Seb

It took a good three minutes of standing in the hall, going back and forth in my mind, trying to figure out if I was making the right decision, before I finally said, "fuck it" and knocked. Loud footsteps approached from inside and I snorted. Evvy isn’t exactly light on his feet. On the ice maybe, but on land, the guy’s about as graceful as a charging rhino. I was wound so tight, I flinched at the slide of the deadbolt, then cursed myself for being such a pussy. The door opened to reveal my best friend—distant best friend as of late, but still my best friend. I hoped so anyway. Hell, after the way I'd acted the last couple months, I wouldn’t blame Ev for kicking my ass to Vancouver and back.

We must've drifted farther apart than I thought, because from the way Ev’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest, he wasn’t thrilled to see me.

I scuffed my foot on the doormat and ignored the prickly heat in my face. “Hey, Ev. You got a minute?”

Ev blinked and his posture relaxed somewhat. He held the door open and stepped back. “C’mon in.” Ev closed the door and I stood in the center of the room, feeling like the king of all shitheads. “Want a beer?”

Thank fuck for Evvy and his ability to be laid back in a tense situation.

I exhaled. “God yes.”

He laughed and grabbed two from the fridge, popping the caps. Ev returned to the living room and extended one to me. “Have a seat.” I took the beer and sat on one of the leather sofas, while Evvy flopped onto his favorite recliner. The ancient thing creaked under his weight. Held together by duct tape and a prayer, the battered cushion was probably permanently dented in the shape of his asscheeks. “So, what's up?”

Using blunt fingernails, I picked at the pale ale label , not sure where to start. Let’s just say discussing feelings and shit isn’t in my wheelhouse.

“I guess… I mean, honestly? I don't know.” Ev frowned and scratched his stubbled chin as he gave me a blank look. Fuck, I was going to have to say it. Out loud. “I’m sorry,” I blurted. “For acting like such a dick.” Evvy sat back and snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. I didn’t blame him for being shocked as hell. I don’t apologize to anyone, and he knew it. “No, it's true. And I don't want you to say everything is okay or give me an easy out.” I took a sip of beer, placed the bottle on the coffee table, and rested my elbows on my knees, hands laced between them. “I know sometimes I act like a bastard—”

Ev barked out a laugh and shook his head. “Understatement of the year, my friend.”

My lips tugged up and a chuckle rumbled from my chest. “Right? But seriously, these past weeks…” My fingers twitched, needing something to do. I snagged the beer and threw back a long swig. After wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I stared at a random spot on the carpet. A beat later, I took a deep breath and looked back up at Ev. “There's no excuse for my behavior. I just don't want you to think it has anything to do with you, man, because it doesn’t.”

The amused expression slid from Evvy’s face and he shifted to sit on the edge of the cushion. The poor recliner creaked loudly. “Is everything okay? Is it your brother?”

No one knows the ugly truth about the St. Clair brothers. Not Rémy's dark secret, and definitely not mine. Not even Ev. But Ev’s been around long enough to overhear plenty of conversations I had with Rémy and he knew damn well how protective I got.

I tightened my grip around the beer and shook my head. “No. Rémy's fine.”

Evvy frowned, tilted his head to the side, and stared. I started to sweat under the scrutiny. Nervous, I took another long swallow. Eventually, Ev put me out of my misery. “Is it…? Does this have anything to do with that chick? You know, the hot blonde?”

My heart stuttered along with my ability to speak. “You… I don't… I mean…” Fuck it. I slumped back on the sofa. “Shit.”

Fucking Ev. Too goddamn observant. I didn't know whether to throw the bottle at his head and run, or snatch him out of that hideous fucking chair and hug the guy for forcing me to man up and admit what had me twisted tighter than a virgin’s panties at a bukkake. I put the beer back on the table and dragged both hands down my face.

“I have no clue how you do that shit, Evvy. You must be a fucking mind reader. Yeah, it has to do with her.” I expected Ev to proceed by drilling me about Kylie, but he didn't. He just drank his beer and waited for me to elaborate. “Jesus.” I grunted. “You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?”

Evvy grinned. “Yep.”

