ev scrambled to his feet, visibly excited despite the crash landing.

  Whatever had Ev near bursting, I didn't want to hear it. I shoved at his shoulder and said, “Go away.”

  Evvy laughed and his eyes shone. The dude was bursting to spill, and whatever it was, was huge. Before he said a word, Hajek’s loud mouth boomed, “You be uncle. It is good, da?”

  I rolled my eyes. Sounded like someone’s sibling successfully reproduced. Big fucking deal.

  I glanced at Hazey, then back at Ev, and tipped my head toward the goalie. Hazey stood a few feet away with a bunch of other guys.

  “What's going on over there?” I didn’t care, but hoped to distract Evvy so I could make my escape without getting sucked into his gaiety and general mischief making. Six pack. Remember?

  Evvy leaned in close, lips unfurled into an evil grin. He whispered so low it was difficult to hear over Jonesy practically shouting his congratulations.

  “It’s Calloway,” Ev announced gleefully. “Apparently his very unmarried little sister went and got herself
knocked up.”

  “And I care because…?” I gave less than zero fucks about Calloway's slut sister.

  “You need to go over there and bust his balls. Go look at his phone,” Evvy muffled a laugh. “He’s got a picture the fucking ultrasound.”

  I lifted a brow. “What? Fuck no. Dude’s always got his dick in a know about something I said or did.” I shoved my arms into my suit jacket and fastened the first button. “Calloway’s sister issues are none of my business.” With that, I turned to leave. The six-pack was calling me.

  Evvy stopped my by grabbing my wrist. “C’mon, Seb,” he whined. “It's been months and the guy still looks at you like he’s waiting for you to stop breathing… preferably while he strangles you. He’s sensitive about the sister being ‘unmarried’ and ‘too young,’” Evvy did air quotes with his fingers. “His words, not mine. Now's your best chance for payback. Go. I'll wait here.” Ev grinned and leaned back against the row of fancy wood lockers.

  “Tabernak! Ça fait chier! You’re such a prick, you know that?” I spat.

  Evvy’s response was to jerk his chin Calloway’s direction. Our teammates were huddled around his towering Yeti head. Everyone was smiling, clapping Calloway on the back, and congratulating him. You'd think with everyone cheering him on, the moody prick could scrounge up a smile. Nope. Guy looked constipated, as usual.

  With a sigh, I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked around the Comets’ logo to join the small gathering.

  “So, what's up?” I asked. “Calloway win the lottery?”

  Hazey’s massive mitt smacked between my shoulder blades so hard I almost stumbled into Jonesy. “Rocco to be uncle. Is good news.”

  I pretended to perk up. “Oh?” Calloway shot me a scowl and I couldn't help it. Evvy was right. I was having fun. I smirked. “What? You got a brother or sister we don't know about?” Which, thanks to Ev, I already knew, but it was oh so much fun to twist the guy’s panties.

  Calloway snarled. His lip peeled back and his knuckles blanched around the phone in his hand. “Sister,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  I smiled wider. Fuck, it was too easy. Calloway's sister got knocked up, and he didn’t exactly look like he wanted to break out the cigars any time soon. So what if she wasn’t married? Dude had a stick up his ass the size of the Washington Monument.

  “You got pictures?” I pointed at his phone. “What kind? The sonogram or some shit?”

  Going by Calloway’s glare, I swore, if he could, he would've doused me in gasoline and cheerfully lit the match, then celebrated around my burning pyre.

  “Yeah.”

  I had to see, if only to rub salt in the wounds. I plucked the device from Calloway’s Sasquatch paw before he could stop me.

  I looked down and squinted. “Uh, I have no idea what I'm looking at,” I admitted. The picture was black and white and fuzzy all over, kinda like the TV from Poltergeist when it sucked the little girl into it.

  “Dude,” Franzie, a second line defensemen, squished in next to me. “You can’t see the baby? It’s right there.” His finger thrust into my field of vision and tapped on the screen. “Right. There.”

  Squinting further, I tried to see what Franzie saw and came up empty. “All I see is static. You got a better picture?”

  Calloway reached for the phone, but I was faster. I dodged his attempt to snatch it and, just to be an asshole, flicked to the next photo. The grin fell off my face so fast I was surprised it didn’t land on my shoes. A picture of a familiar blonde haired, brown-eyed woman, smiling from ear to ear, filled the screen.

  My cackle cut short and every last drop of blood in my body drained from my face. My eye began its Riverdance and everything went out of focus. Calloway grabbed his phone with a snarl. Good thing, too, because my hands shook as hard as an eight point five earthquake, and with my disastrous history regarding all things electronic, I would've dropped it. I didn't even care when Calloway proceeded to curse me up one side and down the other for having the gall to steal his phone and invade his privacy and blah, blah, blah.

  No. I was too busy going down in a fiery explosion. I was Alderaan, and that picture was the Death Star, its laser beam obliterating everything I thought I knew, turning it into an asteroid field.

  “Sebby. Hey, what’s going on?” When I didn't respond, Ev grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. I snapped out of the daze and glanced around to discover everyone in the room staring at me. Including Calloway.

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know about me and Kylie.

