Kylie

“I fucking knew it! I told you that bastard was a piece of shit.”

I sat on the sofa, wrapped my arms around my knees, and curled up in a ball, while Rocco had his fifth nuclear meltdown of the morning, and the sun wasn’t even up yet. I felt crappy enough without his help. I didn’t need Rocco to pour salt on the raw, gaping wounds.

When I woke, refreshed and happy, Seb was gone. Despite Rocco harping on and on about how Sebastien was a womanizing asshole who was in no way good enough for me, as well a user, plus every other expletive you could think of and a few more tacked on that I’d never heard before, I was devastated, but unsurprised. Rocco thought I was a victim, innocent in what happened, but when I hooked up with Seb, I did in fact know exactly what I was getting into. The thrill of Seb’s love ‘em and leave ‘em reputation was precisely why I pursued him, hence my sad acceptance that Seb took off in the middle of the night.

“I’m going to make that jackhole sorry he ever took his first breath,” Rocco snarled as he swung around and thrust a finger in my face. “He’ll regret fucking you over, Ky. I promise.” Rocco dropped his hand and continued to stalk around the condo like a caged jungle cat. “The next time I see that shithead he's going to need an ambulance.”

The tattered remains of my heart began to crack under the strain, but breaking down in front of Rocco, again, wouldn't help. It would only make Rocco even more furious, if that was possible. So I steadied my trembling lip and held in a sob.

“Let it go, Rocco. It’s none of your business.” I sounded like a broken record, lecturing the same thing over and over, but Rocco was the most stubborn person I'd ever met. He wouldn’t be deterred. Rocco was going to clamp his frothing jaws around Seb’s ‘betrayal’ and wouldn't let go until Seb suffered enough to quench Rocco's thirst for revenge. I was pretty sure there wasn’t enough suffering in the world to make Rocco happy.

“What happens between the two of you might not be my business,” Rocco growled. His eyes flashed with rage. “But you have to see it from my perspective. My teammate, a guy who’s supposed to have my back unconditionally, seduced my little sister, stuck his dick where it didn’t belong, knocked her up, and left her like she was a two-dollar whore.”

My eyes filled with tears at the insult and I struggled to speak without losing my tenuous composure. “Thanks for making me feel worse than I already do by slut-shaming me.” I shook with abject misery. But I wasn’t done yet. I shot Rocco a glare and pointed at the opposite end of the sofa. “Sit down and shut the hell up.”

The look on Rocco's face would have been comical had I not been on the verge of kicking the crap out of him. He continued to gape, shocked. I tried to pull my brows into Rocco’s ‘v’ and just about shouted, “Sit down, now!”

Rocco blinked and his shocked expression fell. I watched as his jaw clenched, cheek muscles ticking. Not an unfamiliar sight. At his sides, his fingers clenched and unclenched and I knew my brother was trying to decide if he was going to 'give in' to his baby sister’s demand or stand his ground and fight. Eventually, he stomped over and dropped onto the sofa with a huff, loud enough to make sure I knew that even though he complied, he wasn't happy about it. I wanted to roll my eyes. As if I couldn't guess.

“You have quite a few uneducated assumptions stuffed inside that thick skull of yours that need adjusting.”

I felt like death, the skin around my eyes swollen from crying and my nose all stuffy, but come hell or high water, I was fixing Rocco’s messed up ideas.

“You need to realize, I’m this perfect person you've made me out to be. No, let me finish,” I said when Rocco tried to interject. “I don’t have a pedestal. I’m human, just like everyone else. I make mistakes. I have flaws. I do stupid things I wish I could take back.” I exhaled a shuddering breath. “Seb wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know me. But… I-I knew who Seb was… when we met. Knew his reputation. I knew he would probably break my heart. But Rocco, that’s why I wanted him, because he was bad for me.”

Rocco shook his head. “No. You didn’t really know what he’s like,” he insisted. “You didn't know what a raging asshole he is.”

I stared at the sofa cushion. “You’re wrong. I knew exactly what he was like. I have this… need, Rocco. I like things that are…” I picked at an invisible thread. “Dangerous.” I gathered my courage and met Rocco's confused gaze. My cheeks burned as I explained my bizarre fetish. “I get off on the thrill of doing things I know I shouldn't do. If Seb hadn't approached me first, I was going to find a way to approach him.”

