The Sinner

  Not in the mood to discuss the reason for my insomnia—i.e. Rocco’s gorgeous, unattainable teammate—I pulled back and wrapped my arms around my waist, as if I could physically hold the pieces of my heart together.

  “I’ve been sick,” I snapped, annoyed Rocco was giving me grief when I'd spent the majority of the last eight days hunched over a toilet, yarking my guts out. “I’m sorry if I'm not the picture of health.”

  “Don't do that,” Rocco said, seeing right through my attempt to push him away. He gestured toward the couch and sat. Reluctantly, I curled up on the other end and hugged my knees to my chest. Rocco turned sideways and draped an arm along the back of the sofa. “I feel like a shitty brother for not being here for you.” His eyes glistened aaaand here comes the guilt for putting that look on his face. “But I'm here now. Maybe…” He cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “I think I should take you to the doctor.”

  Oh hell no. The last thing I wanted was to wear half a sheet, sit my naked butt on an ice cold metal table, and let someone poke and prod my body to his or her heart’s content. I gave Rocco what I hoped was a casual shrug.

  “Let's give it another day or so. I've been able to hold down small meals. I really don't think it's anything worth worrying over.”

  “I always worry about you,” Rocco stated plainly. “I always will. You’re my sister.”

  I reached out and gave Rocco’s hand a light squeeze. “I know. And I'm grateful to have you.”

  It was the truth. Without Rocco I didn’t know how I would have made it that far, let alone the previous few challenging weeks. Nat's visit was great, but it was a cute little Care Bear Band-Aid slapped on top of a massive, gaping wound. After Nat flew home, I spent too much time thinking about what I’d never have, while wishing circumstances were different. Time spent remembering the way Seb stared into my eyes as he brought me to new heights of pleasure, the way his hands moved across my skin, his touch almost reverent.

  The myriad of emotions was so big and so overwhelming, every time my mind turned down that road, I expected them to burst from my chest. To stop the downward spiral, I would conjure up the image of Seb’s hurt and confusion, written plainly on his handsome face, as I walked out his door for the last time.

  Seb probably hated me. Thought I played him. Used him for sex. Which had been my intention… initially. When I realized I was falling for him, everything changed. I had to end it before I got in too deep. Only, Seb didn’t know any of that, because I didn’t tell him. Instead of confessing how I felt and facing rejection like a big girl, I shut him out, then ignored his repeated attempts to reach out.

  If I were him, I’d hate me too. I did hate me. Hated what I did. Seb didn't deserve it. And it didn’t matter that he was a shameless man-whore who probably treated every woman he hooked up with the same way I treated him. That didn’t give me the right to discard him like yesterday’s garbage in a bid protect my heart.

  “Why don't I heat up some soup and you pick out a movie,” Rocco said, his smile plastic, oblivious to my turmoil as he freaked out over my illness. “Like old times.”

  I managed to return the smile. Like Rocco’s, it felt fake. “If you want it to be like old times, we need to have popcorn not soup.”

  “Meh. I figured your stomach would do better with something that doesn’t have a gallon of fake butter dumped on it.”

  Rocco stood and patted me on the head before he wandered into the kitchen. I listened to him bang around as he prepared dinner. Cabinets opened and closed and the microwave hummed as he heated up the soup. I scored the nearest throw pillow and held it to my midsection so I could curl around it. Maybe a movie would help keep my mind off Seb.

  I snatched the remote off the end table and turned on the gigantic, hyper-masculine, eighty-thousand and something pixel, flat screen TV, and scrolled through the movie menu. Of course, my one-track mind refused to be derailed. I wondered what kind of movies Seb liked and chuckled when I read one of the titles, Die Hard. Based on the way he behaved on the ice, I’d bet Seb favored hard-core action.

  Rocco handed me a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and sat down. I pushed start and heard the familiar opening music of the Bruce Willis flick.

  What? So it reminded me of Seb? I guess I’m a martyr, because I seem to enjoy suffering. Grumpy and achy, I slurped my dinner and settled in for two hours of classic Hollywood shoot ‘em up entertainment.

  Midway through, my thoughts drifted. Was that what it would it be like if Seb and I were a real couple? Would we cuddle on his couch, me in his arms so I could use his firm pecs as a backrest?

  A barefoot, bloody, and battered Bruce Willis soared through the air with a fire hose tied around his waist and I almost burst into tears.

  It was hopeless.

  I was never going to get over Sebastien St. Clair.

  Seb

  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.

  “Get the fuck out of here, St. Clair.”

  I couldn't stand fast enough. No really, with my pads on, when I stood, the chair came with me, fused to my ass. I shoved the arms. It popped free of my backside and clattered loudly when it hit the floor. I had one hand on the doorknob when Coach tossed out his parting words of wisdom.

  “If you don't get your act together, not only will I bench you, I'll make you see the team therapist.”

  I shuddered. Damn if the cranky old bastard didn't know exactly what to say to keep my ass in line. Therapy? Um, fuck no. I cleared my throat a couple times and replied without turning to look at Coach V. “That won't be necessary. I'll make sure of it.”

