The Sinner

“No.”

  Rocco spun to face me, nostrils flaring and brows at his hairline. “No?” He crossed back to the couch and towered over me, hands on hips, the picture of glacial fury. “No, as in you're not going to tell me who this prick is?”

  I shrank into the cushions but held my ground. “No. I'm not going to tell you who he is. It's not his fault—”

  “Of course it's his goddamn fault!” Rocco roared. He paced back and forth in front of the sofa, hands and arms gesticulating wildly. “Some irresponsible piece of shit gets you pregnant and you don't think it's his fault?” He scoffed so loud it hurt my ears. “You weren’t knocked up by the motherfucking stork!”

  I scowled. The scales tipped, and my courage returned as quickly as Rocco’s temper hit its peak. Angry Rocco was present and accounted for, and while I might fold under the scrutiny of Disappointed Rocco, Angry Rocco I could deal with. I stood and stormed up to him.

  “Yeah, well, he wasn't the only one participating in the fucking!” Rocco winced at the reference to me having an actual sex life, god forbid.

  Rocco crossed his arms over his enormous chest, his glare so furious it wouldn’t have surprised me if the sofa spontaneously combusted. “So this asshole has nothing to do with the fact that you're pregnant? Has no responsibility whatsoever?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don't be obtuse, Rocco. It was both of our faults. I wanted it, he wanted it, and we forgot to use protection. End of story.”

  Rocco gaped, staring at me as if I sprouted whiskers, a tail, and pink bunny ears. “Forgot protection?” He breathed in and out through clenched teeth and resumed pacing, hands flying all over the place. “Who the fuck forgets protection? Have I not drilled that into you over and over again?” He had. Both of us hated every awkward, uncomfortable minute of the discussion, but Rocco did in fact lecture me about safe sex. He stopped in front of me again and threw his arms in the air. “What the actual fuck, Kylie!”

  My lower lip quivered and I wiped a tear with the back of my sleeve. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  Through blurry vision I watched as my brother struggled between his need to rant and rage, and his instinct to comfort his sister. It took a few minutes, but instinct won out. Rocco pulled me into his arms. After a long sigh, he kissed the top of my head. “We'll figure it out. Everything will be okay.”

  “Y-you don't h-hate me?”

  “What the hell, Ky? I could never hate you.” Rocco hugged me tighter. Swallowing around a lump, I shoved a hand between us and fished out the ultrasound picture, blindly thrusting it at him. Rocco let go so he could take it. I stepped back and bit my lip as I watched his face. A half-dozen different emotions played across it in the span of seconds; confusion, curiosity, wonder, and yep, fury. Then he smiled and ran a finger across the tiny circle. “I’m going to be an uncle.”

  “Yeah,” I sniffed.

  God love him, underneath the anger and disappointment, Rocco was proud. “An uncle. Uncle Rocco.” He turned to look at me, and his smile grew wider. “I think I like the sound of that.”

  I choked out a laugh and threw my arms around his neck. “I love you, so much.”

  Strong arms surrounded me. Arms that caught me every time I fell, no matter how far or how hard. “I love you, too, sis.”

  After we hugged it out and the cloud of rage cleared the room, Rocco handed the picture back, held my gaze, and said, “I’m still going to kill the bastard who did it.”

  Of course you are.

  Some things never change.

  Seb

  “You got to pick last time.”

  “Fuck you, Jonesy. Hajek picked last time, remember?”

  “Shit, who could forget that weird Russian music?”

  For fuck’s sake.

  I rubbed my temples as my idiot teammates fought for control of the sound system in the changing room. Everyone worked out an unofficial rotation of sorts, and when it was your turn you could plug in your phone and play whatever song list you wanted. I gave zero fucks what we listened to. It was the constant bitching that plucked my last nerve.

  “My music not weird. Russian music good.”

  Jesus, now Hajek was adding his two cents, and since the goalie had more than a few screws loose, putting in his two cents was more like someone throwing a handful of pesos into the change bucket.

  “The fuck it isn’t.”

  The bickering continued until it felt like my head was going to explode. Practice hadn't even started yet and I felt like I went three rounds in a cage fight with an angry bear.