“Bastard,” I said with zero heat behind it. I sighed and cracked my neck, then proceeded to spill my guts all over Calvin Everette’s living room floor. By the time I finished, Ev was speechless. In fact, he gaped in obvious disbelief. Waiting for Ev to spew a bunch of judgmental shit and rude jokes about me acting like a chick sent my anxiety through the roof. The silence between us grew heavier and thicker by the second until I was so fucking tense, I lashed out. “What, don't have anything to say?”

Ev exhaled loudly and scratched his whiskers again. The battered chair screeched in protest when he leaned all of his weight on one rickety arm and a tuft of fluff popped out of a tiny tear. “Honestly? You’re an unpredictable guy. I’m used to dealing with it. I didn’t think there was anything you could say or do that could shock me. But this? I'm trying to take it all in. It's just, I don’t know, kind of hard to believe.”

I scowled and fought the urge to jump to my feet and start swinging. “What's so hard to believe?” I was pissed. I just bared my goddamn soul and Ev was being an asshole about it. My fingers dug into the cushions as I reined in my temper. An unpleasant realization smacked me upside the head and I bolted upright, bristling with anger. “Oh, I get it. You think it's funny I got dumped, right? That it, Evvy? It’s fucking hilarious, right? You think I got what I had coming to me after treating women like shit all these years?” Ev wasn't wrong about that, but I didn't come here for my best friend to dump all over me.

I shifted to get up and leave, because I didn’t need to hear anymore, but stupid Ev—who apparently doesn’t appreciate the joy of having four working fingers and an opposable thumb—put a hand on my arm to stop me. I glared down at the offending digits curled around my wrist. At least Evvy was smart enough to remove his hand.

“No, Seb. It's not like that.” Jaw clenched, I shot him a look that could melt a goddamn diamond. Ev smirked. “Okay. Maybe it’s a little like that,” he admitted. “But that's not what I was talking about.”

I was still fuming mad, struggling not to knock Evvy on his idiot ass. While I desperately wanted to hear the satisfying crunch of my knuckles as they impacted with his face, I really wanted to hear what he had to say. Expending a great deal of willpower, I unclenched and settled back down. Evvy was undaunted. The fucker stared right at me. In that moment, Ev looked more serious than I’d seen him in the five plus years we’d known each other. The intensity of his gaze was so overwhelming my palms grew damp.

“I’m not shocked that she dumped you,” he said without prelude. “And I don't mean because you deserved it or any stupid shit like that. No matter what you did, she owed you a reason. I'm shocked because never in a million years did I think I'd live to see the day Sebastien St. Clair fell in love.”

What the fuck was Ev talking about? In love? I wasn’t in love.

I started to tell Ev exactly that, but the second I opened my mouth my throat seized up and my chest felt tight. A buzzing noise vibrated in my ears and I sat on his couch, jaw slack, unable to come up with a response.

“Hey.” A hand appeared in front of my face, fingers snapping. I blinked and sucked in a huge gulp of air. “Jesus, Seb. Don't do that, it’s fucking disturbing.”

It took a minute to catch my breath and a couple more for Evvy’s comment to sink in. Love? “I-I don't think…” I cleared my throat and started over. “I don’t think… I mean, I’m not sure I know what love feels like.”

I glanced up at Ev, fully expecting him to have a teasing smirk on his face. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the fact that he wasn’t smirking, or the fact that Ev was completely unfazed by his announcement while my insides were pulverized by a pinball that bounced around haphazardly, the metal sphere slamming into a tender organ only to ricochet and take out another. Any more hits and the “Tilt” light would come on as I hyperventilated and passed out.

Ev shrugged and finished his beer. The entire universe as I knew it just got sucked into a black hole, and Evvy was sitting there all casual and shit, like it was a regular fucking Tuesday night event.

“How does anyone know what it feels like?” he asked. “I don't know, dude. Never been in love, either. From what I’ve heard, I think you’re supposed to, you know, like feel it.”

“That makes no sense.” I squinted at Evvy. “I'm just supposed to know, but I have no way of actually knowing because I've never been in love, unless I have and didn't know it at the time, which I obviously didn't know, because I don’t fucking know what love feels like! That's what you're saying.” My head spun from the catch-22 of the motherfucking millennium.

