The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

“Oh thank god.” I clutched my shirt above my heart and exhaled when the useless refs finally made it into the center of the fray and ended the fight before either idiot threw another punch.

“Geez, that was intense,” Nat said under her breath. “Come on, sit.” She tugged on my hand and we both slumped down in our seats.

My earlier thoughts were confirmed yet again. Hockey players are quick-tempered, hard assed, rough around the edges, uber-masculine alpha dogs. The smear of blood left on the plexi was proof enough for me.

It didn't stop Sebastien “The Sinner” St. Clair from being the sexiest man alive. The big jerk.

Seb

“I really wish you would stop doing that, Seb. I'm serious. You can't attack every single player that checks me. You know as well as I do that getting hurt is part of the job.”

I strode across the room—the hotel’s décor indistinguishable from every other one I stayed in when the team traveled—to gaze out the window. Sometimes, having something to look at helped control my temper. Not that night, unfortunately.

I stared, eyes unfocused, too damn distracted to really see anything. With the heel of my hands, I rubbed my eyes until my vision cleared long enough to note the brilliant lights of the nation's capital. Lights illuminated the Washington Monument an eerie yellowish-white, the smooth stones glowing from base to tip. I placed the palm of my hand on the underside of my chin, shoved my head up and to the side, and groaned with pleasure when my neck cracked.

“Rémy, that ciboire had it coming.” I kept my voice even as my gaze drifted from the United States’ national monuments to the pitch-black sky, hundreds of pinprick stars sprinkled across the inky darkness.

“Christ, Seb. I'm a fucking winger in the NHL. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have your big brother do your fighting for you?” Unlike me, who tried my best to remain calm, Rémy had no such reservation. His tone pitched higher and the volume went up right along with it.

“Screw that.” Calm became impossible. As I grew agitated, my words slid into French. “You'll always be my little brother. It's my goddamn job to protect you.”

More than you will ever know.

Tired and beyond disgusted by my failures both the other night in Atlanta and earlier that evening in DC, I turned from the window, flopped on the bed, and kicked off my shoes. I managed to successfully ignore Rémy’s calls for three days after the game in Atlanta, too pissed with myself to listen to another one of my brother’s lectures about enacting revenge on his behalf. Besides, I had been somewhat indisposed. It took an unusually long amount of time to fuck the anger out of my system after Calloway put me on my back and knocked my head hard enough to have me yanked from the game for concussion protocol. The only reason I answered tonight was because I didn't want Rémy to get stressed out and worry.

“No Seb, it's not. It's not your job.” He let out a loud huff. “I get where you're coming from, really, I do.” At least Rémy’s breathing sounded better, which meant his ribs were almost healed. “You had to act like a parental figure because our dad —“

“This isn't about Dad.”

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Fucking perfect. I slapped a hand over the offending eye and cursed the damn thing.

“Oh, screw you. It's always about Dad. Mémère did the best she could, but we both know it was tough to grow up without parents.”

I didn't respond. Mostly because Rémy was one hundred percent wrong and had no clue what he was talking about, but hell would have to freeze over before I destroyed the lie I created to protect my brother from reality and all of its horrors. Okay, yeah. I maybe missed our mother, barely. She was drunk more often than not and a shitty parent. But at least she cared. Dad… well, I had zilch to say about the man that didn't include a string of obscenities colorful enough to make a porn star blush. Rémy, oblivious to my inner torment, continued.

“It's not that I don't appreciate what you do for me, bro. Growing up was…difficult.” Rémy swallowed and as usual, the guilt from the layers upon layers of lies crushed down on me. “And I know it was ten times worse for you, I mean, you still being a kid and all and having to act like the man of the house.” Another pause meant there was plenty of time to toss another suitcase full of guilt on my teetering mountain of baggage. ?

??But, I'm twenty. It's time to let me try and take care of myself. I think I've done a pretty decent job being on my own for the first time in my life. You need to worry less about me and focus on fixing your own shit.”

I slid my hand from my twitching eye to massage the back of my skull, where a dull ache throbbed. I heard what Rémy said. I got it, I really did, but he didn't understand, and if I had my way, he never would. I couldn't stop caring or worrying that Rém had everything he needed and was protected from the douchebags of the world anymore than I could choose to make my heart stop beating. It had been my responsibility to watch out for Rémy for so long, I wasn't sure I even knew how to turn it off. It was part of me. Kind of like the ever present rage and self-loathing.

With the final rub to my pulsing head, I let my arm fall and sighed. “I’ll try.” Rémy barked a sarcastic laugh and I scrambled to reassure him. “No, really. I will. Promise. I just… I can't guarantee I'll be perfect.”

Rémy did another one of his dramatic pauses, this one so long I pulled the phone from my ear and checked to make sure the call hadn't disconnected, like I did so often when talking to my brother. It wasn't all that unlikely the thing would actually crap out, as every electronic device I ever laid hands on broke, fell apart, or somehow magically exploded. In fact, if I remember correctly, this was my fourth phone in as many months.

Right as I was about to ask if Rémy was still there, he soothed my thoroughly frayed nerves.

“Thanks, bro. For everything.” Rémy’s voice hitched and a lump formed in my throat. It caused both my stationary and my stupid, twitchy eye, to burn with unshed tears. “Just,” it was Rémy's turn to sigh. “You have to try and let me be my own man now, okay? I really, really need this.”

“Yeah.” I sounded like I gargled with gravel. “I get it.” I changed the subject before I said something monumentally idiotic that messed everything up and made the already tense situation a thousand times worse. “When do the doctors think you'll be back on the ice?”

Rémy didn't—and as far as I was concerned, would never–know the extent to which I had gone, and wouldn’t hesitate to go to again, to keep him safe. Could never know. I had literally been protecting my brother for well over a decade. From nightmares, from pain, from the reality of our shittastic childhood… from our father.

Rémy grunted. "I hate riding the bench. Doc says probably next week."

“Just in time for my team to whip your team's ass.”