  “Maybe your American guitar music is weird, da? All those… those song about sad love.”

  “Shut up, Hazey. Country music is the bomb.”

  I ignored the ice pick that stabbed holes in my skull, shot to my feet, and crossed to where four of my dumbass teammates wrestled over control of the dock. Too busy slinging insults to pay attention, I shoved my way between them and plucked it right out of Yates’s hands.

  “Hey! Give it back,” Yates, a rookie center, whined.

  “Over my dead body,” I snarled. “You're screeching like a bunch of howler monkeys with gonorrhea and now I have a fucking migraine.”

  “So what?” Yates replied, a little too snidely for a newbie. I didn't appreciate his attitude.

  “So, what that means is I don't want to listen to you bags of dicks bitching over music.”

  Yates tried to snatch the device out of my hand, but just like he did on the ice, the dumbass telegraphed every move. I held it over my head. Since I was not only taller, but already wearing my skates, I kept it out of reach easy. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hajek circle around behind me. Sneaky fucker thought he could steal it while Yates kept me occupied. I dodged Hazey’s attempt to grab the dock and nearly face planted when I tripped over Jonesy’s fat foot. Lucky for him, my blade didn’t slice off a toe. I caught myself and managed to stay upright.

  In retrospect, it might’ve been better if I just gave up the damn thing, because the speakers chose that moment to blast the cringiest high-pitched feedback I'd heard in my life. Even worse than when my stereo… oh fuck.

  Everyone in the room shouted and covered their ears, including myself, which meant I had to let go of the portable sound system. It hit the floor and cracked. Plastic components splintered and flew in every direction. Typical. But at least the feedback stopped.

  “Son of a bitch, St. Clair. You know not to touch our electronic shit,” Yates complained.

  “Da. Agree. You are bad luck for all the device,” Hazzy added.

  Yeah, I was.

  I stared at the now deceased dock. If Paul Bunyan weren’t splitting my head with his eight-foot axe, I probably would have laughed. As it stood, between my crappy mood, last night’s revelation about Kylie over beers with Ev, and three hours of practice to get through, when all I wanted to do was to find a couple aspirin and wash them down with a Jack and Coke, the assholes were lucky I wasn’t already throwing punches.

  “Oops,” I said, smirking. “At least now you won't argue over music.” With that, I turned and headed for the tunnel.

  The barrage of curses flung at my back bounced right off. Dealing with angry teammates was way easier than dealing with that god-awful Russian music. Jonesy was right, it was weird and it sucked.

  “St. Clair!” Coach’s bark sent a rusty iron spike through my eye. “You’re fucking late!” Scowling, he glanced around. “Where’s the rest of your slacker teammates? Everyone else is already on the goddamn ice.” Coach gestured in the general direction of where most of the team was doing warm-up drills.

  I winced, wishing to god I wasn't wearing gloves so I could rub my aching head. “They're coming, Coach.”

  He grunted and turned back to the ice. “Speed drills, four at a time, sixty-seconds each! Get your lazy asses in gear!”

  The shouting, combined with my ear’s close proximity to Coach’s air horn of a mouth, sent an ice pick into my eye socket.

  Twitch, twitch, twitch.
>
  Ugh. It was going to be a long, painful practice.

  The elevator doors slid open on the fourth floor of the arena, home to the Comets business offices. I could count on one hand how many times I’d there. Locker room, rink, and sometimes the media room—those were more my speed, for the most part. Surrounded by slick, expensively dressed professionals, made me feel like an elephant swing-dancing with a herd of gazelles.

  “Can I help you?”

  Startled, I jerked my head up. A middle-aged woman seated behind reception smiled politely, but her eyes questioned my presence.

  “Um, yeah. Sorry,” twitch, twitch, “I'm looking for Amanda Brooker. She’s, um,” twitch, “one of the corporate sales managers.”

  Smooth, Seb. Real fucking smooth.

  The woman smiled, for real this time, and pointed to her right. “Just down the hall, third office on the left. Do you want me to let her know you're coming?” She reached for the phone.