  I took off, knowing I'd keep my word. During my time in lockup, I spent hours in therapy, talking out my “problems” until I was hoarse and my brain had liquefied to one step up from vegetable. None of it helped. All that time spent “reflecting” and I left juvie just as angry and fucked up as the day I went in.

  By the time I got back to the changing room, everyone was gone. Except Ev. Dressed and showered, my best friend leaned against the wall near my space. Great. One more person to add to the shame pile.

  “I already apologized, Evvy. Not sure what else you want from me.”

  Ev stared at me like I was the biggest fuckstick on the planet. And maybe I was. What the hell did I know anymore?

  “I don't want anything from you, Seb. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  I cursed. More guilt. Seemed I brought a lot of that upon myself lately.

  I didn’t want to argue, so I started to strip, eager to put some space between my long-suffering olfactory nerves and my rank, swampy hockey gear. “I’m good,” I said as I dropped the last pad, wrapped a towel around my waist, and headed for the showers.

  “Wait.” Ev grabbed my arm as I walked by. “Dude, I know something’s up with you. Not to get all Dr. Phil, but you haven't been yourself.” He shook his head. “That's not entirely true. It's like you were better for a while. Kinda like a happier version of you.” Evvy grimaced. “But now you're back to being an angry son of a bitch. Angrier if that’s even possible. Just…if I can do anything to help—”

  He didn’t mean to, but Ev’s little speech dredged up memories of Kylie and it pissed me off. I tore out of Cal’s grasp, ready to bite his head off, and caught myself. I was too fucking exhausted, being angry all the time, skin like an overinflated balloon, all tight and itchy, ready to pop at any second. It was time to pull the plug, let out the extra air, and stop being a miserable bastard all the damn time.

  I gave Ev a wan smile and patted his arm. “Thanks, man. I appreciate the offer but there's not much you can do.”

  He pushed off the wall and nodded. “I get it. Just… take care of yourself.” Ev lightly punched me in the shoulder and left.

  I cranked the water to peel your skin off hot and stood under the spray as I wondered what to do next. When it came down to it, there was really only one viable option, because constantly pining over Kylie, fucking up my game and my head, sucked. I either had to confront her and get some answers or forget she ever existed and go back to burying myself in detached, meaningless sex with easy women.

  I winced. The second option kind of made my stomach hurt.

  It made the decision easy.

  Kylie

  “Kylie?”

  Oh god. No, no, no.

  Between the desperate ache in my heart for Seb, the need to hide my mental anguish from Rocco, and my stupid stomach, fine one minute, making me do the fifty-yard dash to the bathroom the next, the last thing I needed was to be around someone with a freaky, superhuman ability to suss out emotional issues.

  “I’m okay, Piper,” I said from where I hunched over the toilet in one of the stalls at work.

  “You don't sound okay. Besides, don’t think I haven’t noticed you've been getting sick a lot lately.”

  I rolled my eyes. See? Like Rocco, Piper was too darn observant. I was convinced they were both X-Men and half expected Patrick Stewart to roll in from stage right whenever one of them entered a room.

  I flushed, exited the stall, and washed my hands. A quick glance in the mirror and some of the tension left my body. For once I didn't look like I went fifty rounds with the porcelain god. A little pale, maybe a bit of sweat at my temples. I could live with that. I dried off my hands and headed for the door.

  “Kylie…” Piper shifted to block the exit. “What's going on?
”

  “Nothing.”

  Piper glared, her way of letting me know she thought my answer sucked. I huffed and threw my arms out.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ve been dealing with a bit of a nervous stomach. It’s no big deal. No fevers, no body aches, no chills, just my stomach.” The look Piper leveled reminded me yet again of Rocco, over-concerned and hovery, but all-knowing, like a mother hen-helicopter hybrid.

  Piper frowned. “Kylie,” she leaned close and whispered, “have you thought that maybe you're, you know…” Piper gestured toward my stomach, “pregnant.”

  The word landed on the top of my head like an atomic bomb and exploded, wiping out everything familiar, everything I thought I knew, and replacing it with the horrific, stark truth. I bit my lip and dredged up memories of the times Seb and I were intimate.

  Reality hit, and it hit hard and fast, dropping a ten-ton bomb on my head and leaving behind the desolate, frigid remains of a nuclear winter.

  “Oh my god.” I bent over and placed a hand on my stomach. "There was one time…" The night Seb held me against the wall and fucked me until my eyes rolled back in my head. The time I felt an emotional connection. The one that sent me into a panic and I ran.

  “I think… I’m not sure. Oh, Jesus. There might have been once…” I frowned. “It’s possible… maybe we didn’t use protection.”

  There was no might. No maybe. We didn't, and I couldn't believe it didn't occur to me until that moment. We were so caught up, the passion so fierce, stopping for a condom slipped both of our minds, and after… well, I can attest to the fact that when you're busy sobbing a river out of your eyes, the last thing on your mind is whether or not you used a condom during sex.

  Piper gathered my shaky hands in hers and waited until the shellshock passed. “After work, together, we’ll go to the store and get a test. You shouldn't be alone, and I know you said you can't tell your brother.”