Thank you, lord.

I exhaled in relief and ignored my racing heart and jittery hands, the result of a burst of adrenaline at the thought Seb and Rocco fighting on our doorstep.

“G-great. Perfect.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and Kylie—?”

Damn, his voice was so freaking sexy, it just wasn't fair. It got my brain so scrambled I could hardly think. “Y-yes?”

“I’m confident that by the end of the night… well, let's just say you'll be shouting that you’re my new number one fan.”

By the time I thought up a witty response, the line went dead.

Oh. My. God.

He was dangerous. And bad. This was a bad idea and Seb was most definitely a bad choice. Everything about it was bad. The worst.

I was never going to survive this affair intact.

8

Seb

Practice took for-fucking-ever. Then again, I never noticed before. Probably because I never had anything to look forward to. Hockey was it for me. I never paid attention to how long I shot pucks or switched out various lines and plays or speed drills.

Until Kylie.

I glanced at the clock, again, which pissed me off. Thanks to my amped-up state, it took an inordinate amount of concentration to ignore Sasquatch and his bevy of judgmental grunts and dark glowers. In my effort to be a good little team player, I clamped my big mouth shut, put my head down, and did what I was told. By some miracle, I finished practice without jamming my stick down Calloway’s throat. Barely.

I counted it as a win.

Through the tunnel we trudged, and to my extreme annoyance, my inconsiderate teammates failed to use my catchy and, in my humble opinion, fitting nickname for Calloway—Sasquatch. Nope. The dirty traitors called him Rocky, which to my utter delight, Calloway despised, or the vomit-inducing nickname Calloway brought with him. One he earned—and yeah, I could begrudgingly admit he really is that good—his first year in the NHL.

I remember during my brief time in the minors, I sat perched on the edge of my seat in the apartment I shared with three other guys, beer in hand, as we watched Rocco Calloway, the unstoppable rookie defender, take down forwards left and right. Hell, I'd actually admired the prick, until the following year when I got called up and had to play against him. I’d never admit it. Not even under threat of castration. I figure I must've had some kind of brain damage or been suffering from a concussion to think Calloway was anyone worth looking up to.

Fast forward several years and in a moment I couldn't have plucked from my wildest imagination, I found myself in a supremely shitty position. I’d have bet money Calloway’s nickname would never pass my lips, let alone be said directly to his ridiculous, snarling, Sasquatch face.

We’d always been on opposing teams, so what reason would I have to use it?

Whenever I pulled up an image of Rocco Calloway, the names that came to mind were simple—Sasquatch and/or Asshat and/or Bastard. Oh, and a bunch of Québecois obscenities that probably wouldn't go over real well with management if I shouted them at their newest hire, especially since I’m not the only one on the team who speaks French.

With Calloway officially a Comet, it was up to me give him the same respect I showed my other teammates, which kind of made me throw up in my mouth a little. What really ticked me off was that not one of my backstabbing teammates gave a single fuck that the man was literally the devil on skates. Management patently expected I would fall in line and do what any player worthy of the NHL did—suck it up and treat your teammate like family.

I snorted. I’d rather be fucked up the ass with a broken beer bottle.

Speaking of le diable.

Calloway emerged from the showers, towel slung low over his hips, all his stupidly huge Sasquatch-like muscles on display. With an annoyed huff, I turned my back to him and jammed my feet into my favorite pair of lace-up boots. Behind me, I heard the loud smacks of backslapping and high-fives, while my supposed “family” praised Calloway. “Nice practice, Assassin,” or “Way to go, Assassin,” or “Great job, Assassin.” I thought Calloway was way more ass than assassin, but one thing I refused to hear Coach say was that I wasn’t a team player.

Dammit, my team means everything to me. With the exception my little bro, they’re all I’ve had since I strapped on a pair of beat up used blades for my very first peewee league. The family I always wished I had. My escape. My safe place.

Now, with the inevitable arrival of the token bastard relative—don’t laugh, you know who I’m talking about. Everybody has one. The pervy uncle or drunk second cousin you prayed skipped out on holidays, and instead not only crashed the party, but never left, predictably taking up residence in your spare bedroom. Thank you Rocco fucking Calloway for being the relative who rounded out my fucked-up family.

I shouldered my bag and turned to leave. Unfortunately, I caught a perpetually scowling Rocco Calloway out of the corner of my eye. Fuck me. Where was that broken beer bottle when you needed it? I steeled my jaw and dipped my chin, swallowing several times to keep down the grilled chicken salad that threatened to make an unwelcome encore, and sucked up my pride.

I met Calloway’s hostile glare and forced out, “Great practice, Assassin,” when what I really wanted to say was, “vas te crosser avec une poignée de clous,” which basically means “fuck off,” or, if you want to be literal, “go jack off with a handful of rusty nails.” Entirely appropriate for the situation.

Sasquatch’s, I shuddered… I mean, Assassin’s eyes widened under his Cro-Magnon ridge. I never hid the fact that I hated his guts, so he had no reason to think I’d be cordial to him in any way. Calloway stood there a second, looking too genetically related to a true Neanderthal to be considered human, as he came up with what I knew would be a rude, cutting response. One that would undoubtedly humiliate me and make me wish I hadn’t bothered to put any effort into accepting him, especially since he regularly treated me like a scrap of toilet tissue stuck to his shoe. According to “experts,” I was supposed to be satisfied by “being the bigger man” or something idiotic like that.

Tags: Heather C. Leigh The St. Clair Brothers Romance
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