Kylie

Over the next few weeks I did anything and everything possible to keep my mind off of Seb. Being busy helped, but nothing could erase the fingerprints he left on my soul. We hadn't spent much time together, and yes, I didn't know Seb very well, but the few moments we shared altered the way I viewed the world, changed a vital part of me. A part I didn't know I possessed until Sebastien St. Clair reached inside and yanked it to the surface.

“Kylie?” Few things could pull my attention away from my computer. My boss was one of them. I stopped typing and glanced at Rita as she stood next to my chair, perfectly coiffed from head to toe, as usual. “You do realize you're not getting paid to be here,” Rita pointed out, her sculpted brows squished together. “These long hours aren't healthy, believe me, I know.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Ignoring my reply, Rita continued to stare until I squirmed like a little kid. With the exception of Rocco, she was the only person I’d met who could send you on a guilt trip with a single look. I had to hand it to them, Rocco and Rita had the “frown and make you feel like a disappointment” face down pat.

Rita's forehead smoothed and her eyes expressed genuine concern. She rested a hip on the corner of the desk and crossed her arms. “Then go home. Or did you not notice your shift ended three hours ago?”

Three hours?

I leaned back to stretch my stiff neck and casually glanced around the cavernous workspace. The bustle of activity appeared par for the course, but then, CNN is a twenty-four-hour news network. The graveyard shift was as busy as during the day. There aren’t any windows in the main newsroom, so I couldn't look outside to see if it was dark out. But the fact that I didn't recognize a single face in the crowd, well, that in itself said plenty. Plus, the um, roughly million or so clocks that hung on the walls and represented cities in every time zone across the globe, including Atlanta. Those were pretty telling, too.

“Are you in trouble?” Rita asked, her voice low. “If there’s a reason you don't want to go home, HR has people you can talk to.”

“What?” My eyes just about bugged out of my skull. The last thing I needed was for my boss to think I had an abusive home life. “No! I mean, no thank you. I'm fine. It's nothing like that, I promise.”

I tapped my fingers on the arm of the chair as I tried to explain my situation without disclosing any actual facts or details. My personal life was… well, personal. Rita didn't get where she was by backing down easily. Like Piper, she wouldn't be satisfied until I gave her more.

I sighed and rubbed my temples. “I guess… I guess you can say I'm, uh, going through a breakup of sorts. Kind of.” I winced at how lame it sounded.

Shockingly, it worked. Understanding crossed Rita's face and she looked relieved. “Ah, those can be tough. Sorry about that.” She leaned closer and tipped her chin toward my computer. “I’ve dealt with my share of breakups by burying myself in work.” I nodded, glad she could sympathize. “But… to be honest?” Rita continued. My optimism shriveled. “In the long run, the only thing that heals you is time.” She patted my shoulder. “Go home and get some sleep.”

Rita turned and walked away. I knew her parting words weren’t a suggestion. They were an order. Wonderful. I powered down and cleaned up my area. Satisfied everything else could wait, I grabbed my bag, shrugged on my coat, and headed out. The closer I got to my car, the worse I felt. My insides twisted and I thought my heart might flop out of my chest and land on the oil-stained concrete of the parking garage.

“Go home and get some sleep,” I muttered. “Fat chance.”

Between the stress of avoiding Seb, and somehow still making Rocco happy by attending home games, sleep had become a precious commodity. On top of that, ignoring the constant flurry of texts and phone calls from Seb was draining. Worse? The total silence that followed a couple days later when I didn’t respond to a single one.

I should have been happy Seb gave up and moved on. That was my intention. So why did it feel like my sternum cracked open? Not that it mattered. What I should have been asking myself was, how on earth did I ever think I could get involved with Seb and walk away in one piece?

Because I'm an idiot. An idiot who went and fell in love with the unattainable Sebastien St. Clair.

* * *

“Are you sure you don't want me to ask if there are any seats closer to the ice?”

I ground my molars and gouged my nails into my palms to keep from shouting at my overly helpful, highly irritating, tirelessly helicoptering brother.

“No. Thank you. I'm good where I am." As though he didn't know that already, considering he asked the exact same question before every single game and in turn, got the exact same response. Every. Single. Time.

Rocco shot me the stink-eye as he headed for the door. “So sue me for wanting to make you happy.”