They must have been having a fabulous time skiing in hell, because for the first time in my memory, Rocco was speechless. He stared at me as the awkwardness dragged on and on and on. When the silence became too much I cracked.

“Well? Aren't you going to yell? Aren't you mad at me for being stupid and careless?” Tears dripped down my face and I couldn't blame it on pregnancy hormones. I disgusted Rocco. From then on he would look at me and see a reckless, hot mess, not the sweet, perfect little sister he wanted. Ruining his image of me—his faith in me—tore me open like a paper bag and exposed all the ugly truths inside. “Rocco?” I croaked.

After an excruciatingly long time, Rocco scrubbed his hands up and down his face and sighed, then hung his head dejectedly. “No,” Rocco said, his voice small and sad. “I’m not mad at… at you. I'm mad at me.”

I jerked back. “What? Why would you feel that way? You have nothing to do with me being a total wreck.”

Rocco lifted his head and looked at me. It looked like he’d aged a decade overnight. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “Don't you get it, Ky? I raised you. If you're a wreck, it's because I did something wrong.”

I shook my head. “No. That's not true. It wasn't you.” I unfolded my legs and scooted closer. “We lost our parents when we were more or less teenagers. Honestly, I'd be shocked if we weren't screwed up a little. That's not something you just get over.” Hesitant, I reached out and, when he didn’t protest, I put my hand on his knee. “I owe you everything, Rocco. Everything. I wouldn't lie to you. My strange, um, interests aren’t the result of anything you did or didn’t do. I pushed the boundaries long before mom and dad were gone.”

Rocco put his huge hand over mine and threaded our fingers together. “I believe you.” Some of the tension left the room and I managed a small smile. “But Ky, it doesn’t change the fact that you're still pregnant, St. Clair still bailed on you, and I still want to kill him. So now what?”

My smile disappeared.

Now what, indeed.

Seb

“You look like shit, man,” Evvy said as he slid to a stop next to me. The fucker dug in his blades and aimed a spray of ice so it arced right in my face.

I used my sleeve to wipe it off, cracked my neck, and exhaled, unwilling to fight back. My eye twitched all night long, and as a result, I was fucking exhausted. After cleaning the kitchen, I pretty much sat on the couch and zoned as my eye spazzed out to its heart’s content. The last thing I wanted was for the damn thing to start up again right as finally I got it to stop.

I raised a questioning brow at Evvy and smirked. “Thanks, honey. You look lovely today, too, honey, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

Ev snorted and jabbed me with his stick. “No, seriously, dude. You seem, I dunno, weird.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I think I broke something. “We haven't even started practice and already you're nagging me.” Gesturing toward the tunnel where the rest of our teammates slowly trickled onto the ice, I said, “If you're going to act like a clingy bitch, go find yourself a different hockey husband.”

Evvy threw his head back and roared, and, sleep or no sleep, I found myself grinning, something I rarely did when I had to be at practice on less than two hours sleep. On top of the fatigue, both mental and physical, I made sure to arrive a good half an hour before everyone else. I was changed and on the ice before Calloway showed up and made a scene. And I had no doubt that’s exactly what he would do. Without Kylie to intervene, I figured there was at least a ninety-three and a half percent chance blood would be shed by the time all was said and done.

“You don't do puck bunnies, remember?” Ev asked as he playfully shoved me.

“Are you saying you’re a puck bunny, Evvy?” His response was to thump me in the chest with his knuckles. “Ow! You bastard.”

“That’s what you get for calling me a puck bunny,” he grumbled.

“You started it.”

The noise around us grew louder as the guys trickled onto the ice, their shouts and laughter echoing throughout the empty arena. I kept watch on the opening from the tunnel, expecting a rabid Calloway to shoot out onto the ice, face crimson and foaming at the mouth, out for revenge. Imagine how surprised I was when the man in question finally made his entrance, only to ignore me. He joined the Comets’ defensive coach and the rest of the squad on the far end of the ice without so much as a glance in my direction.

I wasn't sure if it was good he didn’t start shit, or not, but the uncertainty made me paranoid. I spent the whole night getting geared up for a knock-down, drag-out fistfight with the huge enforcer. Fuck, I was vibrating with anticipation, ready to draw blood. When Calloway snubbed me and skated off, the adrenaline that buzzed through my veins had nowhere to go and left me feeling twitchy and anxious.

