The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers Book 1)

  “Okay!” Coach shouted. "Were gonna start with first and third line versus second and fourth line. Three on two scrimmage. Change out every sixty-seconds. So move your lazy asses!” He blew the whistle again. Not paying attention, I had skated too close. My ears rang for a good five minutes.

  Roger Roussell, center on my line and team captain, got in place for the face-off. Second line center Alexi Ovechkin waited opposite Roger, grinning wickedly as he chewed on his mouth guard. Both Alexi and Roger are hypercompetitive to a fault. The match up would be interesting. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and my attention strayed from the center line to further down the ice. Unfortunately, I found a pair of familiar dark, hooded eyes, shooting an equally familiar glare my way. Calloway sneered and returned his focus to the face-off. Regrettably, I couldn't say the same. The puck dropped and Rouzy snagged it. He spun and flipped it to me. I wasn’t ready. The disc bounced off my thigh and rolled across the ice. One of the second line defensemen scooped it up and passed it to his forward.

  “What in the name of god's hairy nut sack was that shit, St. Clair?” Coach V. roared.

  I forced my head back in the game, eyes on the puck, and skated backward as I answered. “Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again.” Crisse, I had to get a grip, and fast. After my spectacularly awful sprints and drills, it wouldn't take much for Coach to yank me off the first line.

  I managed to keep it together for almost the entire scrimmage and even scored a goal off Hazey, not an easy feat considering the guy is one of the best tendies in the league. As a general rule, offensive and defensive lines don't switch out at the same time. Because they don’t skate as hard and fast, defense stays on the ice a little longer before needing a break. After several shifts and line changes, Coach wanted to mix things up. Calloway ended up defending me and I figured Coach must be damn determined to see me carted off the ice in a straitjacket.

  Not more than ten seconds after the whistle, the scrimmage turned into un tas de marde, as we say in Québec—pile of shit if you’re American. Rouzy did a nice little deke and was able to pass the puck to me. Waiting in the crease, I caught it on my tape and whirled around, ready to score. Out of nowhere, Calloway blindsided me. His behemoth body slammed into my left side and I went down. I hit the ice so hard my helmet made a loud crack as it bounced off the ice… with my head still inside it.

  The world went black for a second or two as I lay on my back and stared at the rafters. Lights popped in my field of vision and I half expected to see little fucking tweety birds circling my head. Sounds faded in and out, but I caught a few words said by my teammates.

  “Jesus Christ, St. Clair. You okay?”

  “He take hit. Get, how you say, bell rung hard, da?”

  “What the fuck, Calloway?”

  “Sebby, how many fingers am I holding up?”

  The last question came from Evvy. Slowly regaining semi-consciousness, I swatted his hand out of my face and snarled, “Vas te faire chier!” Ev looked confused. I parroted his expression back at him.

  “You're speaking in French, St. Clair,” Coach said from behind me.

  I staggered to my feet and frowned. The world spun in lazy loop-de-loops. “I told Evvy to piss off… I think.” I scrunched my forehead and glanced around as I wobbled on my skates.

  After a minute, my bearings returned. Able to focus more than a few feet in front of me, I scanned the faces on the ice. When I found the one I wanted, I launched at him, gracelessly knocking down several players in the process. Calloway had his fists raised, ready for me. But Calloway didn’t expect me to keep going. His eyes went wide when he realized I wasn’t going to stop. I barreled into him, so I could knock him on his ass like he did to me. Or, that was my intention. It didn't quite work out as I planned. Oh, Sasquatch fell all right, but the big bastard grabbed hold of my sweater and held tight, taking me down with him. Together, we crashed to the ice and without missing a beat started swinging. We rolled to our feet, trading jabs and cross hooks until the others got involved. It took three guys to hold me still, four for Sasquatch, the one-upper.

  “You two shit stains, in my office. Now!”

  Despite Coach’s shout, Calloway and I continued to exchange murderous glares. Coach V. shoved me toward the tunnel and the defensive coach did the same to Calloway, who actually freaking growled when touched. Come on! How did no one see it? The guy had to be at least half, maybe three-quarters Sasquatch. Nothing else made sense.

  Coach had enough sense to send a couple guys to accompany us so we didn't kill each other along the way. I was sure Frank Vernon wanted that particular pleasure all to himself.