Evvy threw back his head and laughed. “You got it, my friend. And that's why men will never figure out women. We’re too slow on the uptake when it comes to feelings and pretty much walk around with our heads jammed up our asses ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Christ,” I grumbled. “I’m not saying I agree with you, but let's pretend I’m in love with her.” I held out a hand and used my fingers to tick off the points. “She refuses to see me, won't tell me why she won’t see me, and systematically rebuffed every single attempt I've made to get her to see me. So what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“If you figure that out, let me know, because you, my friend, will have solved the mystery that has stumped men for centuries.”

I huffed and threw my hands in the air. “What mystery is that, oh great swami?”

“Women.”

“Women.” I sighed, then looked at Ev, surprised when I smiled. “You got another beer?”

He stood and ruffled my hair. “Why don't I grab a six pack or two?”

I patted my hair down and nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

I was going to need them.

I snorted.

Love.

What. The. Fuck.

Kylie

“Oh god, oh god, oh god…” I shook out my hands, paced in a circle, and returned to stare out the window. The view from our condo wasn't great, just a bunch of random buildings and the highway, but I didn’t care. Taking in the beauty of the Atlanta skyline isn’t my thing. I prefer to people watch . I looked at the street, but my eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing.

I moved away from the window, too wired and too distracted to concentrate. It felt like my stomach lining unzipped and was in the process of turning inside out. The tightly coiled ball of nervous energy overwhelmed my ability to stand still. By the amount of pacing I’d done over the last month or so, I’d turn into Rocco if I didn’t stop.

A couple weeks ago I had my first doctor’s appointment. Piper, being the amazing and supportive friend she is, went with me at my request. I shoved a sweaty hand in the pocket of my slouchy cardigan to retrieve a crumpled ultrasound picture. I’d spent countless hours staring at the blurry black and white image, mesmerized by a single, tiny, dark circle in the middle with an arrow labeled ‘baby’ singling it out. Proof of an actual baby. My hands trembled and I shoved the picture back in my pocket.

I closed my eyes and placed a hand over my flat abdomen. There wasn’t a single external sign to indicate I had a baby growing inside me. Without the morning sickness, I probably still wouldn’t know. The entire concept blew my frazzled mind to bits.

God help me, I was waiting for Rocco to come home so I could tell him. At three months, it was only a matter of time until I began to show. The longer I waited, the more furious Rocco would be that I hid it from him. Not that he wasn't going to be furious either way. He was. Big time. But I was tired of secrets, and, after everything Rocco sacrificed to raise me, he didn’t deserve to be lied to.

I physically winced from the shock of pain that gripped my heart. I was such a hypocrite. Here I was thinking Rocco deserved to know I was pregnant, when I couldn't bring myself to tell the father, who actually needed to know. Seb gave me the perfect opportunity to tell him when he approached me on the sidewalk a week or two back. As I sat across from Seb at that little café, and I tried to keep him from seeing my hands shake and myself from, god forbid, projectile vomiting, I’d gone back and forth a dozen times, waffling on whether or not to just blurt it out.

Doing it in public, with witnesses, wasn’t really fair to Seb. Plus, in the end, I couldn’t do it. I rationalized it as needing to be one hundred percent certain of the pregnancy first, and made a promise to myself that after the first doctor’s appointment, I would ask Seb to meet again. That was two weeks ago. Piper supported my decision to not tell him about the pregnancy, but I knew she thought it was a mistake. She wasn’t wrong. If Rocco got a woman pregnant, and the woman didn't tell him, I would be furious. I would rant and rail, and curse the woman from Atlanta to DC and back, insisting Rocco deserved the opportunity to know he had a child.

Like I said, hypocrite.

The deadbolt clicked and my heart leapt into my throat. I hurried to sit before Rocco entered. If I didn't, I was afraid I might pass out from nerves, and if I hit the deck, Rocco would take me to the nearest hospital. If that happened, an emergency room doctor would be the one who told Rocco about the baby while I lay blissfully unconscious. Then my brother would apply a beat down to an innocent doctor and probably end up in jail. That particular sequence of events wasn’t on my bucket list, so best to avoid it altogether.