Exasperated, I threw myself onto the couch, face first. “I’m happy,” I said, muffled by the cushion. “Now please, stop asking about the stupid seat.”

I didn't need to see him to know Rocco had a scowl plastered on his mug. Whatever. He needed to get over it. Okay, fine. Some of the blame for my current mess was on me. Over the last few weeks my moods had been all over the place—from depressed and on the verge of tears, to furious and boiling over with rage. Poor Rocco ended up on the receiving end of most of my erratic emotional swings. That didn't excuse him from being a jerk, though, and his constant nagging had finally wormed its way onto my last remaining nerve.

“You know you can talk to me, Ky.” Oh my god. I groaned and thumped my head into the cushion. He’s so damn persistent and, from the sound of it, Rocco wasn’t near the door anymore. He was standing next to the couch. “About anything.”

You say that now…

I sat up and shoved my hair out of my face. “I know that, Rocco. And I know you mean it, but there are some things you're better off not knowing. Trust me.”

Rocco scoffed and went to take another step closer. When I leveled a serious stare, he hesitated. I watched as Rocco consciously adjusted his posture, relaxing each limb, almost de-puffing his considerable bulk to appear smaller, less frightening, as if he were getting ready to approach a timid animal. A venomous one that might lash out at any second.

He wasn't that far off.

“We don't need to have any secrets between us,” he insisted.

You asked for it, bud.

I tilted my head and innocently fluttered my lashes. “Oh, because you’ve told me everything, hmm? Like about the time you hooked up with those two women from—”

Rocco jerked back like I electrocuted him, and thrust out a hand. “Stop! Just… ugh! I don't even want to know how you found out about that.”

Normally, I would have found it amusing to see my big, tattooed, bad-ass brother all flustered and flailing, cheeks red with embarrassment. But all his reaction did was hammer home my point.

“See? Sometimes we’re better off not knowing. Ignorance is bliss and all.” I waved him away. “Go. You're going to be late. This is something I have to work out on my own and you're going to have to accept that.”

Rocco might be forced to accept my decision, but that didn't mean he had to like it. His huge hands fisted at his sides and his face flushed an even deeper shade of red, if that were even possible, only from anger, not humiliation over his sister knowing details about his sex life.

“Christ, Kylie,” he spat. “You're really something, you know that? You've become this, I don’t know, like a complete stranger lately. I don't even know who you are anymore. I don't know how to act around you or what to say. This… it isn't like you. It isn’t like us.” He snatched his keys from the hook next to the door and, because I didn't feel bad enough, gave me a final, parting blow before he slammed the door behind him. “I miss my sister.”

The tears didn't fall until Rocco was gone. He was right, I was a mess. But I also knew shutting him out was the right thing to do. The ordeal with Seb wasn't something I could confide in him. Rocco couldn't be the one to pick me up from that particular fall. I needed something, no someone else, to cheer me up and help me get out of my funk.

I sat up so fast the room spun.

I knew exactly who to call.

* * *

“Just like old times, right?” Nat grinned from ear to ear. I glanced around the arena. It was early and the place was still pretty empty. The majority of the crowd trickled in as we waited for the game to start.

“Just like old times,” I agreed.

Calling my best friend and asking, no begging, her to visit was the least dumb thing I’d done in a while. Having Nat around reminded me of all the fun we used to have back in DC. Pre-Seb.

Going to a Comets game, on the other hand? Probably the dumbest thing I’d done in a while.

Because I had a guest, and because Rocco can't keep his big fat nose out of my business, he snuck behind my back and asked Nat if she preferred to sit right on the ice. Since I didn’t explain my new seating arrangement, Nat accepted Rocco's generous offer. The result was two seats front and center, smack dab in the first row next to the Comets bench. After Rocco told someone in management his sister’s best friend was visiting from out of town, prime seats were arranged for their defensive star.

Rocco’s meddling meant there was approximately zero chance of me going unnoticed by Seb. What, with us fifteen feet away from where he’ll be sitting and all. Nat kept telling me to relax. That Seb would be too busy playing hockey to have time to search though every face in the crowd. If that’s what she thought, Nat didn't know Seb. There wasn’t much the man failed to notice. I mean, he spotted me in a sold-out crowd the night of Rocco’s very first game as a Comet. He actually remembered me from the one time he saw me in DC, where he only got a brief glimpse at my face, and that was in between exchanging blows with Rocco.

