The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

“My season is essentially over,” I said. “The Comets have no chance at making the playoffs. Your team on the other hand, has a good chance of claiming the Cup.”

“It is pretty exciting,” Rémy agreed, his voice echoing his obvious enthusiasm. “The Rush hasn’t made the playoffs since way before I joined, and this is their… our best season on record. We still have to win against Chicago, since they already clinched their division.”

I scoffed as I stacked a precarious mound of turkey and cheese on a slice of bread and slathered mustard on the other slice. “No problem. Chicago’s first line is shit compared to yours. It's not even close. Just because they won a lot in the past and they’re Original Six doesn't make them unbeatable.”

“True.”

Rémy sounded so much better. He freaked me out the last time we spoke. It had been a while since I’d been that worried about him. When he hit a dark period during the hockey season, the stress ate at me. Too many games and not enough time off means I can’t go to Charlotte to be there for him, which I take as a personal failure.

“So, why did you really call, Seb? Because I know it's not to talk about work.”

I put the sandwich fixings back in the fridge and, with my hands freed up, untucked the phone and stared at it. How the hell did Rémy know that? I returned the device to my ear.

“You suck.” The little shit laughed, which only made me slap the on the other slice of bread on top of the sandwich and press down hard enough to poke a hole in it. I sucked the mustard off my ring finger. “Fine. I called to check on you. Happy?”

“Seb, I promised I’d call if anything happened, and I meant it. You know I'm fine. So… try again. Why are you calling me?”

I sneered. Perceptive bastard.

I cut the sandwich in half and tossed the knife in the sink with a loud clatter. “There's this girl,” I began.

Rémy whooped and cackled. “I knew it! I knew it had to be about a chick.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, make fun of your brother. Go on, get it all out.” And boy did he ever. Rémy laughed and wheezed for five minutes straight. Then he goaded me relentlessly, English and French. I ate my sandwich while I waited for him to get over himself. “Are you done?”

In between breaths, Rémy said, “Whew! All done. I swear.”

“Whatever, imbécile. Anyway, I have a question for you. It sounds, umm, kind of stupid, but, uh, do you know… I mean, how do you know if you, you know, are in love with someone?”

Twitch, twitch.

“Wait. You…you’re in love with this girl?” Rémy sounded as stunned as I felt. Just weeks ago, I would’ve bet money I’d go to my grave without ever having a conversation about love.

“I don't know. That's why I’m asking, you. Maudit bâtard,” I snapped, frustrated.

The traitorous shithead started to laugh again. I growled, and Rém forced out a hurried apology. “I’m sorry! I just never expected this, not from you.”

“Yeah, well that makes two of us.”

“Well, uh, if you're serious about knowing—”

“I am.”

“Okay, well, I'd say just the fact that you're calling me to ask makes me think the chances are pretty high that yes, you’re in love with this girl.”

I bent over like I took a slap shot to the groin, and dammit, that stupid empty, too familiar ache returned. The hole in the heart sensation. I noticed it at least thirty times since Amanda pointed it out a few days earlier.

Que je sois damné.

Rémy and Amanda were right. I was in love. And for the first time in my life I was faced with something I couldn't fight or fuck out of my system.

Without being able to turn to my tried and true outlets, I had no idea what to do next.

Shit. I’m an emotionally stunted goat.

Clad in head to toe hockey gear, I stomped out of Coach V’s office in a dark thundercloud. If the changing room hadn’t been packed to the gills with players in various states of undress, along with the clamoring horde of media vultures, I'd have chucked my Bauer clear across the room. Coach chewed my ass for so long I wouldn’t sit properly for a week. His words screeched at me full blast, again and again, like a myna bird stuck on a loop. What the hell was that? Your head isn’t in the game. Straighten your shit out. God dammit, St. Clair! And my personal favorite, You fucking numb-nuts! By the time he finished reaming me out my left eye was spastic.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.