“Hey, Ky,” Rocco said as he shrugged out of his wool overcoat and loosened his tie. The Comets just ended a five-game road trip that kept my brother out of town for ten days. An entire week and a half without Rocco gave me plenty of time to decide how to break the news. I had the whole speech planned out. Face to face with Rocco, I forgot every last word. “Kylie?” Rocco’s brow crinkled. “Are you okay?”

“Umm, oh, yeah.” I couldn’t look my brother in the eye.

“What's wrong?” The couch sank as Rocco sat next to me and placed a heavy hand on my knee. My chest constricted and my eyes stung. I forced myself to look at Rocco. His expression was so worried I wanted to cry from guilt. Stupid hormones. “Kylie? You're scaring me.”

It was time. The moment arrived to let my brother down. To fall from the pedestal he put me on and bounce off of every single sharp-edged step on the way down. And I was seriously regretting telling Piper I could do it alone.

“I, umm…” I licked my lips and refrained from plucking at my sweaty tee. “I-I have something to tell you and you're, uh, not gonna like it.”

Rocco frowned but gave my knee a gentle squeeze. “I love you, Ky. It can't be that bad.” When I didn’t speak, his voice pitched up. “Spit it out. I’m kind of freaking out here.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I, uh, so I need to tell you… I found out…”

“Kylie, I'm getting really fucking scared. Just tell me.”

Oh Jesus. I can’t do it.

The whites of Rocco's eyes showed and his complexion drained of blood. All I was doing was screwing up and making everything worse. Better to just rip it off quick. Like Rocco used to do when I had a Band-Aid. He’d hold my hand, look at me, and say, “On the count of three. One…” Then he’d yank it off before three, before I tensed and made it hurt more than necessary. It was my turn to return the favor.

“I’m pregnant.” Once I got the words out, I cringed and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for Rocco to explode.

I waited. And waited. And… nothing. I cracked one eye open and chanced a peek. Rocco hadn't moved. Not an inch. In fact, I wasn't sure if he was breathing. He looked like a statute. If I didn’t see him blink, I’d wonder if he had turned to stone.

“Rocco?”

I stuck out a finger to poke his side when he exhaled loudly. His mouth worked for a moment, opening and closing a few times before he came up with a response, and even that wasn't much.

“Pregnant?” His voice cracked on a high note.

Heat flooded my face and I glanced away. “Yeah, pregnant.”

I couldn’t see it, but he shifted as little bit more life flowed back into my brother. “You're… pregnant?”

Oh my god! How many times was he going to make me say it?

“That's what I said, Rocco.”

The ache in my chest grew more painful and I fought back tears. I had expected a fight. Expected there to be yelling and screaming and for accusations to be slung recklessly back and forth. What I didn't expect was for my brother to turn into some detached, empty shell who wore Rocco’s skin like a costume. "Aren't you going to say something?" This time, it was my voice that cracked, and it felt like my heart was going to crack too. For letting Rocco down so spectacularly.

“You're pregnant. My little sister is pregnant.” Any emotion was gone, his tone as dry as the Sahara at high noon.

I watched as gears the turned and Rocco processed the flaming dumpster I dragged into the room. As he worked through each step, the Rocco-costume receded and my brother became more and more recognizable. When his neck flushed and the muscles of his jaw began to tick, I knew my initial prediction of Rocco’s fury was indeed correct. I scooted over on the couch and put a bit of space between us.

Mount Saint Rocco was going to erupt.

“Someone got my little sister pregnant,” he muttered. “Some bastard stuck his filthy dick in my sister and knocked her up.” Rocco spoke to himself as if I wasn’t there, his way of dealing with a bevy of conflicting emotions. Once he picked one—and from the increasing venom in his voice I was pretty sure I knew which emotion the roulette wheel would land on—well, that's when the fun would begin.

The red flush spread to Rocco’s ears and scalp and he ground his molars together so hard his cheeks bulged and the tendons in his neck pulled as taut as guitar strings. Slowly, silently, Rocco rose to his feet and stalked over to the very same window I was staring out earlier.

With his back to me, Rocco spoke. The volume steadily increased until it reached eardrum-busting. “Kylie, tell me who this motherfucker is, right now! I'm going to hunt him down and skin his ass alive.” He mumbled under his breath and his eyes flashed with rage.