I would say Seb qualified as not only being very astute, but that he possessed some sort of supernatural GPS ability or something.

I got lost in my thoughts as I hid under my Comets ball cap. So much so, I didn't notice Nat flagging down a beer vendor until she thrust a foamy cup under my nose. The strong scent of yeast and hops assaulted my nostrils.

“Here. This should help you unclench.” Nat laughed at my subsequent scowl, but that didn’t stop me from tossing back half the beer in one go. I smacked my lips loudly and made and exaggerated “ahhh” sound.

“Happy?” I asked, grinning around a thick, foamy mustache.

“No, no I'm not, actually. I don't like seeing you like this, Ky.” Nat leaned in. “He's not worth it.” She handed me a napkin and I wiped my lip. “Honestly, he's not. You're a mess, and over what? A hot guy you slept with a couple times?” I appreciated her concern, even if it didn’t help.

“You're right.” I relaxed some and pulled out of my slouch to sit up straight. “You're totally right.” With a dramatic flourish, I finished my beer and crumpled the empty cup, one-handed. “Screw him. He's no one to me.” A sharp, hot blade pierced me between two ribs, but I pushed past the pain in the hope I could will it to be true.

Nat lit up. “That's the spirit.” She threw an arm around me and hugged me to her side, while I held up a twenty and searched for the nearest beer vendor. It was going to be a long night.

Because I’m a little bit sneaky and a lot spineless, I made sure I happened to be in the bathroom the exact moment the Comets took the ice for their warm up. A little while later, during player announcements and the national anthem, I was conveniently waiting in line for a snack, even though the tight ball in my stomach rejected the idea of food.

Unfortunately, after three trips to the ladies’ room and two for snacks I didn’t want, I ran out of excuses to leave my seat. Plus, the evil eye Nat perfected—complete with single arched brow—over the years kind of scared me.

She was lucky I’m not an “I told you so” kind of friend, because two minutes into the second period, during a line change, it happened. Seb flew toward the bench so his replacement could take his place. He curled the fingers of his bulky gloves around the edge of the low wall in order to propel his body over it, and his piercing blue gaze landed directly on me. It was as if Seb somehow knew I was there. Was drawn to me. He couldn’t have known, obviously, and the way his eyes widened with surprise, he didn’t expect to see me.

Mid-leap, Seb tripped and almost fell flat on his face, or he would have if his teammate hadn't been there to break his fall. Seb landed on top of the guy. His forward momentum sent them both crashing to the ground in a jumbled heap of equipment and skates.

After untangling their limbs and sticks, Seb took a seat on the bench, but he never stopped staring at me. Not once. I watched as his face quickly went through a dozen different emotions. They changed so fast it made it difficult to pick them out. The ones I did recognize? Confusion, anger, and astonishingly, a deep sense of sadness. The first two were for obvious reasons. I didn’t know what to make of the third. I knew Sebastien didn't want me to leave the other night. In fact, he protested vehemently. I figured his objection was due to interest in having another round of sex. But maybe I was wrong.

Had Seb been serious about trying to get to know me, or was he faking interest because I was an easy lay? I assumed it was the latter. Could I have been wrong?

The bright lights of the arena stung my eyes and I everything blurred as a sudden and intense surge of doubt made my head hurt. I clutched the armrest until the pain passed.

“Are you okay?” Nat asked as she stuck her face in front of me until her nose almost touched mine. Worry creased her brow.

Only then did I realize I was rubbing my head. I dropped my hand. “He saw me, Nat. You didn’t see the look on his face… It was… I-I don’t know what to think… I thought he didn’t…” I stumbled as I tried to explain Seb’s distraught expression only to discover I couldn’t. Nothing I said would accurately capture the complex workings of Seb’s mind or what he may or may not feel.

While I worried my lip, Nat contemplated what I said, or tried to say, anyway. Being a woman of action, when she reached a conclusion, she stood and tugged on my hand. “Come on. Let's go.”

