The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

Rocco Calloway, it appeared, held no such standards in keeping things civil. Likely due to the fact that less than a week after our fight in Atlanta, the one where Calloway knocked me out cold, we had our second epic rumble in DC. The one that went down right in front of Hot Blonde—a.k.a. she of the hideous taste in hockey players. The woman who currently haunted my dreams and left me with a perpetually chaffed dick from the never-ending need to rub one out.

“I’ll never be one of you, asshole,” Calloway spat as he took a step toward me. Naturally, the others caught on to the suddenly hostile environment, and being a bunch of immature brats, reverted to second graders and called out “ooooooooh” as Calloway puffed out his Sasquatch chest and stalked in my direction. He sported an expression that let me, and everyone else in the locker room, know he was itching to turn my face into an unrecognizable smear.

At six-foot-two, two hundred and forty pounds, I packed pure muscle and was in no way small. During a game, I have zero reservations extracting a little pain from someone as big as Calloway. Off the ice, well, that's another thing altogether. Going toe-to-toe, without the benefit of pads and skates that made me look bigger and taller, Rocco Calloway made me feel like the Keebler fucking Elf. The dude towered over me, his blond-haired, behemoth body, big enough to eclipse the sun.

Calloway came to a stop mere inches away and extended a thick, rock hard finger to stab me in the chest. I growled and fought the urge to snatch Sasquatch’s fat digit and snap it in half.

“You stay the hell out of my way and I'll stay out of yours, St. Clair.”

The familiar dark fury awoke from its slumber. Deep inside, it churned and pulsed as the pressure grew more intense by the millisecond. I growled again, but before I had the chance to lash out with one of my patented, highly insulting, and expertly wielded verbal slap downs, Rocco spun on his size sixteen heel and stomped off, then—

Everyone in the locker room, including me, sucked in a loud breath and cringed.

Holy shit! That was close.

Sasquatch had to have been beyond furious to make such a careless mistake. Idiot didn't look where he was going and almost stepped directly on the white and red Comets logo woven into the black carpet in the center of the room. At the last second, Calloway tottered on his tippy toes and took a clumsy leap to the side to narrowly avoid it.

Asshat. He almost broke the golden rule of hockey. The near miss of his big fat Sasquatch foot on the logo brought on another round of “oooooooohs” from my useless teammates. Not that Calloway didn't deserve it. Everyone, from old-timer to rookie, knew you didn't step on the team logo. Ever. That was peewee hockey 101 right there. I wouldn’t have minded lending a helping hand in giving the inevitable, and well deserved, beat down, had Calloway actually stepped on it.

I sighed and scratched my chest where I still felt his phantom finger jabbing into me. Too bad that beat down would have to remain a fantasy. Stupid Sasquatch reflexes.

Once Calloway left the locker room, I dropped onto the bench in front of my cubby, scrubbed my hands down my face, and groaned. That was when another of my jerk teammates decided

it was the perfect time to kick me when I was down.

“He good addition to team, da?”

Next to me on the bench, Evvy silently laughed. Traitorous jerk’s shoulders shook and Ev covered his mouth with his hands. I stared up at Hajek and frowned at the goalie’s unwanted two cents.

“Yeah, fucking wonderful, Hazey. It's gonna be so awesome to skate with someone whose number one wish in life is for me to drop dead.”

Hazey’s face lit up. “Da, I agree. It shall be quite entertaining to watch.”

With that, Hazey, clueless as usual, turned and walked away. I heard him cackling like a hyena and realized Hazey might not be as clueless as I thought. Fucker. Evvy was no better, I suppose, my friend now bent in two, clutching his stomach as he burst into hysterics.

Ha-fucking-ha.

Entertaining for them, maybe. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to have anywhere near as much fun with Calloway around as the rest of my team.

Whatever. I suited up in home gear and ignored the ribbing. Eventually they would get bored of the St. Clair-Calloway rivalry and shut the fuck up. As a unit—minus Calloway, whose selfish ass must've already gone on ahead—we trudged through the tunnel to emerge onto the ice. Coach was in rare form, already barking out warm-up drills like Cujo on crack as fans trickled into the arena. When I snuck a glance over at Coach, I half expected to find foam dripping from the man's dangling jowls. A half-hour later, all red-faced and wild eyed, a rabid looking Coach shouted for us to get our sorry asses off the ice.

We gathered in the tunnel and waited for the game to start. I patently avoided the harsh glare aimed in my direction. It wasn't that I feared Calloway, it was that I feared I wouldn't be able to hold back. Once the rage overflowed, there was little that could get me to stop. Beating down my teammate would certainly get me ejected from the game. Or fired. My hands were completely tied, and not in a good way.

It sucked.

Kylie

I double checked my ticket stub and reread the seat number for my very first game in Atlanta. It wasn't as good as Rocco’s seats in DC, but I certainly had nothing to complain about. Like DC, it was in the front row. The problem was that it was on the opposite side of the ice from the players’ bench. Opposite from where I’d been sitting since I was thirteen years old, doing my homework in the arena while I waited for Rocco's game to begin. Also, the new location meant my seat was directly behind the penalty box.

Just perfect.

Now I'd have to listen to the nonstop, unique and colorful, curse-filled rants the players unleashed when they spent their big-boy version of a timeout in the bin. Not that foul language bothers me. My brother is a hockey player after all and I practically grew up at the rink. I figure I know every single possible swear word in English, a bunch in French, a handful in Russian, and a whole lot more in languages I couldn't even begin to guess at. I’ve been known to drop a swear or two myself now and then, so I couldn't care less about the cursing. I watched the games for one reason and one reason only, to support Rocco. It was not being seated up against the ice that bothered me. Especially since my brother tended to be prone to fighting.

To say Rocco had been upset when he got the call that he was traded would be the understatement of the twenty-first century. Rocco played for DC since he got drafted seven years ago. The memory of the day we moved from Minnesota and left the only house we'd ever known was as clear as if it happened yesterday. Rocco purchased his Georgetown condo with his signing bonus and we’d lived there ever since. Because I went from a family of four to being raised by my brother in a city thousands of miles away, I didn’t have time to grieve for my parents until Minnesota was gone. Moving to DC and leaving everyone I knew behind, made it that much more difficult to adjust. Moving again, this time to Atlanta, felt almost as traumatic.

When word of the trade came down, Rocco went bat-shit crazy. He was beyond livid. If he wasn't my brother I would have been seriously afraid of him, that's how angry he was. The look in Rocco's eyes could only be described as borderline murderous. The only way I got him to calm down and accept the trade—after he shouted he was going to quit the NHL—was to agree to move to Atlanta with him. Apparently, the thought of leaving his little sister to fend for herself in DC sent my overprotective brother into one of his patented, full-blown, uber-controlling freak outs. This time with a serious injection of flat-out rage over the unexpected trade.

To Rocco, it didn't matter that I was twenty-one and one semester from completing my journalism degree, or that most of my peers already lived on their own. Nope. My insanely uptight and overbearing big brother made it perfectly clear he wouldn't be going anywhere without me. After everything he sacrificed for my benefit over the years, I wasn't willing to let Rocco quit the NHL and ruin what he worked so hard to achieve over something as stupid as where I finished school. It didn't take any prodding on his part to get me to agree to the move. Luckily, my journalism advisor said I had enough core courses to get my degree. All I had to do to complete the remaining credits was find an internship in Atlanta.