  If he did, no doubt I would have been kissing Calloway’s knuckles weeks ago. He would've swung first and asked questions later, beating me to a pulp while shouting words from George Carlin’s list.

  I staggered back and clutched my chest. Maudit! Calloway’s… sister! Kylie was Sasquatch’s sister? Kylie… Calloway? The enormity of the revelation made my knees buckle and a choking panic crept up my throat.

  “I-I have to get out of here.” I shrugged Evvy’s hands off and ran.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch.

  Yeah, my eye was probably going to twitch for the rest of my life, up to and including the moment they lowered the coffin six feet under.

  “Seb!”

  I ignored Ev and kept going until I stood next to my truck, feet spread, torso bent in half, and hands braced on my thighs as I sucked in the cold winter air. Not because I was winded. Because I didn’t want to pass out from shock.

  “Seb?”

  Christ on a motherfucking cracker! Why can’t everyone mind their own fucking business?

  Literally, nobody gave two shits about me, ever, until the minute I wanted to fuck off and be alone. Then a bunch of over concerned busybodies popped out of the woodwork to go all Dr. Phil on my ass.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch.

  Amanda called my name again. I stood up straight and pressed both thumbs against my spasming eye.

  “Mandy, not now,” I growled.

  God, I was such a miserable twat.

  “Well, don’t get all overexcited on my behalf,” she snapped.

  I dug for my keys so I could get the hell out of there and process the cargo jet full of shit that decided to use my brain as a runway. Amanda walked over, heels clicking on the pavement, and my anxiety shot higher than a junkie with a needle hanging from his arm. I wrapped my fingers around the key ring and exhaled. Talk to Amanda and get it over with as fast as possible.

  After that, I had no fucking clue.

  Alcohol? Leap off a tall bridge? Alcohol then leap off a tall bridge?

  “You know,” Amanda huffed. “You’re the one who came to me to ask if we could be friends, and against my better judgment I decided to give you a chance.” I clenched my fist and the sharp bite of the keys dug into the meat of my palm. The pain kept me focused on Amanda instead of what I just learned. “Do you treat all your friends this way, Seb? Because if so, scratch me off what has to be the shortest list in the history of ever.”

  A few months ago, I would have ignored Amanda’s bitching, jumped in my truck, and burned rubber without a fuck to give. In fact, I gave serious thought to doing just that, but sadly, I didn’t want to be that guy. I wasn’t that guy. Not anymore. I changed, and found it mighty damn inconvenient to actually care about Amanda’s feelings.

  Being a dick really was way easier.

  I met Amanda’s ticked off glare and sighed. “Sorry, Mandy. I'm not trying to be an asshole. I just have…” I waved a hand in the general vicinity of my head, something I’d been doing a lot lately. “A lot of crap to process.”

  The judgmental expression slid off Amanda’s face. She took another step closer and touched my arm. Sincere as hell, despite all the shit I put the poor woman through, she felt fucking bad for me, which didn’t make me feel any better. Just hand me the Heel of the Year award and call it a day.

  “What’s wrong, Seb? You're white as a ghost.” Amanda blinked her big green eyes as she looked up at me. “Do you need to talk about
it?” I shook my head, but Amanda, tenacious as ever, checked her platinum watch and pushed on. “Seriously, I have time. If you want, we can go get a cup of coffee or something.” She smiled, nothing sexy or seductive about it. “That's what friends do, right?”

  My shoulders slumped. On the one hand, I wanted to take Amanda up on her offer. Half of me wanted to dump the entire unholy nightmare into someone else’s lap to deal with. If anything, Evvy should be the one I called to confess that Calloway's pregnant sister was Hot Blonde from the games. I couldn’t wrap my head around it and an outside opinion would be a blessing, but the idea of discussing the swirling toilet bowl that was my personal life with Ev made me nauseous. I trusted the guy and all, I just didn't feel like getting all Steel Magnolias in front of my best friend and teammate.

  My other half, the more rational half in my undeniably useless opinion, wanted to jump in the truck and drive until I either ran out of gas or flew off the edge of the earth. Didn't care which so long as I ended up as far as possible from the entire fucked up situation.

  Because I’m an idiot, as proven time and time again, I chose to do neither.

  “Your offer is really sweet, Mandy. And yeah, that's what friends do.” I shuffled my feet and stared at my shoes. “I won’t make for good company right now. Don’t be mad. It’s nothing personal. I just don’t want to fuck things up with you again.”

  The hand on my arm gave a light squeeze and I tore my gaze from my shiny wingtips long enough to catch Amanda’s sympathetic smile. “Okay, but if you need to talk you can always call me.”

  Twitch, twitch, twitch.

  I slapped a hand over my eye and bit back a scream. I had no fucking clue what to do. Did I find Kylie? Run? Pretend I never saw Calloway’s picture? On top of the crushing indecision, I had a million and a half questions for Kylie. Such as, why didn’t she tell me her brother was Satan? Why did she dump my ass? Besides the obvious—that I’m a raging asshole.

  I was losing it, the reactors in my gray matter destabilizing as I cruised toward a nuclear meltdown. My lower lip quivered and I swore to fucking god, if I ended up crying in front of Amanda, I was going to find the nearest overpass and plow my truck into a concrete support.