Thank god. Now that he'd spotted me, there was no way Seb would let me leave without attempting to reach out and arrange a meet up. Either so he could wheedle an explanation out of me for taking off or, at the very least, to talk. Both would result in a sweaty usher bringing his request to my seat or, god forbid, Seb leaping over the boards and stomping into the stands in full hockey gear to deliver the message himself.

I shuddered in horror. Seb might very well be frustrated enough to do just that.

Maybe sneaking out was cowardly, but then, I never claimed to be brave. If I had to look into Seb’s devastated eyes, I would crumple like a used napkin and give him whatever he wanted and then some. I’d give him everything. I’d give him me.

Unfamiliar with Atlanta and its weird one-way streets, Nat used the map on her phone to get us home safely. She correctly surmised I was too distracted to be behind the wheel.

Neither of us said a word. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. Not as we walked down the hall to the door. Inside, I didn’t bother to take off my coat and shoes. Instead, I went for the sofa and dropped like a stone.

Nat took her time, hanging her coat and putting her shoes by the door. She passed my pathetic self and headed to the kitchen. Dishes clanged and the fridge opened and closed several times. When Nat finally joined me, she had a bowl of chips and a container of salsa in her hands, and two cans of soda tucked under one arm. She put everything on the coffee table and immediately dug in. I ignored the food. The brick of guilt I swallowed still occupied most of the room in my stomach. Nat had no such issues and demolished more than half the bowl in mere minutes.

“So,” Nat said as she used her jeans to brush the salt off her hands. “Are you thinking this guy might have genuine feelings for you after all?”

Straight to the point. How very Nat. With my gray matter flapping in the wind and complex thinking impossible at the moment, I appreciated the direct approach.

I stared at my hands, finding my fingernails fascinating all of a sudden. “I don't know. Maybe?” Frustrated and twitchy, I pushed the hat off my head and ran my hands through my hair. When that did nothing to lessen the anxiety, I heaved my feet up onto the couch and sprawled out on my back. “From what I know about Seb, it's not really his style. He’s like, the perpetual party boy bachelor. Never one to settle down or form attachments.”

“Everyone grows up eventually, Kylie.”

What? I sat back up and goggled, unable to believe those words came out of the mouth of Natasha Westwood, a woman who warned me time and again that I needed to be cautious around men. A woman who went off on long rants about men and their inability to commit at least once every four to six months since the day we met.

And she had the gall to sit there and look offended by my reaction. “What? It's true,” she said.

“I know. You’re right, it is true.” I nodded in agreement. “Just… coming from, you know… you.” I gestured toward her.

The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Nat’s mouth and, oh my god, she started to blush! I didn’t know my unflappable, hard as nails friend could blush. I always figured the embarrassment gene passed her by.

“Yeah, I know. Totally out of character. And I still think men are immature, emotionally stunted toddlers,” she added. I rolled my eyes at that. “But, I don’t want to stop you from going after something you want. Something that, despite my personal beliefs, could end up being real.”

The finality with which Nat spoke caused my stomach to detach, heavy weight still tucked inside, and sent the whole thing into a free fall.

“I… we… I can’t be with him, Nat. You know this.”

She got up and sat next to me on the sofa, close enough our shoulders brushed. Her expression was as serious as I’d ever seen it. Nat looked me in the eye and said, “You can.”

I snorted. “Yeah, if I want to risk death by Rocco.”

Nat took my hands in hers. The grounding touch soothed the bouncy nerves that pinged around my stomach—which currently lay splattered at my feet—and a warm, calming sensation spread through my body.

“Don’t be silly. Rocco would never kill you. He’d just kill Seb.” She said it with a straight face, but couldn’t keep the mischief out of her eyes.

We both burst out laughing.

Thank god for Nat.

Regardless, I had no idea if I could a) trust Seb to reciprocate my desire to take things further, b) trust my hot-headed brother to not murder Seb, or c) trust my own feelings.

It took Nat’s levelheaded approach to allow me to think about it rationally. Without her, I’d have been in my bedroom with the lights out, curled up in a ball in the corner, drool running down my chin as I rocked back and forth and muttered a bunch of nonsense.

Even with Nat’s guiding presence, and despite the fact I wasn’t curled in said ball, I couldn’t be positive there wouldn’t be a straight-jacket, a padded room, and a huge orderly named Lars, at some point in my future.