  I shook my head. “Nah. I'll just pop in.”

  They must get big, doofy, hockey players up here all the time, because the receptionist continued to smile at me like I was a not too bright toddler. But it didn't look as if she was thinking about calling security to have the inarticulate jock removed, so I guessed I was okay. I hadn’t been sure if I’d be allowed to see Amanda without an appointment. What the fuck do I know about how corporate works?

  When I reached Amanda’s door, I took a deep breath before lightly knocking.

  “Come in.”

  It was my first time in Amanda’s office and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I pushed open the heavy door to reveal an impressive, tastefully decorated space with several windows along the back wall. Amanda sat perched behind a contemporary glass and chrome desk, polished and proficient, every bit the executive. I found it a little jarring. I was so used to Amanda sweaty, naked, and writhing, waiting for me to abuse her hot body, it was easy to forget she was a smart and successful woman.

  “Are you just going to stand there and stare, or did you need something?”

  Amanda didn't sound angry, but she wasn’t rolling out the welcome mat. Considering I’d prepared for her to immediately toss me out on my ass and call me a shithead, I’d take irritated any day of the week.

  “Sorry. Um, I'm just a little, uh, thrown off by, you know…” twitch. I gestured at the sleek surroundings.

  Amanda smirked and moved her laptop to the side so she could rest her manicured hands on the desk. “What?” She said with a smirk. “Not used to seeing me with my clothes on?”

  I chuckled. “Something like that.”

  “Have a seat.” I lowered myself into one of the gray leather chairs that faced her desk and took everything in, from the pricey looking art on the walls to the stunning view of Atlanta over Amanda’s shoulder. “Why are you here, Sebastien? I'm guessing it's not for interior design ideas.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks burned and I flicked my gaze back to her familiar green eyes. “No, umm, not for that.”

  She smiled. “I didn't think so.”

  “Yeah, so, I came to say I’m sorry.”

  The unflappable Amanda Brooker’s jaw came unhinged, and I squirmed in the leather chair. It was a rare occurrence, mostly because I don’t like how apologizing makes me feel—vulnerable. Something I learned at an early age to avoid at all cost.

  “Y-you came to apologize… to me?”

  I didn’t blame Amanda for being suspicious. I'm an asshole through and through and treated her like shit. An apology was probably the last thing she thought she'd hear come out of my mouth.

  That made two of us.

  “Mandy,” I leaned forward and propped my elbows on my knees, while making sure to maintain eye contact so she knew I wasn’t kidding. “I acted like a total shitstick. I see that now. I just…” I rubbed a hand over my chin and sighed. “Let's just say that lately I've been seeing my past behavior in a different light, and I'm sorry for what I did.”

  Amanda continued to gape, staring at me as though an alien had abducted my body and was pulling my strings like a human puppet. Clearly, she needed a moment—the silence went on—or two.

  “I-I don't know what to say.” She twisted her fingers. Amanda didn’t fidget, so I must have knocked her for a loop. She looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “This is, um, wow, unexpected.”

  The strangled laugh that burbled up from my chest probably wasn't the best response. Amanda frowned. Yep. Not good. I cleared my throat and tried again.

  “Some… things have, uh, happened. Things that forced me to reevaluate what kind of man I want to be.”

  Twitch.

  The whole thing was so awkward, talking about feelings and shit with a woman I used to tie down and spank. Amanda sucked in a breath and her eyes flared, lashes fluttering as she tried to blink away the shock.

  “What?” I asked, defensive.

  “It…it happened. I can’t…I mean, I don’t believe it.” She was muttering to herself so I could barely hear.

  “What happened? What don’t you believe? Jesus, Mandy, you're freaking me out.” And she was. My pulse raced and by that point my shirt had stuck to my back. I sat on my hands so I wouldn’t slap one over my tap-dancing eye.

  “You.”

  I huffed, despising her cryptic bullshit. “Me what? Fuck, just spit it out.”

  “You fell in love.” Mandy looked at me, astonished. “You actually fell in love.”

