The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers Book 1) by Heather C. Leigh
Yeah, yeah, there are exceptions and I love my brother more than anything, but he's no different from the majority. Okay, so Rocco is by far one of the most loyal and kind people I know. That loyalty and kindness, however, doesn’t extend outside Rocco's seriously minuscule inner circle. Meaning, he doesn’t give a rat’s patootie about anyone he doesn’t know and won’t hesitate to use his massive muscles to prove a point.
When our parents died, I was thirteen and Rocco was nineteen. The accident occurred a couple months after Rocco got called up to the Kings from the Canadian Junior Hockey League and landed a contract for some ungodly sum of money. I was glad that at least after everything they sacrificed so he could play hockey, Mom and Dad lived to see Rocco achieve his dream. At the time, with the exception of Rocco’s success, the rest of my life sucked. Yet no matter how bad it got, my brother never let me down.
Despite being young, single, and suddenly wealthy, Rocco didn't hesitate to step up and become my guardian when he could easily have pawned me off on a relative. In fact, he refused to entertain the idea of me going anywhere but with him. Rocco dedicated himself to taking care of me; he put a roof over my head, made sure I went to school, got good grades, got into a decent college, and paid for my education. He always, always protected me and would likely do so for the rest of his life.
The scrape of skates on ice caught my attention and I watched Rocco stop in front of us. He tapped the boards with his stick, ignoring the squeals of eager fans. Nat and I performed what was now our ritual, and simultaneously spun to flash Rocco the back of our dark blue jerseys, both sporting number seven with Calloway printed across the back in big yellow letters. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Rocco give us a thumbs up. At least, I assumed it was a thumbs up. It’s hard to see much of anything with those thick, padded hockey gloves. Nat and I laughed and fell back into our seats to watch the game.
It was down to a few minutes left in the third period when a scuffle broke out in front of our seats. Since Rocco's tickets were in the first row near the Kings’ bench, we had a prime view of the action. Rocco descended on the puck, ready to flick it out of scoring range for the Comets by sending it to his center. From the left, a blur of white powered toward my brother, who didn’t notice. Rocco was busy handling the puck, lining it up for a pass. He located his teammate, only to find an Atlanta player all over the guy. On the fly, Rocco spun and flicked the puck behind the Kings’ goal. It skimmed along the curve to DC's right-side defenseman.
The speeding Atlanta player didn't get the message that the puck was gone. Instead of changing course and moving into position in front of the net to wait for DC to make a mistake so he could intercept and score, the jerk slammed full speed into Rocco. The men crashed into the boards, literally a foot from my face. Horror struck, I watched Rocco’s helmet slam against the plexi and bounce off the hard surface.
My heart clenched and I cried out, blindly reaching for Nat's hand. Unfortunately, she had no more of a clue what was going on than me. Nat leaned in so I could hear her over the loud boos and shouts of the crowd. "Ky, what the hell is that guy doing?"
“I don't know.” I was honestly confused as to what could possibly be going through number nineteen's head.
Wait. Number nineteen.
Ugh!
I knew who that was. Nineteen was Sebastian St. Clair. “That's The Sinner,” I spat. My lips twisted into a grimace as I patently ignored the flip-floppy, butterfly-flapping feeling in my belly.
Nat gave me a questioning look. “The Sinner?”
With a loud huff, I explained without taking my eyes off the fight, and boy were they going at it—helmets were off and they were grappling and swinging at each other, trying to snag the others’ jersey in their gloved hands. It was no holds barred, complete and utter chaos.
“Number nineteen.” I pointed at the sexy jerk who wore white and red. “That's the same guy that punched Rocco at the game the other day in Atlanta. The one you were supposed to come over and watch with me but skipped because you had a date.” I smirked at Nat then returned my attention to the ice. “He's a total ass. I swear, I think his goal is to maim as many opposing players as possible.”
Rocco took a blow to the side of his face and I inhaled sharply through my nose. He didn't look phased by the punch, so I relaxed and continued.
“The irony that his last name starts with Saint, combined with the fact that he’s a violent jerk, earned him the nickname ‘The Sinner.’” Yes, I made air quotes. “I mean look at him, Nat. The guy is so unhinged he shouldn't even be allowed to play.” The men continued to grapple and I sucked my tongue between my teeth. My pulse fluctuated with each punch thrown. “The really sucky part is that he's drop-dead, inhumanly gorgeous.” I snorted and rolled my eyes. "Not that it matters. His personality is awful. Sebastien St. Clair is hands down the biggest jackass in the entire NHL.”
I can admit he’s good looking. I may have poured over pictures of Sebastian St. Clair, and, as an aspiring journalist whose brother plays professional hockey, watched a lot of press conferences, some of which coincidentally included the Atlanta player. It would be highly unlikely to find a single straight woman, including myself, who didn't drool and get all hot and bothered at the sight of Sebastian St. Clair. What’s unfortunate, is the second he opens his beautiful, bow-shaped mouth, those stunning good looks dissolve like a mirage. The guy is a hot mess of anger, curses, and total assholeiness, both on and off the ice.
Which, because I’m an idiot, ended up turning me on like nothing else ever had. And that made me angry.
