The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

My dear old friend guilt plowed into me with as much force as my six foot six, two hundred-fifty pound brother would hit an opposing player. My nerves sang and my palms grew clammy as the flight or fight response took hold. A burst of adrenaline urged me to run. Not because Rocco would hurt me, but because I always, always gave in, and if I didn’t have to look at him, I could maybe hold my ground this one time. When I take in his sad, disappointed face, I can’t find the strength to tell him off. Dealing with a panicked, overwrought Rocco, exhausted me, and it felt worse and worse every time I let him down.

Despite the cortisol telling my feet to move, I stayed where I was. Not only because Rocco held me in place, but because if I ran, my stubborn brother would follow and continue to argue. Rocco’s intense stare penetrated right through my pathetically weak outer shell, right through any attempt at standing up to him. As predictable as the sunrise, I looked away first, unable to withstand the torture of seeing those sad eyes for another single second.

“Ky…”

“W-what do you want me to s-say?” I sniffed back a sob.

In complete contradiction to the anger and guilt he expertly wielded a moment ago, Rocco spoke calmly. He put a gentle finger under my chin and lifted until once again, I found myself staring into his fearful expression. The one that made me want to throw up. The room went blurry behind a sheen of tears and my lungs felt tight.

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.