  I didn't trust Calloway to turn my back on him, so I faced the middle of the changing room as I undressed. I chucked my sweaty shit on the floor and yanked on a shirt and jogging pants. Onlookers waited, arms crossed, ready to intervene.

  Calloway did the same. He discarded his pads, tore the tape off his ankles, and still managed to throw enough shade to block the sun for a week. I was almost done shoving my feet into a pair of sneakers, when Coach stormed past us, a thick cloud of fury following close behind. I knew from experience he wouldn't wait long. If you kept Coach V. waiting, it was at the very real risk of life and limb. Not me. Foregoing the rest of my clothes in favor of speed, I went into Coach’s office and took a seat. Thirty seconds later, spine stiff as a board and a jaw you could use to cut glass, Sasquatch entered and lowered his behemoth body into the chair next to mine.

  Coach slammed the door shut with a loud bang. It latched shut I wished he let us grab a shower first. Two men, fresh off the ice, who reeked of sweat and funky hockey equipment, crammed into a tiny room, made it damn near impossible to breathe without burning my nose hairs off.

  “What in fresh hell is wrong with the two of you?” Uh oh. It was bad. It had been a while since I’d seen Coach so upset, and I didn’t miss it one bit. His face flushed so red it looked puce. Or was it cerise? I always got those colors mixed up. “You with us, St. Clair? Or you wanna continue to fucking daydream?” Coach shouted in my face. I flinched and shook my head.

  “No. I'm with you. Um, sir.” The urge to gut punch Calloway when he made a rude noise was strong. But I wasn’t stupid enough to start something with a furious Frank Vernon standing within arm’s reach. “Good.” He crossed his arms and stared, eyes flicking back and forth between us.

  The room tilted a little and I blinked until it stopped. I lifted a hand to the side of my head and felt for a lump. Ow. I must have hit the ice really hard considering I had been wearing my helmet at the time.

  Coach continued to grimace, jowls hanging, not uttering a word. Bastard was trying to intimidate us. I hated that it worked. Even more, I hated that it only worked on me, not Calloway, who sat next to me, unflinching, cool as a fucking cucumber. Coach opened his mouth to read us our last rites. The shrill ring of the phone on his desk cut him short. The three of us stared at it. I was pretty sure I’d never heard that phone make a single sound. With the advent of cellphones, landlines had gone the way of the dinosaurs.

  “Son of a bitch,” Coach muttered. He glared at the clunky black desktop phone as he fished around in one of his jacket pockets. Coach yanked his cell free and promptly frowned. “Accidentally turned the damn thing to silent,” he mumbled, then twisted his upper body to snatch the trilling receiver off its cradle and barked, “What?”

  Whatever the person on the other end said made the color drain from Coach’s face. His knuckles blanched as he gripped the phone. When Coach’s worried gaze flicked to Calloway, my stomach sank.

  “I see… Yeah,” Coach continued. “Uh huh… Got it… Right.”

  Goosebumps pricked the back of my neck and icy tendrils of dread trickled down into my chest to slither around my heart. The look in Frank Vernon's eyes wasn’t one was used to seeing from the gruff man. Sympathy.

  Sasquatch, not being nearly as stupid as he looked, shot to his feet as Coach hung up the phone. My pulse thundered and I lick
ed my lips. My gaze bounced back and forth between Coach and Calloway and loud alarms went off in my head.

  I don’t know how I knew, but whatever was going down wasn’t good.

  “What? What is it?” Calloway asked, his voice tinged with fear.

  I didn’t blame him for being freaked out, hell, I was freaked out. Didn’t stop my mouth from falling open. I couldn't help but gawk at the man. Calloway had one setting and one setting only—irritated bastard. I never thought I'd see him on the verge of freaking out. To be honest, I didn't think anything in this world could put that stricken look on Calloway’s face and seeing it ratcheted my anxiety up another notch.

  Coach looked tired. He rubbed a hand over his bristly chin and let out a slow breath. Realization hit me like a Shea Weber slap shot to the liver.

  Ohgod. The room tilted and went out of focus, and it had nothing to do with the earlier blow to my cranium. A sense of impending doom settled on my shoulders like a blanket made of chainmail and I swallowed back a rush of nausea.

  I knew damn well there was one thing in this world that could send Rocco Calloway into this kind of a panic.