I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on Sebastian St. Clair, two, maybe three years earlier. I couldn’t forget, and not just because the man turned my crank. Because of the way Rocco—who as upset as he got at times, never, ever raised his voice at me—did just that.
Rocco and I sat on the couch to watch SportsCenter, my brother nice and relaxed since he didn't have a game for two more days. The commentators discussed the day’s NHL highlights, showing clips of the best and worst plays, then they ran various snippets of post-game press conferences from across the league. A couple minutes in, Sebastien St. Clair's face, in all it's perfection and glory, filled Rocco's enormous flat screen TV. I must have been unconsciously drawn to him, because without realizing it, I shifted to the edge of the cushion, eyes glued to the eighty-inch image of the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.
“Don't even think about it.” I flinched at Rocco’s bark and turned to find him doing his grimacey thing. At me. His expression was so harsh, chill bumps popped up on my arms. “That guy,” Rocco pointed a finger at the screen, “is a complete horse's ass. I don't want you anywhere near him.”
Like always, I began to protest just for the sake of protesting. “But —”
“No buts!” Rocco practically roared. I shrank back into the couch. Rocco never yelled at me. Ever. The only response I could manage was a quick nod. “I mean it, Ky.” He leaned in close. “Stay away from him.”
Faced with Rocco’s serious stare, flared nostrils and burning eyes, I swallowed tightly. Even though the warning only made the temptation to get close to Sebastien St. Clair a thousand times stronger, I said what he wanted to hear.
“Okay.”
Whistles went off and the clock stopped, but Rocco and St. Clair were on another planet. Refs or not, the brawl continued. Their blue (Rocco) and white (St. Clair) jerseys moved so fast, I couldn't lock onto any one single thing, seeing only a mish-mashed blur of colors. Before I could blink, their gloves were off and punches were thrown.
Right. In. Front. Of. Me.
I gaped and my mouth hung open like a largemouth bass. The big jerk with the name St. Clair stamped on his jersey in bold red, hauled back his fist, swung. When it connected with Rocco's nose, I winced.
I managed to choke out an “Oh my god!” and leapt from my seat as if zapped by a cattle prod. My iced tea went flying everywhere, not that I cared. Screaming, I pressed my palms on
I swore, right then and there, the man I secretly fantasized about for years, was able to see right through me. Knew I wanted him. Read me like a book from cover to cover. The moment was short — just long enough to catch a glimpse of his incredible blue eyes, filled with sparks of playfulness that defied the violent actions of their owner. It was long enough. I was mesmerized by him. That one shared look may as well have lasted hours instead of a fraction of a second.
Then it was over and Sebastien St. Clair returned his attention to beating on my brother. What did it say about me, that even when he was exchanging blows with Rocco, who gave back just as good, I still found St. Clair sexy? Maybe it was the lure of the forbidden. Or maybe it was because during that infinitesimally small moment in time, that one teeny exchange we shared, my body had burst into flames, the fire flickering and growing into a frenzy of lust and want and need.
No. I was not attracted to Sebastien St. Clair.
I mean, yes. I was attracted to him, but only physically. The man was a jerk of the highest order, with an ego so large you could probably see it from space.
Again, the men slammed into the boards and my heart leapt into my throat. I held my breath, but not because of the brutal violence that played out a few feet away. My breath was stolen by the intensity of the feelings triggered by those fiery blue eyes. Another sharp whistle and I inhaled, bringing much-needed oxygen to my burning lungs. Palms still on the plexi, I stabbed at it with an index finger.
Okay fine. I can admit Sebastien St. Clair is sexy. Didn’t matter. Rocco is my brother and I will always support him on the ice.
“Hey you! Yeah, you, St. Clair! Back off, you big jerk!”
The refs futilely pushed their way through the thick crowd of bulky players who gathered in a tight circle to egg on the fight. Rocco detached from St. Claire's grip and used the back of his hand to swipe at his nose. When it came back bloody for the second time in two straight games against Atlanta, Rocco glared at the red smear. His dark eyes flashed with fury and he stared holes in Sebastien St. Clair’s face, while the muscles in his jaw ticked.
Uh oh. I recognized that look. Things were about to go away, way south.
I pounded harder on the partition and screeched at the clearly insane, and regrettably hot, Sebastien St. Clair. “Stop it, you… you asshole!”
Amazingly, he heard me again, and those eyes, the bluest I'd ever seen, locked onto mine once more. Startled by the potency of his stare, and its ability to send a flush of prickly heat over my skin, I jerked away from the partition and for a moment forgot where I was and what I was doing. The two of us stared at each other through the handprint-smudged divider.
“Ky,” Nat said, shaking my arm. Only I couldn't tear myself away from St. Clair's hypnotizing sapphire eyes. He couldn't move either. Well, not until Rocco's fist flew out of nowhere and connected with the side of his face. I winced as St. Clair's eyes squeezed shut and his head snapped sideways. Then, I started to scream.