Coach’s loud whistle yanked me back to the present. I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs and joined the offensive squad. Practice was brutal. No sleep plus being too keyed up to eat breakfast equaled an unbelievably shitty performance. Coach rode my ass so hard I swore I'd find crop marks all over when I peeled off my pads. My timing was off, my dekes and passes disjointed and uneven. I couldn't get in the proper headspace, too wrapped up in worrying over what I would say to Kylie once I got my act together, and how she would respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ, St. Clair. You okay?”

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

“What the fuck, Calloway?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His sister.

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

Shit, Calloway was scared shitless.

Cue the loosening of my bowels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alrighty then.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where the fuck is my sister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twitch, twitch, twitch…

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

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

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

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

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

Calloway took a step back and turned toward me, lips pressed tight. He was irritated, but I could live with that. I was just grateful he wasn’t tearing all my limbs off and beating the ever-loving shit out of me with them. I returned my attention to Kylie. She looked paler than the last time I saw her. Had that really been last night? It felt like a lifetime since I held her in my arms.

“St. Clair.” I tore my gaze from Kylie’s red-rimmed eyes to look at Calloway. His expression was pinched, but he pressed on. “C’mon.” Calloway waved me forward.

One slow step at a time, I picked up my feet, one after the other. Everything in the room blurred as I approached Kylie. Tears dripped down my face and I could the rhythmic whooshing of my pulse joined the beeping symphony of machines. By the time I reached for Kylie’s hand, my lips tasted of salt.

I swiped at my face with my free hand and sniffed. “Sorry.”

A choked cough came from the periphery. I glanced at Calloway, whose eyes were damp as well. He caught me looking and shrugged, not giving a single shit I caught him tearing up. Fine. I admit it. I was shocked to discover the Tin Man had a heart. Then I touched my fingertips to my face. Calloway probably thought I was a heartless bastard, too, incapable of feeling any emotions that wasn’t fury, indigence, or cutting sarcasm.

Guess we were both wrong.

“Seb.”

My gaze snapped back to Kylie, and fuck, but she looked so damn fragile. I wanted to yank out all the tubes and wires, scoop her up, and take her out of there, but I didn’t. Instead, I held my breath and waited for the worst, to find out if Kylie’s… if our baby was gone.

“I’m here,” I rasped, and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

Calloway walked around the bed to stand on the opposite side. “Ky, what happened?” Thank fuck he had the balls to ask, because there was no way I could. Not in my current state of mind.

I met Calloway’s gaze and, we came to a silent understanding. All of our bullshit, the fighting, the animosity, the hatred, none of it meant jack shit anymore. I nodded in agreement. Calloway’s nostrils flared, and we both returned our attention to Kylie.

Kylie’s chin trembled and tears overflowed. She tugged her hands back to cover her face. She began to sob, and with each one her slender shoulders shook. Calloway and I exchanged glances. It was almost comical, if not for the whole “Kylie pregnant with my kid and in the hospital” thing. It was obvious neither of us knew what to do. We both looked to the other to do something and make it all better. Basically, we were typical men, completely useless when faced with a weeping woman.

“I—” Calloway began.

“Oh good, you’re here.” I spun around. A petite woman in a lab coat breezed into the room, her head down, focused on the tablet in her hand. “Which one of you is the father?” The woman lifted her head, and her dark eyes flicked back and forth between Calloway and me.

I licked my lips. “I…” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Me. It’s, uh, me.”

She nodded and nudged me out of the way to get to Kylie, placing the tablet on the bed. “How are you feeling, dear?”

The doctor’s lab coat said Dr. L. Patel, embroidered on the right breast in navy blue thread. Efficient as one would expect, she checked the machines, somehow making sense of the information when all I saw were squiggly lines and a bunch of numbers. Kylie sniffed and accepted the tissue offered by her brother.

“Fine. I’m tired, but fine.”

“No pain?” Dr. Patel asked.

“No.”

The doctor nodded and gently palpated Kylie’s abdomen. My eye spasmed hard and my anxiety shot through the roof. The desperate need to know what the fuck was happening overrode any common courtesy.

“Excuse me? Can you tell us what the hell is going on?” I blurted. “Why is she here? Is the…” I faltered, took a deep breath, and pushed on. “Is the baby okay?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Calloway lean toward the doctor. He wanted answers as well.

