The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

“They don't call me The Sinner for nothing, Evvy.”

My tone was joking, but I knew damn well there was nothing funny about any of it. The darkness that lived inside me, the crushing guilt, the cold, detached manner in which I treated Amanda and any other woman who temporarily warmed my sheets. What did it say about me that I didn't know most of their names, and not only that, I didn't give a flying fuck? Ev was right. Why would any sane female put up with my shit?

But like I told Evvy, I had enough of my own problems. I couldn’t worry about the baggage someone else carried around. What I had with my sexual partners was always mutual. I got relief from the intense, aching pressure in my chest, and they got their kicks from being held down and hurt a little. End of story. The day I gave it any more thought was the day I jumped off a cliff. The careful juggling of the various aspects of my life would get all disturbed, and then the whole thing would come crashing down on my head.

No. I was better off doing things my way. Besides, without my coping methods, my carefully chosen “outlets,” considering the violent way I reacted to stress, I'd end up fighting everyone I met instead of fucking them out with a hot chick. And if I did that, my career would be over. Then I wouldn't be able to watch out for Rémy. I'd been down that road once before and more than ten years later I still struggled with guilt over leaving my brother alone.

Never again.

Mindless fucks it is.

4

Kylie

The Kings scored the first goal of the game and I leapt from my seat to dance and

cheer along with the twenty thousand or so other DC area fans. My grin was so big my cheeks were sore.

“Ky, that was awesome.”

I laughed and squeezed Nat’s arm as we jumped up and down and screamed while clinging to each other, our faces rosy with excitement.

“Right? It really was.” I couldn't stop smiling.

Nat and I met a few years ago as freshman at Georgetown University. Nat slogged through the tough physical therapy program, while I studied journalism, my passion ever since I was a little kid and my parents had to shoo me away from the more disturbing news segments I loved to watch. Our career paths couldn't have been more different, but in our first semester we ended up in a few intro classes together. When Nat loudly snorted at something the professor said that he didn't realize sounded like thinly veiled sexual innuendo, I giggled in response and we made eye contact. A match was made and we’ve been best friends ever since. Nat was my plus one whenever I went to Rocco's hockey games, and I never missed one at home. Not even if I had a test the next day and Rocco insisted I stay home to study.

Speaking of… Rocco skated by and grinned around his garish yellow mouthguard. The women in the seats all around us went absolutely nuts. Nat and I exchanged a knowing look and simultaneously rolled our eyes at the squealing females. Objectively speaking, I know my brother is an attractive guy. It's just… well, none of those women knew him. My brother. The real Rocco Calloway. I would even bet at least half were puck bunnies, women who went from game to game, hanging out where they knew the players would be, with the sole focus of landing a hockey husband, preferably by getting knocked up.

The bunnies had to have some sort of a clue as to what they were getting into when it came to professional athletes. But for the most part, regular everyday women knew less than nothing about athletes, or specifically hockey players, period. Because if they did, they’d bolt for the hills and run far, far away in the opposite direction. Most hockey players are—my loving brother included—by trade, notoriously quick-tempered, hard assed, immature, rough around the edges, uber-masculine alpha dogs who curse a lot. To the extreme. Pain doesn't stop them, words can easily send them into a rage, and from the maniacal behavior I'd witnessed over the years, I honestly believed every single one of them took a few too many hits to the head at one point or another.

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.”