I'd seen Rocco angry before. I'd heard him yell and rant. He’d shouted at me, I’d shouted back. He’d punished me whenever teenage rebellion took hold and I pushed too hard. We'd argued dozens of times over the years. But I'd never, ever, heard Rocco sound so… cold and detached. I shuddered from the arctic undercurrent, then steeled myself and responded.

“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?”

I tilted my head and used my shoulder to hold the phone to my ear while I fetched a snack from the fridge. I would kill for a protein shake, but I never got around to replacing my blender after it went FUBAR. Mostly out of fear that the new one would become self-aware and attack me in my sleep or something.

“My season is essentially over,” I said. “The Comets have no chance at making the playoffs. Your team on the other hand, has a good chance of claiming the Cup.”

“It is pretty exciting,” Rémy agreed, his voice echoing his obvious enthusiasm. “The Rush hasn’t made the playoffs since way before I joined, and this is their… our best season on record. We still have to win against Chicago, since they already clinched their division.”

I scoffed as I stacked a precarious mound of turkey and cheese on a slice of bread and slathered mustard on the other slice. “No problem. Chicago’s first line is shit compared to yours. It's not even close. Just because they won a lot in the past and they’re Original Six doesn't make them unbeatable.”

“True.”

Rémy sounded so much better. He freaked me out the last time we spoke. It had been a while since I’d been that worried about him. When he hit a dark period during the hockey season, the stress ate at me. Too many games and not enough time off means I can’t go to Charlotte to be there for him, which I take as a personal failure.

“So, why did you really call, Seb? Because I know it's not to talk about work.”

I put the sandwich fixings back in the fridge and, with my hands freed up, untucked the phone and stared at it. How the hell did Rémy know that? I returned the device to my ear.

“You suck.” The little shit laughed, which only made me slap the on the other slice of bread on top of the sandwich and press down hard enough to poke a hole in it. I sucked the mustard off my ring finger. “Fine. I called to check on you. Happy?”

“Seb, I promised I’d call if anything happened, and I meant it. You know I'm fine. So… try again. Why are you calling me?”

I sneered. Perceptive bastard.

I cut the sandwich in half and tossed the knife in the sink with a loud clatter. “There's this girl,” I began.

Rémy whooped and cackled. “I knew it! I knew it had to be about a chick.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, make fun of your brother. Go on, get it all out.” And boy did he ever. Rémy laughed and wheezed for five minutes straight. Then he goaded me relentlessly, English and French. I ate my sandwich while I waited for him to get over himself. “Are you done?”

In between breaths, Rémy said, “Whew! All done. I swear.”

“Whatever, imbécile. Anyway, I have a question for you. It sounds, umm, kind of stupid, but, uh, do you know… I mean, how do you know if you, you know, are in love with someone?”

Twitch, twitch.

“Wait. You…you’re in love with this girl?” Rémy sounded as stunned as I felt. Just weeks ago, I would’ve bet money I’d go to my grave without ever having a conversation about love.

“I don't know. That's why I’m asking, you. Maudit bâtard,” I snapped, frustrated.

The traitorous shithead started to laugh again. I growled, and Rém forced out a hurried apology. “I’m sorry! I just never expected this, not from you.”

“Yeah, well that makes two of us.”

“Well, uh, if you're serious about knowing—”

“I am.”

“Okay, well, I'd say just the fact that you're calling me to ask makes me think the chances are pretty high that yes, you’re in love with this girl.”

I bent over like I took a slap shot to the groin, and dammit, that stupid empty, too familiar ache returned. The hole in the heart sensation. I noticed it at least thirty times since Amanda pointed it out a few days earlier.

Que je sois damné.

Rémy and Amanda were right. I was in love. And for the first time in my life I was faced with something I couldn't fight or fuck out of my system.

Without being able to turn to my tried and true outlets, I had no idea what to do next.

Shit. I’m an emotionally stunted goat.

* * *

Clad in head to toe hockey gear, I stomped out of Coach V’s office in a dark thundercloud. If the changing room hadn’t been packed to the gills with players in various states of undress, along with the clamoring horde of media vultures, I'd have chucked my Bauer clear across the room. Coach chewed my ass for so long I wouldn’t sit properly for a week. His words screeched at me full blast, again and again, like a myna bird stuck on a loop. What the hell was that? Your head isn’t in the game. Straighten your shit out. God dammit, St. Clair! And my personal favorite, You fucking numb-nuts! By the time he finished reaming me out my left eye was spastic.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Stupid, bastard, shitstick, eye!