Dr. Patel picked up the tablet to make notes or what the fuck it was that doctors did. “The baby is fine. Ms. Calloway experienced cramps and bleeding and called 911. An ultrasound diagnosed marginal placental previa.” I stared at her. She smiled and explained. “It means the placenta is a little too close to the cervix.”

“What does that mean?” Calloway asked, his gaze darting back and forth between the doctor and his sister.

“It means we will have to monitor Ms. Calloway carefully for the duration of her pregnancy. The condition usually resolves as the uterus grows, but sometimes it persists, in which case she will have to schedule a cesarean section for the birth.”

I reached for Kylie and took her hand again, needing to touch her. Fear like I’d never known, greater than when I used to grab Rémy and hide in a closet, tuck my brother behind me, and listen as our father drunkenly tore the house apart searching for us.

Kylie glanced up at me through damp lashes. Her expression was pleading, begging me to make everything better. Knowing Kylie suffered and there wasn’t a thing I could do, sucked. But the fact that I was the one to cause that suffering, damn near killed me.

“Thank you doctor,” Calloway said. He came around the bed and shook the doctor’s hand. I think I did, too, my memory started to get fuzzy around the time I entered the room. The next thing I knew, Dr. Patel was gone and Calloway was talking to me.

“I need a moment alone with my sister.” I stood there, numb, but… not. Every inch of my body hurt, though the pain didn’t quite register. “St. Clair!”

I flinched. “Huh? What?”

“Can you…? I’m asking if you’ll give me a few minutes alone with Ky.” He was asking? Not simply shoving me out the door and locking it behind me? I checked with Kylie, who nodded.

“All right. I’ll just, um, be outside.” I glanced at Kylie again.

“Can you get me something to drink?” she asked. “Maybe a sweet tea?”

“Okay.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what? Make it unsweet.”

“Sure, no problem,” I hurriedly agreed. I’d bring her anything she asked for. Tea, change of clothes, Ferrari… whatever. “Uh, Calloway?” Calloway tore his attention from his sister to glower at me. “Um, did you want something? Coffee?”

Stunned, Calloway’s irritation melted and he nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good. Coffee. Black, thanks.”

I left the room and found the elevators. Alone inside the small metal box, I slumped against the wall and fisted my hair. If anything were to happen to Kylie… to my… to our kid. I wasn’t certain I could ever claw my way out of the destruction.

I had been led to believe I was strong. That because of everything I’d been through in my tumultuous twenty-six years on this mostly miserable planet, I was tough, impervious to something as insignificant as heartache.

I was wrong. No one was immune to life’s cruel twists and turns. Even Superman has a weakness.

Kylie Calloway is my own brand of kryptonite. The worst part was the overwhelming helplessness. The inability to erase all the negative shit. The only thing I could do was hope and pray that not only would Kylie and the baby be okay, but that I would come out the other side, not as the beaten and destroyed man I’d become, but someone better. Someone worthy of Kylie and the baby, worthy of their love and deserving of a place in their lives and hearts.

Kryptonite or not, I can’t live without her. I’d be there for her, do my best to get through the pregnancy a painlessly as possible, even if it led to my complete and utter annihilation.

For a chance at having Kylie and a family, it was a price well worth paying.

Kylie

Rocco picked up a chair, placed it next to the bed, and sat. It creaked when he lowered his weight into it, but surprisingly, the thing held up. I chewed on my lip as I sorted through the myriad of emotions I still had to process through. Seeing the blood and feeling faint, calling 911… everything happened too fast for me to do anything but react. Now that I had time to think, I was a bit overwhelmed. I turned off my brain and listened as the monitors beeped and whirred. The sounds were kind of soothing. The steady rhythm meant the baby was alive and well.

“How are you feeling?” Rocco asked.

I stared at my lap. After everything we’d been through, I was nervous. Rocco knew my secret. Knew about Seb. Rocco sounded calm, but I knew him well enough to detect an underlying current of tension. What I didn’t know was whether that tension was caused by my health scare, by finding out about Seb, or a combination of both. But Rocco was there when I needed him, and for now, that was good enough.

“Okay,” I said. “Tired, but not bad.”

Rocco reached out and touched the shadowed skin under my eyes. “You look exhausted, Ky.”

I shrugged. “Nothing new since…” I didn’t finish. The “since I got pregnant” unnecessary.