  My body temperature plummeted to absolute zero. It was as if someone injected a syringe of glacial runoff directly into my carotid. I clenched my teeth to hold back a shiver. “No. No I didn’t.” The protest sounded pathetic, even to my own ears.

  “You did,” Amanda repeated. Her voice got louder and her confidence grew. She gave me a wicked smile, and chill bumps pricked their way down my arms. I could almost feel the weight of the guillotine that hung over my head. See the gleaming edge of the razor-sharp blade. “You fell in love with someone and… Oh my god! She doesn't love you back.” Amanda pointed at me and I squirmed. I fucking squirmed! “That's why you feel so bad about how you treated me. You finally know what it feels like.”

  I waved her off and chuckled weakly. “You don't know what you're talking about. I'm not in love.”

  Amanda damn near cackled with glee. “Stubborn as always. It's not your fault, Seb. You wouldn't know love if it ran you over, broke every bone in your body, and parked on your chest.”

  I scowled, crossed my arms, and stuck my chin out. “I would too.”

  Amanda only laughed harder. “See? Stubborn, just like a man.”

  I continue to frown, but I couldn't shake the idea she planted it in my head.

  What did love feel like? Was I in love with Kylie?

  “You're right,” I admitted and sagged into the chair. “I don't know what love feels like. I didn’t exactly grow up in the most loving environment, so my role models are slim pickings.” I shrugged. “I mean, I love my brother, but I'm guessing that isn't the same thing.”

  Amanda looked at me. Like really looked at me. And not with pity. It was more like sympathy, maybe? Or maybe I was full of shit and she was actually comparing me to an emotionally stunted goat.

  “No, Seb. It's not the same thing. Loving a family member is one thing, loving another human being with your whole heart and soul, essentially finding your other half, is much bigger. I can't really explain it,” she said. “I do know that if all you think about, day and night, is that person, and when you're not with them there's this…” Amanda put a hand to her chest. “This huge hole, like an ache, and the only time it goes away when you're with them.”

  Jesus. That sounded exactly like how I felt. I swallowed and glanced away. It was better to stare at the fancy artwork than let Amanda and her super-human perception dig any further into my psyche. When a few moments passed in silence, I sacked up and bit the bullet. What the fuck did I have to lose anyway? Kylie didn’t want me and I nuked any relationship I had with Amanda. Nothing I
said could possibly make it any worse.

  “Maybe,” I licked my lips and ignored the way my fingers trembled. “Maybe I am in love.”

  “Maybe you are. You're the only one who knows for sure.”

  The conversation was getting way too deep for a knucklehead hockey player with a chip on his shoulder the size of Newfoundland. I rubbed my hands together and tried to wrap things up before I suffocated.

  “Anyway, I uh, didn't come here to talk about love or to rub anything in your face. I just, um, wanted to apologize. Apparently, I have a fuck ton of unresolved shit going on.” I twirled a finger next to my ear. “Remember the time we first met?” I blurted it out before I could stop. Instead of making an excuse to leave, for whatever reason, I smiled and kept going. “You were so energetic.”

  Amanda giggled, the sound so sweet I could've kissed her for yanking the shroud off of the somber mood. “That's a nice way of putting it.”

  I grinned widely. “You were. You still are.” My smile faded. “We were friends once. I know I’m not the man you want me to be, and I won’t be able to return your feelings, but I shouldn’t have been such an asshole.” Tears shimmered in Amanda's eyes. “I’d like it if we could be friends again. If maybe you could find a way to forgive me, not that I'd blame you if you hated me.”

  Amanda stood and circled around her desk, arms spread. I rose to meet her just as she closed her arms around me. I returned the embrace and we stood there for a moment, two people who both needed someone to hold. Eventually, Amanda sniffed and pulled away.

  “Sorry.” She snagged a tissue from a nearby box and dabbed beneath her petite nose. “I don’t want to drip snot on you.”

  I gave her a playful shove. “After everything we've been through I think I'd be okay if you used me as a human Kleenex. It’s the least I could do.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “That's disgusting.”

  I winked. “Yes, yes it is.” Amanda laughed, then gave me a shy grin. “So, friends?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  “What are you talking about, Rém?”