Unfortunately, I had no one to blame but myself. Everything Coach said was true. I played like I belonged on the fourth line of a peewee hockey team. My head wasn't in the game. I fucked up and it cost us.

Not in the mood to deal with what would, undoubtedly, be a metric shit-ton of harping about my crappy playing, I hid around the corner until the last of the journalists left—good because the buzzards couldn't pick at my desiccated carcass, bad because without the media’s presence to keep the guys in line, my teammates had no problem firing dirty looks across the room and mumbling slurs under their breath.

Didn't matter. Anything insult they came up with, I already attributed to myself. The loss weighed heavily on my shoulders and probably would for a while.

A swell of anger surged and rapidly expanded. Because I’m fucked in the head, I found the sensation comforting. I hadn't felt it in a while, only once or twice since I met Kylie. If it returned, I could take it as a sign I was over her, right? That I could get on with my pathetic life and fill my days and nights with meaningless bullshit—fighting, fucking, and hockey. Then I would remember something about Kylie, some small detail—her smile, her laugh, her smoldering expression when she checked me out and thought I wasn't looking—and I knew damn well that if given the chance, I would go through the pain all over again.

By the time I got around to buttoning my cuffs, most of the locker room had emptied out. No one spoke to me. They were either pissed I fucked up or had been around long enough to know when I was dangerously close to losing my shit. Didn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Not when there was a six-pack with my name on it waiting for me at home.

Naturally, nothing in my craptastic life ever went to plan.

I draped my tie around my neck and began a half Windsor, right as Evvy, the only one on the team with big enough nads to approach me when I was in a mood, walked over. In the mirror, I watch Ev trip over a glove in the middle of the floor. He stumbled and, trying to regain his footing, two hundred plus pounds of defenseman did a face plant.

I frowned and peeked sideways at him as I pulled the knot tight and flipped down my lapels. Aw shit. Ev scrambled to his feet, visibly excited despite the crash landing.

Whatever had Ev near bursting, I didn't want to hear it. I shoved at his shoulder and said, “Go away.”

Evvy laughed and his eyes shone. The dude was bursting to spill, and whatever it was, was huge. Before he said a word, Hajek’s loud mouth boomed, “You be uncle. It is good, da?”

I rolled my eyes. Sounded like someone’s sibling successfully reproduced. Big fucking deal.

I glanced at Hazey, then back at Ev, and tipped my head toward the goalie. Hazey stood a few feet away with a bunch of other guys.

“What's going on over there?” I didn’t care, but hoped to distract Evvy so I could make my escape without getting sucked into his gaiety and general mischief making. Six pack. Remember?

Evvy leaned in close, lips unfurled into an evil grin. He whispered so low it was difficult to hear over Jonesy practically shouting his congratulations.

“It’s Calloway,” Ev announced gleefully. “Apparently his very unmarried little sister went and got herself knocked up.”

“And I care because…?” I gave less than zero fucks about Calloway's slut sister.

“You need to go over there and bust his balls. Go look at his phone,” Evvy muffled a laugh. “He’s got a picture the fucking ultrasound.”

I lifted a brow. “What? Fuck no. Dude’s always got his dick in a know about something I said or did.” I shoved my arms into my suit jacket and fastened the first button. “Calloway’s sister issues are none of my business.” With that, I turned to leave. The six-pack was calling me.

Evvy stopped my by grabbing my wrist. “C’mon, Seb,” he whined. “It's been months and the guy still looks at you like he’s waiting for you to stop breathing… preferably while he strangles you. He’s sensitive about the sister being ‘unmarried’ and ‘too young,’” Evvy did air quotes with his fingers. “His words, not mine. Now's your best chance for payback. Go. I'll wait here.” Ev grinned and leaned back against the row of fancy wood lockers.

“Tabernak! Ça fait chier! You’re such a prick, you know that?” I spat.

Evvy’s response was to jerk his chin Calloway’s direction. Our teammates were huddled around his towering Yeti head. Everyone was smiling, clapping Calloway on the back, and congratulating him. You'd think with everyone cheering him on, the moody prick could scrounge up a smile. Nope. Guy looked constipated, as usual.