  His sister.

  “Fuck, Coach,” Calloway said. He rose, towering over me as I sat frozen in my chair. I could feel the waves of tension radiating off of him. Not that I was doing much better. Between Calloway, Coach, and me the air grew thick with nervous anticipation, unease, and a healthy dose of fear. “Tell me… tell me what's going on.” Coach V. hesitated, causing Calloway to grimace. “Coach?”

  Shit, Calloway was scared shitless.

  Cue the loosening of my bowels.

  “That was the main switchboard,” Coach finally said. “When no one could reach you or me on our cell phones, they went through the front office.”

  Anticipation killing me, I had begun to come completely unhinged, trembling from head to toe. I gripped the armrests, and my fingers dug painfully into the metal. I couldn’t take it anymore and snapped.

  “Come on, Coach!” I shouted in desperation. Frantic, I slid effortlessly into Québecois. My hands flew all over the place as I unleashed a tirade. “Arrêter de caler. Je ne peux pas le prendre! Dis-le jus.” Their puzzled stares had me out of my chair and ready to tear Coach a new one. “I said, stop dicking around and just fucking tell us what's going on!”

  Calloway let out a low growl, which I promptly ignored. Too fucking bad if he didn't like me butting in. I had no fucks left to give, especially in regard to what he thought.

  A wave of dread washed over me and the frigid fingers around my heart tightened. After all the shit I’d been through, dozens of broken bones, protecting my brother, pushed and beaten like a dog until I fucking snapped and bludgeoned my own father to death with my favorite stick… all that and never in my life had I been so close to losing my grip on sanity as I was in that godforsaken office. I was point two seconds from wrapping my hands around Coach’s throat and squeezing the shit out of him when he finally spoke.

  “It's your sister, Calloway. I don’t know what happened, but she’s been taken by ambulance to Piedmont Hospital.”

  My mouth went dry and the room slanted again. I swayed on my feet and put a hand on the corner of Coach’s desk to stay upright. Thankfully, Calloway was better at keeping his shit together.

  “I gotta go,” he said right before he bolted from the room.

  Coach turned to say something to me, but fuck it, I was out the door before he got the chance. I snatched my keys and wallet from my cubby and vaguely registered Coach shouting from his office. “Where the fuck are you going, St. Clair?”

  I didn't respond. Calloway had already banged through the locker room door and disappeared. Determined not to be left holding my dick, I followed, hot on his heels. So many gruesome images assaulted me as I wondered what happened to Kylie, that I had to switch my brain to autopilot or I’d have a breakdown.

  Calloway stopped next to his SUV and I was so out of it, I crashed into him, bounced off the wall of muscle, and landed ass first on the dirty pavement. To my complete and utter shock, Rocco Calloway reached down and offered his hand. I blinked, questioning if maybe the hit to my head did more damage than I thought.

  “Come on,” Calloway said, voice laced with impatience. He waved his hand for me to take. “You can’t drive. You probably have a concussion and will end up blacking out behind the wheel.” I put my hand in Calloway’s and allowed my evil arch-nemesis to haul me to my feet. Calloway unlocked the door, climbed into his Range Rover, and explained, “You're a stubborn motherfucker, St. Clair. I know full well you're going to the hospital whether I want you there or not, and if you plow your car into a van full of kids because I gave you a concussion, I'll feel like shit. So get the fuck in.” With that, he slammed the door and cranked the engine.

  Alrighty then.

  I scrambled around to the other side and closed the door. Calloway put the Rover in reverse and, tires squealing, tore out of his spot.

  “Seatbelt,” Calloway barked. A sharp retort sat the tip of my tongue, but I glanced over, saw the state the guy was in, and bit it back. Calloway was losing his shit too. He was just better at hiding it. I wasn't sure how close he was to Kylie, but from what little I gleaned, they were probably as tight as Rémy and me. If Calloway was even half as scared as I was, he needed to concentrate on driving, not listen to me shoot off at the mouth.

  In under ten minutes, Calloway steered the Rover down Collier Drive. He banked the wheel and took the corner onto the drive that led to the emergency room hard. The back of the SUV fishtailed and Calloway stomped on the brakes. The wheels locked and we came to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance. I jerked forward. His insistence that I wear the seatbelt was the only thing that kept me from smashing clean through the windshield.

