The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

I sighed and took a detour from the sin bin across the ice to stop next to the bench. Flustered and with his tie flipped upside down and thinning hair standing on end, Coach Frank Vernon gestured me to come closer. The furious expression on the man's face would have been comical if it weren't directed at me. The shame at being on the receiving end felt worse than usual, especially after such an epic fail at revenge. Coach’s cheeks and neck were flushed a shade of red so dark I’d feel confident calling it purple.

Coach clenched his jaw so hard I watched, fascinated, as the tendons in his throat twitched. Unlike the angry ref, who in retrospect I realize was merely pissed, Coach was literally one blown gasket away from a massive heart attack.

“Yeah, Coach?”

Coach growled, his struggle to hold back from berating me up one side and down the other obvious, though I had no doubt that would come in due time.

“Get your fucking ass in the locker room, you idiot.”

"But I'm fine, Coach. I swear."

“St. Clair,” Coach inhaled through his teeth. “Don't. Fucking. Test. Me.” He stabbed a thick finger into my chest pads. “That little stunt you pulled ended with you taking a helluva hard wallop up to your even harder head and now you're skating like a goddamn drunk. You're done.” Coach shoved his fat thumb over a shoulder toward the tunnel. “Go see the doc for concussion protocol. Now.”

Pulled from the game? My eye was no happier than me.

Twitch, twitch, twitch…

Defeated, I sagged as my left eye spazzed out. Experience taught me there was no point arguing. Not when Coach used his patented “don't mess with me” voice, a voice aimed at me more often than most of my teammates. Simmering, I stomped off the ice and down the tunnel to the changing room, which would have made a much more menacing picture without the skates and pads that made me waddle like a penguin with a stick up its ass. By the time I stripped off my gear and took an efficient three-minute shower, the doc was ready and waiting by my cubby.

Just great.

My stomach cramped around the lead brick that still sat heavy inside it. A lecture from the team physician followed by an ass reaming from Coach, then a dump truck full of ball busting from my jackhole teammates. And to top it off, Calloway still hasn’t paid for injuring Rémy.

The lecturing didn't matter. I couldn't care less about that. The fact that I didn't get my pound of flesh? Yeah, the lack of satisfaction left a bad taste in my mouth. Don't get me wrong, it felt awesome to land a punch on Calloway’s face, but it didn't change the fact that I was pissed, which meant I still needed to find an outlet to unleash on. Despite everything that went wrong tonight, even if I could go back I wouldn't change a single thing.

Except maybe hitting hard enough that Calloway ended up being the one to leave the game, while I stayed on the ice to gloat.

Fucking Calloway. What an asshat.

3

Seb

Perched as close to the edge of the bed as possible without falling on the floor, I yanked my shirt over my head and bent to shove my feet into my boots. The rustle of sheets behind me made me tense and I dropped my head into my hands, and propped my elbows on my knees. I knew what came next and for the millionth time wondered why I kept doing this to myself. There were a dozen other women, ready and willing, waiting for my call, yet I ended up at Amanda’s. Again. I'd made progress. I came around way less often than I used to, but still. Each time I did it I swore it would be the last. Until that damn familiar swell of fury blinded me and the knot of rage tightened in my chest. Then I would blink and discover my car in Amanda’s driveway.

Every damn time.

Wasn't there a saying about insanity? Something about doing the same thing over and over or something like that? Except, when my mood plummeted into darkness, when I needed a release as desperately as I did after last week’s debacle with Calloway, there was nothing sane about me. When I ended up in a place so black I couldn’t see a thing, Amanda was the only one I knew who could withstand—and enjoy—whatever I dished out.

A hand slid under my T-shirt and up my sweaty back. It took an extreme amount of self-restraint to stay still when I wanted to flinch, or worse, spin around, grab her hand, and squeeze. That wouldn't be good as I could quite easily break Amanda’s tiny bones. I'm the first one to admit I'm a bastard, and an even bigger one in bed, but I refuse to be a monster. The last thing I’d ever let happen was for the anger overtake me to the point I’d beat up on a woman. I would die before I sank to my father’s level. Besides, the incredible pounding I gave Amanda’s tight pussy less than five minutes ago satisfied my darker urges.

Until the rage came back. Which it always did.

“Leaving already, baby?”

Baby?

A second hand joined the first and this time, I couldn't help it. My muscles tensed and I jerked away, my back ramrod straight. The hands on my skin stilled, then slender fingers moved higher to grip my shoulders with a little more pressure than necessary.

“Jesus Christ, Seb. Again with this?”

I blew out a long breath and pushed to my feet. In hopes of putting off the inevitable, I cracked my neck and studiously ignored the rude scoffing sound Amanda made by digging my blunt fingernails into my palms.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

She was skating awful damn close to the no-go zone. The knee-jerk, raw fury I had barely been able to contain over the last few days while on the road with the team might have been gone, temporarily subdued by a couple of hours of highly athletic and savage fucking, but that didn't mean it wouldn't, or couldn’t, immediately return.

It ticked me right the fuck off that Amanda was ruining my buzz. And being pissed, in turn, brought on a fresh round of eye spasms. Twitching away, I spun to face the stunning brunette who sat amongst a twisted pile of white sheets. Her green eyes narrowed and chaffed red lips pulled into a deep frown. I dropped my gaze to Amanda's wrists. She subtly massaged one of the raw circles of flesh. Lower, I noted finger-shaped bruises on the pale flesh of her hips.