With a sigh, I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked around the Comets’ logo to join the small gathering.

“So, what's up?” I asked. “Calloway win the lottery?”

Hazey’s massive mitt smacked between my shoulder blades so hard I almost stumbled into Jonesy. “Rocco to be uncle. Is good news.”

I pretended to perk up. “Oh?” Calloway shot me a scowl and I couldn't help it. Evvy was right. I was having fun. I smirked. “What? You got a brother or sister we don't know about?” Which, thanks to Ev, I already knew, but it was oh so much fun to twist the guy’s panties.

Calloway snarled. His lip peeled back and his knuckles blanched around the phone in his hand. “Sister,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

I smiled wider. Fuck, it was too easy. Calloway's sister got knocked up, and he didn’t exactly look like he wanted to break out the cigars any time soon. So what if she wasn’t married? Dude had a stick up his ass the size of the Washington Monument.

“You got pictures?” I pointed at his phone. “What kind? The sonogram or some shit?”

Going by Calloway’s glare, I swore, if he could, he would've doused me in gasoline and cheerfully lit the match, then celebrated around my burning pyre.

“Yeah.”

I had to see, if only to rub salt in the wounds. I plucked the device from Calloway’s Sasquatch paw before he could stop me.

I looked down and squinted. “Uh, I have no idea what I'm looking at,” I admitted. The picture was black and white and fuzzy all over, kinda like the TV from Poltergeist when it sucked the little girl into it.

“Dude,” Franzie, a second line defensemen, squished in next to me. “You can’t see the baby? It’s right there.” His finger thrust into my field of vision and tapped on the screen. “Right. There.”

Squinting further, I tried to see what Franzie saw and came up empty. “All I see is static. You got a better picture?”

Calloway reached for the phone, but I was faster. I dodged his attempt to snatch it and, just to be an asshole, flicked to the next photo. The grin fell off my face so fast I was surprised it didn’t land on my shoes. A picture of a familiar blonde haired, brown-eyed woman, smiling from ear to ear, filled the screen.

My cackle cut short and every last drop of blood in my body drained from my face. My eye began its Riverdance and everything went out of focus. Calloway grabbed his phone with a snarl. Good thing, too, because my hands shook as hard as an eight point five earthquake, and with my disastrous history regarding all things electronic, I would've dropped it. I didn't even care when Calloway proceeded to curse me up one side and down the other for having the gall to steal his phone and invade his privacy and blah, blah, blah.

No. I was too busy going down in a fiery explosion. I was Alderaan, and that picture was the Death Star, its laser beam obliterating everything I thought I knew, turning it into an asteroid field.

“Sebby. Hey, what’s going on?” When I didn't respond, Ev grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. I snapped out of the daze and glanced around to discover everyone in the room staring at me. Including Calloway.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know about me and Kylie.

If he did, no doubt I would have been kissing Calloway’s knuckles weeks ago. He would've swung first and asked questions later, beating me to a pulp while shouting words from George Carlin’s list.

I staggered back and clutched my chest. Maudit! Calloway’s… sister! Kylie was Sasquatch’s sister? Kylie… Calloway? The enormity of the revelation made my knees buckle and a choking panic crept up my throat.

“I-I have to get out of here.” I shrugged Evvy’s hands off and ran.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Yeah, my eye was probably going to twitch for the rest of my life, up to and including the moment they lowered the coffin six feet under.

“Seb!”

I ignored Ev and kept going until I stood next to my truck, feet spread, torso bent in half, and hands braced on my thighs as I sucked in the cold winter air. Not because I was winded. Because I didn’t want to pass out from shock.

“Seb?”

Christ on a motherfucking cracker! Why can’t everyone mind their own fucking business?

Literally, nobody gave two shits about me, ever, until the minute I wanted to fuck off and be alone. Then a bunch of over concerned busybodies popped out of the woodwork to go all Dr. Phil on my ass.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Amanda called my name again. I stood up straight and pressed both thumbs against my spasming eye.

“Mandy, not now,” I growled.

God, I was such a miserable twat.

“Well, don’t get all overexcited on my behalf,” she snapped.

