The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

Showtime.

Calloway surged forward, but I anticipated his move. In a single smooth motion, I ducked sideways, snagged his blue and yellow sweater in one hand, and yanked the guy’s shocked face into the waiting fist of my other. The blow broke the thin skin of Calloway’s brow, splitting it open. Blood burst from the gash and trickled into his eyes. Unleashing a ferocious growl of my own, I planted both palms on Calloway’s chest and shoved him, satisfied the punch rang his bell hard enough to stun the guy for a few seconds, which would give me the opportunity to pummel his ribcage.

I grinned.

Redemption is mine!

Oh crap.

Maybe not.

Calloway was made of stronger shit than I remembered. The brute was hardly phased by my knuckle-sandwich, which threw a wrench into my plans. Calloway caught me off guard and knew it. A left hook flew out of nowhere and smashed directly into the exposed area near my temple, right above my cheekbone and just below the lip of my helmet. I dropped like a stone, out cold before my back hit the ice.

Fucker.

Stunned, my eyes fluttered open. Merde, my head hurt. I held my breath as the world swam back into focus. For a brief moment, I expected to see the stained acoustical tile ceiling of the institution. Instead, I took in the familiar sight of the steel crossbeams and rows of lights that hung from the roof of the Atlanta Peach Dome.

As I slowly returned to the land of the living, skull buzzing from the blow, I heard the scrape of skates. The sound got closer and closer, unfortunately, my brain was too rattled to react. Though I knew what was coming, I couldn’t scrounge up the energy to shield myself as some jerkoff snowed me. Tiny chunks of frozen water shot into my ears, eyes, mouth, and down the neckline of my sweater.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to rise and shine?”

Hajek. Maudit bâtard.

With a wince, I struggled into a sitting position and unsnapped the strap of my helmet. I probed my throbbing cheek and eye socket. It hurt, but the bones felt like they were intact. I wiped the ice from my face and glared at my teammate.

“Fuck you and your little snowstorm, Hazey.”

Bruno Hajek, our goalie, can never resist adding insult to injury. First, the jerk snows a teammate when he’s down. Then has the nerve to poke my neck with the working end of his huge-ass goalie stick. Not that Hazey’s actions are in any way surprising. Pretty much every goalie I ever met proved to be more than a few twists short of a slinky. Not that I’m in any position to judge. In no universe can I claim sanity. Hell, I wouldn’t even try.

“Get up, lazy. You have date with penalty box now,” Hazey said in his heavy Eastern European accent. A chunk of ice slid down my back and melted into my waistband. I winced.

“Shit. Hazey, you asshole. Vas te faire.” I almost always cursed in my native Québécois, but I tried to mix in some English so my teammates would know when I insulted them.

I sat on the ice and took in my surroundings. My gaze landed on a bulging-eyed, red-faced ref. He stood at my feet with his arms crossed and gave me a harsh, disapproving look. Whatever. It’s not as though I haven’t received hundreds of those exact same looks from my father over the years.

Next to the furious ref, who appeared about one heartbeat away from having a massive coronary, Rocco Calloway leaned on his stick. Going by his expression, I’d say he was fuming mad. The dark bruise and open cut on Calloway’s brow along with the grisly remnants of a half-assed attempt to wipe away the blood, only added to the menacing look.

After the guy efficiently, and humiliatingly, took me down, I expected Calloway to act all smug.

Course not. The big bastard never gave me the courtesy of doing what I expected him to do. Unpredictable motherfucker. Sasquatch zoomed right past Smug Station, pulled into Enraged Enclave, unpacked his shit, and put his feet up on the coffee table.

Me and Calloway have exactly one thing in common; neither of us are known for our sweet personalities. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Calloway took my attack personally. It was personal. It wasn’t the first time we tangled on the ice and it wouldn’t be the last, though it was the first time I attacked him on behalf of Rémy. We went head to head every time our teams played, and if nothing else, I’m a master at mouthing off. I had a way of expertly poking and prodding until I worked out a player’s weak spot, then I scraped and picked the wound raw until my opponent snapped.

Being a bastard is my specialty, after all. That’s how I earned the nickname, The Sinner.

Dizzy from having my brain bounced around my skull like a rubber band ball, it took a minute to climb to my feet. One of my considerate teammates—I’m looking at you, Hazey—already gathered my gloves and stick and handed them off. I accepted the gear and skated toward the box to serve my five minutes, which would have been totally worth it if I actually managed to snap one of Calloway's ribs, which I didn't. Instead, I was the one seeing stars while Sasquatch, though a bit bruised and bloodied, remained upright and in the game.

At least the crowd didn't disappoint. They love me and my tendency toward fisticuffs, and cheered as I wobbled across the ice. Like any good hockey player, I ignored the pain and grinned.

Totally worth it.

Waving my stick high, the spectators roared with delight. I had to hand it to them, hockey fans creamed their pants over a good fight, especially in Atlanta. It was why the violent moments in a hockey game were the perfect way to release my anger. Either that or a good, hard fuck.

And if the fans wanted action, who was I to deny them?

“St. Clair! Get your goddamn ass over here.” I turned to see Coach V's upper body dangling over the boards opposite the penalty box. A deep frown added extra creases to the man's loose j

owls.