It was so unfair. Cupid and his stupid, defective arrow. I wanted to throttle the conniving, diaper-clad, pudgy-cheeked baby. Screw him and his sick sense of humor, using his power to strike the heart of the most inconvenient man to walk the earth and make me fall for him.

Cupid. What a brat.

* * *

Five days later, three since Nat flew back to DC—but hey, who's counting?—my phone blew up. Of course, because all things unfortunate tend to find me like a heat-seeking missile, I was at work when it happened. In a meeting. With the entire department. And two corporate bigwigs.

I entered the conference room, took my seat, and set notifications to vibrate. Generally, vibrate did the trick. When you get a single random text or call. When it buzzes eight times in a row and keeps going and going, again, and again, and again, well, that’s another story.

Unfortunately, vibrate didn’t stop everyone seated in a five-foot radius from turning their heads in sync to stare at me. It gave me the creeps, like my coworkers were a bunch of cyborgs with identical programming. I bit the inside of my cheek to squelch my nervous laugh.

My cheeks burned as I fumbled to silence the phone, and, because on a scale of one to ten, my luck is negative six, when I finally pulled it from my messenger bag, it began to vibrate again. Surprised, I squealed and the phone bounced off the table and onto my lap.

Kill. Me. Now.

My embarrassment was short-lived. I looked down and saw the screen and the oxygen got sucked out of the room. Heat scurried up my spine, and turned into a hot, prickling awareness that began at my scalp and trickled all the way down to my toes.

Aware that I wasn’t alone, and everyone was probably looking at me, I pretended nothing was wrong. Then I glanced at the flurry of text and missed call notifications covering the locked screen, every last one sent by the same person, and grew concerned. They were all from Seb.

Despite the subarctic climate of the conference room and the gale force winds that blew from the vent directly above my head, sweat beaded along my upper lip and my blouse stuck to my lower back. When I bent down to slide the phone back into my bag, my hands visibly trembled.

“Kylie?” I jerked upright and nearly knocked myself unconscious on the edge of the table.

“Whoa.” Headrush.

I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to three, then opened them up slowly. The room continued to list to one side, then the other. Faces were indistinct blobs of color and the lights in the ceiling shone brighter than usual.

“Kylie? You don’t look so good. Are… are you okay?”

Piper.

“I think…” Nausea burned my throat and I panicked as it crawled toward my mouth. Terrified I might get sick all over the conference table—or worse, one of the executives (don’t forget, bad luck magnet)—I pushed up from my chair and rose onto shaky legs. “Excuse me,” I muttered, already halfway to the door.

Misfortune must have taken a coffee break, because I made it to the ladies’ room in time to duck into a stall before I upchucked the croissant I stuffed down on the drive to work. To my surprise, I felt instantaneously better after ejecting the offending pastry.

I flushed and stumbled to the faucets, wet a paper towel, and leaned heavily on the sink to dab at my pale, sweaty face. Relieved I only made half an ass of myself instead of full-ass had I barfed on someone, I tossed the crumpled paper in the wastebasket and got busy washing my hands. While I lathered, I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. I froze.

Ohmygod, Rocco wasn’t kidding. I had changed.

To the point I didn't recognize my own reflection. Bright eyes looked dull and tired. Two huge, dark circles curved beneath them to further emphasize how exhausted I felt. If I subtracted my vomit-induced flushed cheeks from the equation, the rest of my complexion was waxy and washed out. I turned sideways and studied my profile as I ran a hand down my abdomen. My hip bones stuck out and my face appeared gaunt. Almost sunken.

Somewhere along the way, I lost several pounds and hadn’t noticed.

I lifted a hand to touch a too-prominent cheekbone and whispered, “What is happening to me?”

The bathroom door opened and I stumbled back from the sink. As I lost my footing, my hands slapped the flow of water and it sprayed all over my front. Two women entered, chatting and laughing, oblivious to my nightmare. I snatched a handful of paper towels and blotted uselessly at the ruined silk of my blouse. Tears stung my eyes, but I’d be damned if I broke down in the bathroom at CNN. I patted some more, which did absolutely nothing to mask the large, semi-transparent, splotch that stretched across my left breast.

I inhaled through my nose. Do not cry.

