The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

It didn’t matter that Rocco Calloway stood roughly the size and shape of Bigfoot. I certainly didn’t give a shit that the gargantuan defenseman is not only bigger than me, but that Calloway actually is an enforcer, and arguably the most vicious one in the NHL. Fury isn’t rational. The second my brother’s rib snapped, my course was mapped out, the future unavoidable.

And there we were. The future became the present.

When I got like that, my rage at mushroom cloud proportions, only two things could calm me down, fucking or fighting. Since I was already at the arena, geared up and on the ice, fucking was off the list. That left fighting.

My lizard brain had already downshifted into fight mode. That illegal body-checking piece of shit more than deserved whatever I dished out. Hell, Calloway probably expected a fight. It wouldn’t be the first time we dropped gloves, but it was the first time—for me anyway—that my motives went way beyond the game of hockey.

I was enraged.

Sasquatch should have thought twice before injuring my brother in such a bullshit and cowardly manner. Body-checking Rémy at full speed after the whistle was hands down, without a doubt, the number one way to land at the top of my shit list. The crack of Rémy’s rib flicked a switch that turned me from my usual semi-rational self, to a slave to my emotions, namely, anger.

I pushed off my back blade and skated toward Calloway, no delusions that what I was about to do would catapult the Calloway/St. Clair rivalry over the walls of Hockeyland to land smack dab in the center of Personalville.

Bring. It. On. Sasquatch was about to get schooled.

I watched Calloway reach out with his stick to pull in the puck as it slid along the boards near the crease. Like a raging bull set loose on the streets of Pamplona, I gathered speed and, without slowing, charged directly into my target, hip-checking the ever-living shit out of Rocco Calloway. A deafening crash followed when the impact sent us both into the boards. I hit Calloway so hard my teeth rattled along with the divider. The reverberations rippled outward and shook the high boards halfway to the center line.

The force with which we slammed into the wall, Calloway sandwiched between me and the boards, should have knocked the air out of my lungs, but because according to most people I’m a bit insane, I grinned. Calloway might be strong, but his size made him slow—okay, not slow per se, but slower than me—and because of that, Sasquatch struggled to stay on his feet while he fought to keep the puck on his tape. Idiot didn’t realize I wasn’t after the puck… yet. He would figure it out soon enough.

I checked him again, this time throwing an elbow into Calloway’s throat while I spewed a bunch of crap, in English and French, each taunt specifically chosen to rile the guy up.

“Ta copine a sucé ma bite. Fucking pussy. Can’t take a little hip action? Such a shame. Your girlfriend loved my hip action last night when she was swallowing my cock.” I smirked around my red mouthguard. “Then she screamed my name until she passed out.”

To my great amusement, like the silly cartoons Rémy and me watched as kids, you know, the ones where a light bulb flicks on over the character’s head when he catches on to something? Calloway grimaced and the gears clicked into place. I could practically see the glowing bulb hovering over his helmet.

Finally with the program, Sasquatch?

It seemed Calloway’s pea brain caught up. He knew my vicious attack had zero to do with the small black rubber disc trapped between our skates. I saw the exact moment Calloway put two and two together. Behind his visor, a spark of anger lit up his near-black eyes. Unfortunately for my plan, his reaction was a big fat disappointment. The guy did nothing. No payback, no cursing, no hitting. I was itching for a fight, lay one right at his big fat feet, and he wasn’t interested? I scowled. Calloway, the bastard, ignored me and turned his attention back to the game.

I lost track of the puck, too busy pouting over my failed attempt to instigate a fight. Sasquatch had no such issues and took full advantage. He threw his stupidly enormous elbows up and expertly jostled me right out o

f his space. Calloway had to know I was out for blood because of what he did to Rémy, so of course the jerk refused to be manipulated into a brawl.

At least, not easily.

I had my ways.

The swell of rage that began the sequence of events that led up to that very moment wouldn’t dissipate on its own. Wouldn’t be satisfied until I heard the sweet, sweet sound of one of Calloway’s ribs cracking, preferably in half so he’d get benched for the next four to six weeks, just like Rémy. Maybe poke a lung.

Quick as a viper, I struck and jammed my stick between Calloway’s legs, only instead of snagging the puck, I yanked back… hard, illegally hooking Calloway’s skate and sending Sasquatch and his ugly mug crashing face first onto the ice. As a single unit, the Atlanta crowd leapt to their feet and let out a loud roar. Shouts and cheers echoed throughout the arena, fans chanted my name along with a beautiful chorus of, “Fight, fight, fight…”

Then… chaos.

The leaden ball of rage was set free, and the accompanying release was so satisfying it felt almost orgasmic.

Fuck, I love this game.

The burst of adrenaline. The unleashing of the fury and frustration I kept in check since Rémy’s injury. The joy and freedom as I snatched back control of my emotions. The glorious rush of power achieved through savagery and pain. Somewhere amongst the cacophony, I heard the ref’s piercing whistle, but what the fuck ever.

My focus was singular. Break Calloway’s ribs.

Colors merged as players from both teams surrounded us, the red and black of my team blurring with the blue and yellow of DC. Sasquatch pushed to his skates and—fuck, that bastard is tall—glared down at me. His jaw muscles ticked, his massive chest heaved, and those black, fathomless eyes shone with raw hatred.

I never felt more alive.

I had Calloway on the hook. Now to reel him in. I mouthed my next words so only Calloway saw them. “Bring it on asshole.”

I don’t know why, but that simple sentence worked like a charm. The everyday obscenity somehow crossed whatever line of restraint Calloway had and the guy was ready to blow. The guy was fired up, about to hurtle head first into my waiting hands. He snarled like an animal and chucked his gloves and stick to the ice. I did the same.