  “Câlice!” I yelled as my hands reflexively shot out to brace against the dashboard. Heart pounding, I patted myself down to make sure I was in once piece. Satisfied, I turned to glare at Calloway only to find an empty seat, keys still in the ignition, door open. I tore off the seatbelt, threw open the passenger door, and searched for Calloway. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered when I caught a glimpse of his red T-shirt as the automatic doors closed behind him.

  I found Calloway at reception, a dark look on his face. He towered over a wide-eyed woman who sat behind the desk.

  “Where the fuck is my sister?”

  Oh shit. I never thought of myself as reasonable, but if I didn't get Calloway under some sort of control, they would dispatch security, and if Calloway got arrested, I wouldn't get inn to see Kylie. Family only and all that bullshit. The hospital wouldn't tell me a goddamn thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the woman whose name tag read Lisa M. I sidled up to Calloway and subtly nudged him out of the way. “We’re looking for someone brought in a little while ago. Can you help us?”

  “What the fuck are you doing, St. Clair?” Calloway growled under his breath.

  I shifted to block Lisa M’s line of sight and fisted the front of his shirt, then yanked him down so I didn’t have to shout. “I’m keeping your ass out of jail,” I hissed. “You're no good to your sister if you're locked up.”

  His rage-filled gaze burned into me. I peeked over my shoulder. Shit. I gave Lisa M. a fake smile. She looked scared, and why wouldn’t she? It wasn’t everyday you had two enormous, wild-eyed, panicky hockey players all up in your face. Add Calloway's menacing glower and we were lucky Lisa M. hadn't already screamed for help. Maybe she hit a silent alarm and the cops were on their way.

  Lisa M. took a deep breath, and nodded. “W-what’s the n-name?”

  “Kylie Calloway,” Sasquatch barked. I elbowed him in the ribs. That earned me a snarl, which I promptly ignored. Hands trembling, Lisa M. typed on her computer.

  “Um, y-yes. R-room two oh f-four. M-maternity ward.” She pointed toward a nearby set of elevators. “S-second f-floor.”

  Calloway sprinted for the elevators and smashed his palm on the button six or seve
n times. I empathized. I wanted to smash things too, but one of us had to stay levelheaded. He did his part driving. It was his turn to fall apart. Instead of smacking his hand away and dropping him with a haymaker, I shoved my hands in my pockets in studiously ignored my eye.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch…

  The doors no sooner opened and Sasquatch moved. He practically barreled over an elderly couple and a middle-aged nurse who tried to step off and offered no apologies as he forced his way inside. Calloway turned and glared at me impatiently. Once the people were out of the way, I joined him. Calloway pushed the two over and over, as if abusing the button would get us there faster. If I weren't so damn terrified I would've laughed. Six and half feet of solid muscle versus a tiny plastic button, and the button was winning.

  The chime dinged and the doors slid open, allowing the overwhelming sense of doom to return. Calloway tore past the nurse’s station, instead choosing to follow the small, wall-mounted signs labeled with room numbers and tiny arrows. I trailed behind mindlessly. Calloway stopped without warning, and once again, I flailed and slammed into him. Calloway didn’t react or seem to notice. He was too busy staring inside the open door of room two oh four. I stepped around him, but vacillated, torn between needing to see what was in the room and dreading what I might find.

  Calloway stepped over the threshold. I held my breath and did the same.

  It was a typical hospital room. The walls were painted a hideous toothpaste green and the few pieces of furniture were upholstered in shiny pleather a coordinating darker shade. It may as well have been painted to look like a three-ring circus for as much as I cared. All I saw was the tiny figure on the oversized hospital bed in the center of the room. Tubes and wires snaked from a plethora of machines and IV bags, attached to various parts of her body. I swore, my heart skipped a few beats. Seeing Kylie like that, eyes closed—either sleeping or unconscious—made it difficult to breathe.

  Calloway stood at the bedside and held her hand, despite the tubes taped over the pale skin. Suddenly, I felt extraneous, like an unwelcome intruder. I lingered in the doorway and watched Calloway lean over to whisper muffled words in Kylie's ear. She responded and my knees almost gave out as relief rushed through me. Kylie sounded wrecked, but it didn’t matter. She was awake and able to speak.