With my lace bra showing through the wet spot and paper towels clutched in my fist, I bolted from the bathroom and went straight to my car. I needed a moment to get it together. By the time I returned to the conference room, mostly certain I wouldn’t lose my shit, the meeting had ended. Of course. I peeked under the table. No bag.

Could it get any worse?

I sighed and awkwardly held an arm across my boob. Hopefully, Piper brought the bag to my cubicle, though I had to admit, if a less savory coworker decided to go on a spending spree with my credit cards, I couldn’t have cared less. There were other, more pressing matters that required my attention.

I swiped at my shirt one last time and gave up with a resigned huff. The only way it would dry was to give it time. I locked down every last one of the weepy emotions that sat on my chest and pressed down with the weight of a six-ton elephant, went to Rita's office, and knocked on the doorframe. Rita glanced up from her computer and did a double take, eyes wide.

My fingers curled into the sides of my wool trousers. I was sick and tired of everyone giving me that look. Fine. I get it. I can’t take care of myself and look like something the cat yakked up. That doesn’t mean I wanted or needed a pity reminder from everyone in my life.

“Kylie. Do you need to go home?”

Normally, I would brush Rita off and insist upon staying. Work was good at keeping me from thinking about, well… him. But I could practically see the unread texts and voicemails that hung over my head. There was no way I was getting anything done until I dealt with them.

I nodded and rested a hand on my stomach, which had started to act up again. It seemed throwing up a lung, and maybe a spleen, was a temporary fix.

“Yeah, I think maybe I caught a bug or something.”

Rita hummed in agreement. “Then go home and get some rest. And, Kylie…” I paused at the door and peered over my shoulder. Rita smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “Don't come back until you're feeling better.”

I swallowed, my throat tight, and said, “Thanks,” then hurried to collect my things while placating a few coworkers who asked if I was okay. They also gave me the look. The same one as Rocco, Nat, Rita, and every other person I came in contact with. Not quite pity, not quite concern, but rather, something in between, some nebulous emotional offering that did nothing but make me feel like a giant loser.

I went straight home, sat on my bed, and stared at my phone for over an hour before I deleted every last text and voicemail without reading or listening to a single one. I ignored the sharp ache in my heart and began the painstaking process of changing my phone number.

By the end, tears and snot were sliding down my face and hitched sobs kept breaking free until I eventually gave up and let it take its course. I cried until I was a sloppy, emotionally wrung-out, disaster. I hated to excise Seb from my life, but in the end, reality and self-preservation won out over hopes and dreams.

Because I knew if I didn’t cut and run, I’d fall in pathetically unrequited love with Seb. And if that happened, he’d destroy me, because I knew he’d never, ever love me back.

Better to make a clean break while I still retained a scrap of dignity. I sniffed and used the back of my hand to wipe the thick trail of mucous that dripped from my nose.

Dignity. Right.

What a joke.

Seb

I shoved my phone back in my pocket. Nothing. Rien. Zéro. Not a single response. No matter what I did, Kylie refused to talk to me. Refused to explain why she left me high and dry, both at my condo and again at the arena. Refused to explain anything.

I figured not knowing was the reason I ended up obsessed and desperate, to the point I’d gladly give my right arm just to speak with Kylie. I was floundering, needing to understand why she ditched me, ditched us—after we shared what was, for me, anyway, a life-altering moment.

Kylie took off and I became insecure and pathetic, left to grasp at straws to figure out what the fuck happened to turn her from relaxed and basking in the afterglow of amazing sex, to basically telling me to drop dead.

Or maybe that was all a bunch of bullshit I concocted to avoid the harsh truth. Excuses because I was too fucking scared to admit how I felt. To admit I cared about Kylie way more than I wanted to. That for the first time in my life, I wanted a woman for something other than an easy—though admittedly mind-blowing—lay.

And wasn't the universe one big fucking hilarious assclown.

After nearly a decade of screwing chicks whose names I didn’t remember and didn’t give two shits about before, during, or after I fucked each one of them senseless, Mr. Funny Fucking Universe decided to deliver a woman who was perfect for me in every way—a woman who, for the first time in my life, didn't make me want to slap duct tape over her mouth and kick her out the door—only to flip that shit on its head and send her running from me.