I dug for my keys so I could get the hell out of there and process the cargo jet full of shit that decided to use my brain as a runway. Amanda walked over, heels clicking on the pavement, and my anxiety shot higher than a junkie with a needle hanging from his arm. I wrapped my fingers around the key ring and exhaled. Talk to Amanda and get it over with as fast as possible.

After that, I had no fucking clue.

Alcohol? Leap off a tall bridge? Alcohol then leap off a tall bridge?

“You know,” Amanda huffed. “You’re the one who came to me to ask if we could be friends, and against my better judgment I decided to give you a chance.” I clenched my fist and the sharp bite of the keys dug into the meat of my palm. The pain kept me focused on Amanda instead of what I just learned. “Do you treat all your friends this way, Seb? Because if so, scratch me off what has to be the shortest list in the history of ever.”

A few months ago, I would have ignored Amanda’s bitching, jumped in my truck, and burned rubber without a fuck to give. In fact, I gave serious thought to doing just that, but sadly, I didn’t want to be that guy. I wasn’t that guy. Not anymore. I changed, and found it mighty damn inconvenient to actually care about Amanda’s feelings.

Being a dick really was way easier.

I met Amanda’s ticked off glare and sighed. “Sorry, Mandy. I'm not trying to be an asshole. I just have…” I waved a hand in the general vicinity of my head, something I’d been doing a lot lately. “A lot of crap to process.”

The judgmental expression slid off Amanda’s face. She took another step closer and touched my arm. Sincere as hell, despite all the shit I put the poor woman through, she felt fucking bad for me, which didn’t make me feel any better. Just hand me the Heel of the Year award and call it a day.

“What’s wrong, Seb? You're white as a ghost.” Amanda blinked her big green eyes as she looked up at me. “Do you need to talk about it?” I shook my head, but Amanda, tenacious as ever, checked her platinum watch and pushed on. “Seriously, I have time. If you want, we can go get a cup of coffee or something.” She smiled, nothing sexy or seductive about it. “That's what friends do, right?”

My shoulders slumped. On the one hand, I wanted to take Amanda up on her offer. Half of me wanted to dump the entire unholy nightmare into someone else’s lap to deal with. If anything, Evvy should be the one I called to confess that Calloway's pregnant sister was Hot Blonde from the games. I couldn’t wrap my head around it and an outside opinion would be a blessing, but the idea of discussing the swirling toilet bowl that was my personal life with Ev made me nauseous. I trusted the guy and all, I just didn't feel like getting all Steel Magnolias in front of my best friend and teammate.

My other half, the more rational half in my undeniably useless opinion, wanted to jump in the truck and drive until I either ran out of gas or flew off the edge of the earth. Didn't care which so long as I ended up as far as possible from the entire fucked up situation.

Because I’m an idiot, as proven time and time again, I chose to do neither.

“Your offer is really sweet, Mandy. And yeah, that's what friends do.” I shuffled my feet and stared at my shoes. “I won’t make for good company right now. Don’t be mad. It’s nothing personal. I just don’t want to fuck things up with you again.”

The hand on my arm gave a light squeeze and I tore my gaze from my shiny wingtips long enough to catch Amanda’s sympathetic smile. “Okay, but if you need to talk you can always call me.”

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

I slapped a hand over my eye and bit back a scream. I had no fucking clue what to do. Did I find Kylie? Run? Pretend I never saw Calloway’s picture? On top of the crushing indecision, I had a million and a half questions for Kylie. Such as, why didn’t she tell me her brother was Satan? Why did she dump my ass? Besides the obvious—that I’m a raging asshole.

I was losing it, the reactors in my gray matter destabilizing as I cruised toward a nuclear meltdown. My lower lip quivered and I swore to fucking god, if I ended up crying in front of Amanda, I was going to find the nearest overpass and plow my truck into a concrete support.

“Oh, Seb.”

Amanda's voice cracked. I made the mistake of looking at her. Tears welled in her eyes and I nearly lost my shit. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around my waist, an offer comfort in my time of need. Something I never did for her because it never occurred to me to do so. Not once.

With my face buried in the neck of my ex-fuck buddy, I, Sebastien St. Clair, a.k.a. The Sinner, cried like a baby.