The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “I’m an asshole, I’ve been nothing but an asshole since we met. I treated you like shit, and now you know I killed my own father with my hockey stick. How…” His voice cracked. “How are you not telling me to leave?”

The distance was too much. I climbed back in his lap and held his face in my hands. “You’ve got it all wrong, Seb. I’m the one who treated you badly. I agreed to meet you in that hotel, specifically because I knew it would piss Rocco off. Well, that and because you’re smoking hot.” I grinned and he huffed out a laugh. “You forgot that I’m the one who left you, because I knew I was falling for you. The idea of Rocco finding out no longer thrilled me, it scared me to death. I hid you, when I should have been proud to tell him I cared about you.” I stared at Seb as I continued. “I do care about you, Seb.”

Seb studied my face, checking for my sincerity. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found, because the corners of his mouth pulled up. “We’re pretty fucked up, huh?”

I laughed. “Yeah. We are.”

While he continued to look in my eyes, Seb placed a hand on my belly. “I can live with that.”

My heart soared and I couldn’t stop smiling. I was going to spend the rest of my life with the most complicated man I’d ever met, have his child. Seb made me happy. I knew he would protect our family, with his life if he had to. Seb might think he’s a terrible person who did terrible things. That he’s a sinner. But I know better. Sebastien St. Clair is a good man, a survivor. And he’s mine.

With his palm still pressed against my abdomen, Seb leaned close and gave me a feather-light kiss. I put my hand on top of his and felt a tiny nudge from the inside. Seb’s eyes grew wide and he stared down.

“Did you… did you feel that?” he asked, awe-struck.

Right on cue, there was another tiny bump, directly beneath our stacked hands. I didn’t want to cry anymore, but tears of joy burst free and I laughed. “I think it’s the baby. It moved.”

Seb stared at me like I hung the sun in the sky. No, more than that. He stared at me as if I invented hockey.

“Il a bougé, le bébé. It moved,” he whispered. Seb’s handsome face broke out in a huge grin and he kissed me again. “Je t’aime.”

I don’t speak French, but recognized what Seb said. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and said, “I love you, too.”

15

Seb

I sat on the edge of the bench, coiled tighter than a slinky. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck and I chomped anxiously on my mouthguard. I glanced at the scoreboard that hung above center ice. Less than two minutes left in the third period and the score was tied 1-1. Every single one of my teammates looked as antsy as I felt. If we won against Edmonton, we’d be in the Stanley Cup playoffs. I wanted it so bad I could taste the metallic tang of the Cup, picture it raised in the air as I kissed the hell out of it.

Coach called for a line change and I stood. When the right wing swung his leg over the board, I leapt onto the ice, heart racing. I hadn’t been this nervous since I played in my first NHL game.

The puck was at the far end of the ice. Hajek had his hawk-like gaze locked on the small black disc, and Calloway fought against the Oiler’s center to move it out of the crease. Over the last eighteen months or so I’d come to better appreciate Calloway’s aggressive style, especially since I was no longer on the receiving end. The announcer declared one-minute left in the game. Calloway wasted no time and doled out a bone-crunching shoulder check that sent the Oiler ass-over-skates. The guy landed in a heap of pads, face first. One lightning quick turn by Calloway, followed by a perfectly executed flip, and the puck hit my tape dead center. I spun and charged down the ice, acutely aware of the players in my vicinity, tracking them in my peripheral vision. A streak of orange alerted me to the imminent arrival of a veteran Oiler—who happened to be a future hall of fame defenseman. He raced toward me, approaching fast.

“St. Clair!”

How I heard Roussell over the thunderous roar of the sold-out Edmonton crowd, to this day, I don’t know. Roussell deked the other defenseman, and dashed toward the crease. I faked right, rotated the opposite direction, and quickly calculated where Roussell would end up when the puck reached his stick. I aimed the puck and slapped it away. I successfully confused the Hall of Famer, who spun around, looking down in a desperate search for the puck. I saw Roussell successfully snag my pass right before I was hit by a brutal body blow. The fucker slammed into me and aimed an illegally elbow up and under my pads. Bastard landed a sharp jab to my solar plexus. Stars burst behind my eyes and my vision went black around the edges. The cheap shot left me hunched over and gasping for air, but didn’t knock me out. Thankfully, I was conscious when the horn sounded and the raucous noise of the home crowd cut off abruptly.

Roussell must have scored.

The next thing I knew, the announcer called my name for the assist and I was swept up in a boisterous celebration. The team crowded around me and Roussell grabbed me in a bear hug and lifted me off the ice. They cheered and shouted and I gave me so many slaps to the helmet I lost count. Even Hazey left his precious net to squeeze me with his Hulk-like strength. An icy glove slapped the back of my neck and I jerked around. Calloway’s dark eyes crinkled in the corners, his smile visible even as he chewed on his mouthguard.

“Coach wants you out,” he said, sounding amused. I started to argue, only to snap my mouth shut when Coach barked from the bench.

“St. Clair! Get your goddamn ass over here!”

I sco

wled and Calloway laughed. “There’s only five-seconds left and you got sucker punched. Go sit.” He steered me toward the bench. I didn’t like it, but went without complaint. To be honest, my abs were killing me and I couldn’t really breathe deeply enough to argue even if I wanted to. I hopped over the boards and Coach slapped my helmet.

“Great job, St. Clair.” I blinked, confused by the strange, foreign way Coach V’s mouth contorted up in the corners.

“Are you… smiling?” I asked, stunned. “Who are you?” Behind me, Ovechkin chuckled. The smile slid from Coach’s face.

“Sit your ass down, St. Clair,” he snarled, then returned his attention to the ice.

“Better,” I mumbled under my breath, though I caught the slight twitch of Coach’s lips. The man was beyond overjoyed and I had to admit, it was good—if not rare as hell—to see for a change. Ovechkin shifted down the bench to make room.

“Nice play,” Ovechkin said, reaching up to slap my helmet.