That cunning bitch karma bit me right in the ass. Not that I didn’t deserve every last shitty thing that happened to me over the years, considering what I did to my father, wasn’t there for my brother, and a lifetime of unapologetic, unrelenting selfishness. No one in his or her right mind would call me a saint. Nope. I’ll always be a bastard. The NHL’s High Priest of Assholiness. The Sinner.

"Dude, maybe you've had enough."

Evvy’s grating voice pulled me from my pity party.

“Fuck off, Ev.” I swung my arm over my head and to the side to keep my drink out of Evvy’s reach, and cursed when the cheap as fuck whiskey slopped over the edge and splashed all over my hand and sleeve. After the craptastic month I'd suffered through, I more than earned the right to get thoroughly and unequivocally shit-faced, and that was exactly what I was doing. No one was taking anything from me, not unless they wanted a broken wrist. Or two.

“Sebby,” Ev hissed in my ear and threw a heavy arm around my shoulders to keep me from swaying. “We’re in public. On the road, you fuckstick. If Coach catches wind of you being drunk and disorderly, he'll bench your fucking ass.”

Huh. We were on the road?

I shoved Evvy off and wobbled back and forth until I had the presence of mind to grab the edge of the nearest table. Once there was a fifty-fifty shot I wouldn’t immediately faceplant onto the empty plates and glasses on the table, I glanced around the bar. Hmph. Not a motherfucking clue where we were. Looked like every other goddamn hotel bar in every other goddamn city.

Must’ve forgot we were on a road trip. I snickered. That was fucking hilarious.

“Where are we again?” I asked, knowing it would make Evvy throw a clot.

“Jesus Christ,” Ev muttered.

Hazey lumbered out of nowhere and thrust a fat finger in my face. “Idiot drunk need go to room to sleep.” The huge goalie turned to Evvy. “You need help getting stupid upstairs?"

I huffed, irritated at that nosy bastard Hazey, getting all up in my busizzz, buiszz, bizzee, bizzou… Fuck! Bizz-ness, dammit! Up in my bizz-ness.

I spun around, and surprise, surprise, tripped over my feet and accidentally elbowed some random dude in the back of the head.

“Watch what you’re doing, asshole,” the dipshit growled from his seat at the nearby table.

Our eyes locked and a slow, evil grin spread across my face. The night just kept getting better and better. Fuck Hazey. I found a bigger, stupider, and way more satisfying target to unload on.

“Well, well, well,” I slurred, drunk as hell and without a single shit to spare. “Sasquatch. How very not nice to see you.” I pretended to look around, then returned my gaze to Calloway and smirked. “Did Mrs. Sasquatch tag along? Or is she spending the week waxing her furry pussy?” Calloway grimaced, looking beyond offended, and I doubled over and laughed until my abs burned and my cheeks ached.

He pushed to his feet and I had to tilt my head back to look at the oversized fucker. “You’re a disgrace, St. Clair.”

I continued to grin as I poked Calloway in the chest with the hand that held my drink. On an extra-exuberant poke, amber liquid sloshed all over his crisp white dress shirt.

“Oops.” I snorted and quickly downed the rest. “Ta-da! No more spills.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

I put the glass on his table and made a talking hand puppet. “Blah, blah, blah. You need to ask Doc about arranging to have that huge stick surgically removed from your ass. It’s probably starting to fossilize up there.”

Calloway’s face turned crimson and the tendons in his neck popped. It was fucking fascinating, like watching a rabid animal in its natural environment. He opened his mouth to say whatever the hell it is that Sasquatches said, when the music blared from his pocket.

“This isn’t over,” Calloway snarled as he yanked his phone out. He stomped off, but didn’t go far enough, because I heard him ask, “Is everything okay?” to the person on the other end.

That was all I caught because Sasquatch had left the building. Er, bar. What(hiccup)ever.

“C’mon, Seb.” Ev grabbed me by the biceps and hauled me toward the elevators.

“Hey. I'm not done. I wanted another.” He ignored my pleas and continued to shove and pull. I tripped several times, twice on my feet, once on someone else’s feet, and once on the carpet, staying upright only because Evvy held tight. “Oh fucking great,” I groaned.