“Oh my —“
It was St. Clair's turn to have his head slammed against the boards. His chiseled cheekbone crashed into the exact spot where I rested my palms. In a 'blink and you missed it' moment, the infamous Sinner ended up with his face smooshed against the half-inch piece of plexi that separated us. He blinked, glanced down at my Calloway jersey, and gave me a cruel—and ugh! too sexy—smirk before turning to retaliate on my brother.
“Oh thank god.” I clutched my shirt above my heart and exhaled when the useless refs finally made it into the center of the fray and ended the fight before either idiot threw another punch.
“Geez, that was intense,” Nat said under her breath. “Come on, sit.” She tugged on my hand and we both slumped down in our seats.
My earlier thoughts were confirmed yet again. Hockey players are quick-tempered, hard assed, rough around the edges, uber-masculine alpha dogs. The smear of blood left on the plexi was proof enough for me.
It didn't stop Sebastien “The Sinner” St. Clair from being the sexiest man alive. The big jerk.
Seb
“I really wish you would stop doing that, Seb. I'm serious. You can't attack every single player that checks me. You know as well as I do that getting hurt is part of the job.”
I strode across the room—the hotel’s décor indistinguishable from every other one I stayed in when the team traveled—to gaze out the window. Sometimes, having something to look at helped control my temper. Not that night, unfortunately.
I stared, eyes unfocused, too damn distracted to really see anything. With the heel of my hands, I rubbed my eyes until my vision cleared long enough to note the brilliant lights of the nation's capital. Lights illuminated the Washington Monument an eerie yellowish-white, the smooth stones glowing from base to tip. I placed the palm of my hand on the underside of my chin, shoved my head up and to the side, and groaned with pleasure when my neck cracked.
“Rémy, that ciboire had it coming.” I kept my voice even as my gaze drifted from the United States’ national monuments to the pitch-black sky, hundreds of pinprick stars sprinkled across the inky darkness.
“Christ, Seb. I'm a fucking winger in the NHL. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have your big brother do your fighting for you?” Unlike me, who tried my best to remain calm, Rémy had no such reservation. His tone pitched higher and the volume went up right along with it.
“Screw that.” Calm became impossible. As I grew agitated, my words slid into French. “You'll always be my little brother. It's my goddamn job to protect you.”
More than you will ever know.
Tired and beyond disgusted by my failures both the other night in Atlanta and earlier that evening in DC, I turned from the window, flopped on the bed, and kicked off my shoes. I managed to successfully ignore Rémy’s calls for three days after the game in Atlanta, too pissed with myself to listen to another one of my brother’s lectures about enacting revenge on his behalf. Besides, I had been somewhat indisposed. It took an unusually long amount of time to fuck the anger out of my system after Calloway put me on my back and knocked my head hard enough to have me yanked from the game for concussion protocol. The only reason I answered tonight was because I didn't want Rémy to get stressed out and worry.
“No Seb, it's not. It's not your job.” He let out a loud huff. “I get where you're coming from, really, I do.” At least Rémy’s breathing sounded better, which meant his ribs were almost healed. “You had to act like a parental figure because our dad —“
“This isn't about Dad.”
Twitch, twitch, twitch.
Fucking perfect. I slapped a hand over the offending eye and cursed the damn thing.
“Oh, screw you. It's always about Dad. Mémère did the best she could, but we both know it was tough to grow up without parents.”
I didn't respond. Mostly because Rémy was one hundred percent wrong and had no clue what he was talking about, but hell would have to freeze over before I destroyed the lie I created to protect my brother from reality and all of its horrors. Okay, yeah. I maybe missed our mother, barely. She was drunk more often than not and a shitty parent. But at least she cared. Dad… well, I had zilch to say about the man that didn't include a string of obscenities colorful enough to make a porn star blush. Rémy, oblivious to my inner torment, continued.
“It's not that I don't appreciate what you do for me, bro. Growing up was…difficult.” Rémy swallowed and as usual, the guilt from the layers upon layers of lies crushed down on me. “And I know it was ten times worse for you, I mean, you still being a kid and all and having to act like the man of the house.” Another pause meant there was plenty of time to toss another suitcase full of guilt on my teetering mountain of baggage. ?
I slid my hand from my twitching eye to massage the back of my skull, where a dull ache throbbed. I heard what Rémy said. I got it, I really did, but he didn't understand, and if I had my way, he never would. I couldn't stop caring or worrying that Rém had everything he needed and was protected from the douchebags of the world anymore than I could choose to make my heart stop beating. It had been my responsibility to watch out for Rémy for so long, I wasn't sure I even knew how to turn it off. It was part of me. Kind of like the ever present rage and self-loathing.
With the final rub to my pulsing head, I let my arm fall and sighed. “I’ll try.” Rémy barked a sarcastic laugh and I scrambled to reassure him. “No, really. I will. Promise. I just… I can't guarantee I'll be perfect.”
Rémy did another one of his dramatic pauses, this one so long I pulled the phone from my ear and checked to make sure the call hadn't disconnected, like I did so often when talking to my brother. It wasn't all that unlikely the thing would actually crap out, as every electronic device I ever laid hands on broke, fell apart, or somehow magically exploded. In fact, if I remember correctly, this was my fourth phone in as many months.
Right as I was about to ask if Rémy was still there, he soothed my thoroughly frayed nerves.