The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

I shouted a long string of obscenities in French and whipped my gloves across the changing room. Spitting curses left and right, I paced in front of the bench and fought to rein the urge to pummel something. My hands clenched and unclenched at my sides.

“Fucking blind-ass referee,” I growled.

The rest of the team filed in and, for once, they did the smart thing and gave me a wide berth. Except that idiot, Evvy, who plopped his ass down on the nearest bench.

“Rough game, eh?”

I stopped short to squint at him. “Rough game?” I asked, incredulous as I took a step closer. “Rough game?” I repeated, bending over until I was up in Ev’s face. “A rough fucking game is getting tripped up or missing a shot,” I shouted. My nostrils flared as the familiar, comforting blanket of rage curled around my shoulders and my vision went red. “Getting four bullshit penalties and having Coach pull me from the game, a game we lost spectacularly by the way, isn’t a rough game, Ev. It’s a fucking nightmare! Colice de marde. Putain d’idiot arbitre.” Evvy knew enough French to get the gist. His eyes narrowed and his mouth pulled tight.

“Listen, I understand you’re pissed.” Ev spoke slow, enunciating each word. "But you need to stop yelling and you really need to get the fuck out of my face." His voice dropped an octave and got all growly. If Ev weren’t my best friend, I would have taken a swing at him. Instead, I blinked in surprise, because Evvy never gets angry.

I took too long and Ev had to repeat himself. “Step. The fuck. Back.” He looked at my hands and I copied him, surprised to find them balled up, my knuckles were white. I stood in a defensive stance I didn’t remember taking.

Thanks, mon pére, for programming me so that when I’m nice and pissed, I get ready to attack.

God, it would be so easy, such a relief, to lash out violently. And fuck, I wanted it. Craved the release. It had been weeks since I’d gotten laid. Since Kylie. Easily the longest I'd gone without sex since I discovered the joys of pussy behind the middle school with Gabriella LeBlanc.

Without a way to let out the intensifying fury—a result of my shitty game play due the undeserved and unexplained silent treatment from Kylie combined with mounting sexual frustration—I played one of the shittiest games of my career. Just thinking about it sent a hot flush racing up my neck and face, and my fists rose independently from my brain.

Ev’s eyes widened and I crowded closer. As a result, he didn't have enough room to stand. I watched his muscles tense as he braced for the blow. Ev was no pussy. If I hit him, he’d fight back, and it would hurt.

“St. Clair, you useless sack of shit! Get your ass in my goddamn office!”

Few things could have stopped me from taking that swing. Frank Vernon's vicious bark was one of them. The release valve opened, and the intense pressure rushed out, taking my anger along with it. I lowered my fists and gave Evvy a sheepish grin.

“Sorry man. It's just…” I gestured toward my head and spun a finger in circles next to my ear. “I’m all fucked up, and an asshole for taking it out on you.”

Ev nodded sharply, but didn’t say a word.

?

??Now, St. Clair!” I flinched and hurried into Coach’s office, gear and all, including my skates. “Shut the door and sit the fuck down.”

I did as ordered and wedged my body into a chair that was way too small to fit a hockey player in full game pads. No way would I bitch about it. Not with Coach glaring at me like he wished he could set me on fire and dance around my ashes. After my horrifying performance, I knew I was in for one hell of a chewing out and waited for the verbal lashing to begin.

Coach didn't disappoint. He sat, silent, and let me sweat. His rough, scarred hands folded on his desk amongst dozens of piles of paper and an assortment of dirty coffee mugs. I flushed and squirmed in my seat, or would have if I weren’t jammed in so tight it would take an industrial sized shoehorn to get me out. No one in my life made me feel like a disappointment the way Coach did. Fuck, not even my own father made me feel so small, but maybe that was because I was too busy getting the innocence beat out of me to worry about anything other than overwhelming, piss your pants terror.

“All right, St. Clair, I've had enough of your bullshit.” Coach’s jowls shook as he spoke. “You've been acting off for weeks.” Fuck, I thought I did a good job not letting my personal shit show. I started to say something, but Coach held up a hand and gave me a look that made me snap my mouth shut without further comment. “I didn't say anything because whatever you’re dealing with is, well, frankly, it’s none of my goddamn business.” Coach’s bushy caterpillar brows squinched in the middle and he glared at me. “Until it affects my team.” He stood and placed his palms flat on his desk, leaning toward me until his face was almost directly above mine. “Tonight, it affected my team. You affected my team!”

My cheeks blazed. I stared at a bloodstain on my left thigh and wondered if it was mine or one of the two guys I pummeled in the first period or the guy I pummeled in the third period. Or was it one in the second and two in the third?

“Now,” Coach sat back down and lowered his voice a few hundred decibels or so. “I don’t care what you got jammed up your lily-white Canadian ass that has you so screwed up, but you better take care of it, St. Clair. I won’t have a liability on the ice. You might be one of the highest scoring forwards in the league, but you keep acting like a goddamn monkey fucking a football and I'll scratch you from the lineup and let you ride the bench until your nuts freeze solid!”

Ouch!

When it seemed like Coach might be done whipping rocks at my head, I took a chance and glanced up. He raised his brows, suggesting it was my turn. Fuck. What was I supposed to say?

Sorry Coach, I can’t concentrate because I’m hung up on a chick?

I pictured Coach’s reaction and stifled a snort. No doubt that would go down about as well as a whore with busted knees. The only thing I could scrounge up was a pathetic, “I’m sorry.”

Coach V’s furry brows inched further up his broad expanse of forehead. “I'm sorry?” He repeated. “I’m fucking sorry? That's all you got for me?” Coach scoffed and leaned back in his chair, which—due to the daily torture of supporting two hundred forty or so pounds of hollering, angry, ex-hockey player—squeaked like he sat on a mouse, and folded his arms across his chest.

“I-I don't know what you want me to say,” I admitted. “Um, it won't happen again… uh, Coach?”

Jesus. The office was stifling. Were the walls closing in?

Coach stared as if trying to decide whether he should hit me or if I should ride the short bus. Eventually, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.