Rocco Calloway stood by the elevators, looking all pissed and Sasquatchy as he waited, phone pressed to his ear. I scowled at the fils bâtard géante d’une putain, then giggled at my own wit.

“That means, giant bastard son of a whore,” I said to Ev, who had no clue what I was talking about.

Calloway’s annoying voice kept interrupting my buzz. “It's fine. I'll be home tomorrow and we can talk about it… Okay, good… Love you, too.” He disconnected the call and stuffed the device back in his pocket.

I leered and shuffled closer. “Mrs. Sasquatch?” I asked with a suggestive waggle of my brows. “Did you ask her about that alpaca pussy of hers?”

Calloway's dark eyes flashed and he gave me that look of his. The one that made me feel like a shitstain on his XXXL briefs. “None of your goddamn business. That's who it was.”

“Sorry, man,” Ev said.

I waved Ev off. “No worries, Evvy.”

Calloway and Ev stared at me like I sprouted a second head.

“He was talking to me, you fucking dipshit,” Calloway said with no shortage of disgust. “Apologizing for your idiot ass acting like a moron.”

I glanced back at Ev, who was shaking his head and staring at the ceiling. Fucking Judas bastard. The elevator dinged and the three of us stepped in. I started to crack a joke about there not being enough room, but as the doors closed a hotel employee with ruddy cheeks and a suitcase in his hand stuck his hand in the way and wedged inside when they popped back open, effectively ruining my plan to both insult Calloway and deck him in the eye socket the second the shiny chrome panels slid shut.

We, minus the sweaty bellhop, got off on the same floor. Calloway jostled us so he could be at the front of the tiny metal box. He stalked down the hall, reached his room, and slid his card in the lock while I was still stumbling off the elevator under Evvy’s power.

Perfect.

We would walk by right as Calloway got that door open. Then I would make my move. I was thinking donkey punch to the back of his ridiculously large head.

“Oh no you don’t, buddy. I don't think so." Ev correctly interpreted my intentions and dug his fingers into the meat of my arm.

“Ow! Fuck, Ev.”

Unbothered by my pain, Ev hustled me down the hall and once we got to my room, he thrust a hand in my pocket to dig out the key.

“Not so fast!” I said. Ev’s fingers squirmed and searched and I couldn’t stop giggling. “You hafta buy me a drink if you wanna get to third base there, Casanova.”

Evvy rolled his eyes and unlocked the door with one hand, keeping a tight grip on me with the other. He cursed until the light went green, and shouldered it open. With an unceremonious thrust, Evvy shoved me into the room.

“Hey!” I shouted as I tripped and sprawled face first on the hideous hotel carpet.

“Go to bed and sober up,” Evvy said. He chucked the key overhand. It bounced off my forehead and landed between my legs.

“I don't know what your problem is lately, and to be honest, at this point I can’t say I give a fuck. But when you do stupid shit that affects the team, stuff that…” Evvy sighed and rubbed a hand down his tired face. “Just grow the fuck up, Seb.”

I slumped, feeling like a toddler caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Evvy spun on his heel and stormed out, leaving me to wonder if there was any truth to what he said. I mean, what was I trying to do, getting drunk in public? I knew better. Did I want to self-destruct? Wallow in misery until I fucked up my career beyond salvaging and got dropkicked out of the NHL?

I sat on the bed, propped my elbows on my knees, and bent over to rest my face in my hands. It didn’t take a whole lot of self-reflection to figure it out. Even drunk I could easily pinpoint my problem. Three guesses? If you said blonde, sexy, and frustrating as hell, you win a prize!

None of this would have been happening if I never met Kylie. Everything was fine until she showed me everything I didn’t know I was missing and never really wanted until then.

Okay, that was total bullshit. Fine was stretching it. I wasn’t fine. It was more that life was tolerable. Before Kylie, I didn’t have an all-consuming emptiness that devoured my heart piece by piece. My bursts of rage were a million times easier to deal with than feeling pathetic, and lonely, and depressed all the damn time.

Unfortunately, I had no idea how to get Kylie out of my head and move on. No idea how to live without her smiles and touches and her sweet laughter.

Arms spread wide, I flopped back on the bed and went over every little detail about Kylie I could dredge up, every second we spent together, every touch, every sigh, every whisper, until the edges of my vision went black and I passed out cold.