Rocco exhaled and scrubbed his hands over his face and up through his hair, which stood every which way. “I’m glad the baby is okay.”

My response was to giggle. Rocco looked at me as if I lost my mind. He grunted.

“What’s funny?”

“You,” I said. Maybe it was the drugs messing with my head, or my lack of sleep had made me delirious. Either way, inappropriate or not, I couldn’t stop. “You look like don’t know how to feel,” I continued. “Happy the baby is healthy and I’m okay, or disgusted because of who I slept with.”

“Ugh!” Rocco winced and covered his ears. “God, Ky! Don’t. Just don’t. I can’t unhear that kind of shit.” His reaction only fueled the laughter. Rocco scowled and waited patiently until I got control of myself. When I finally stopped, reality sobered me up quick.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Rocco didn’t ask why. He knew exactly what I was sorry for.

“Why’d you do it, Ky? I mean, not why you did what you did, you know, the, uh…” He pointed at my belly and turned green. “I don’t want to hear the gory details. Just, I don’t get it. Of all the guys out there, why him?”

I twisted the sheet into a tight ball, then let go, watched it unwind, and did it again. “Because he’s dangerous,” I mumbled. Rocco didn’t interrupt, so I kept going. “Because I’m messed in the head, Rocco. I uh, like that Seb is for all intents and purposes, off limits. That…the fact that you didn’t like it…it made it more exciting, or something. I just didn’t think… Then, I realized I kind of like him, and…” I got choked up and Rocco ran his hand in circles on my back.

“It’s okay, Ky. I’m not mad.”

I shot up straight and met my brother’s gaze. “You’re not?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m so fucking glad you’re okay, I don’t give a shit about St. Clair.” My mouth fell open and I stared at Rocco in disbelief. His lips twisted and after a minute, he said, “Fine,” and jammed both hands in his hair. “Fine. Yeah, I care, but not enough to make it a thing. Not while you’re sitting in the hospital after almost losing the baby.”

“He’s not as bad as you think.” I said it so quietly I wasn’t sure Rocco heard over the monitors.

His snort let me know that he did. “Yeah, he’s that bad, Ky.” He sighed. “It’s not about me anymore.” Rocco put his hand over mine, putting an end to my sheet-twisting. “Ugh, I can’t believe I’m going to ask this?” He pulled a face. “Does St. Clair make you happy?”

Did he? Sometimes.

“I think he could,” I said, going for honesty instead of deluding not only Rocco, but also myself. “We have a lot to talk about before I can think about that.”

A quick rap on the door and Seb entered the room.

“Here.” Seb handed Rocco a steaming Styrofoam cup and placed the other on the table next to the bed. Then he manhandled the wheeled tray and cursed under his breath when it wouldn’t cooperate with his efforts to reposition it over my lap. After he muttered what I assumed were a few French-Canadian obscenities, the wheels rolled under the bed. Seb put the big cup of iced tea on the tray, then shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I’m going to take a walk.” Rocco bent over and kissed my forehead. He turned to Seb. “I’ll call Coach and explain the situation.” Seb’s looked at Rocco, eyes wide. “Don’t worry, St. Clair. I’ll spare him the details. See you guys in a little while.”

And then it was just us.

Seb slid into the newly vacated chair and took a sip from his cup, which smelled like coffee. He was a mess—slumped down in the seat, face haggard, right leg bouncing up and down. How someone could be totally exhausted and tense at the same time was beyond me, but that’s exactly what Seb was.

We needed to talk, but I didn’t know where to start. Seb left, disappeared in the middle of the night. I thought we were done. But he came to the hospital, and as much as I didn’t want to give myself false hope, Seb didn’t act like a man who didn’t care.

“How did you know I was here? And why were you with Rocco?”

Seb put his coffee on the bedside table and shifted to the edge of the seat. With Seb so close, I could finally see what I failed to notice earlier. He was afraid. It was written all over his face, from the tiny wrinkles that creased his brow to the twitching muscles around his left eye. He reached for my hand and I felt a slight tremble in his fingers before they wrapped around mine. He nervously licked his lips. When our gazes finally met, tears shone in Seb’s eyes and my throat burned as my own welled up in response.

“We were in Coach V’s office when the hospital called.” Seb rubbed the back of his neck, looked up at the ceiling, and inhaled. “Coach didn’t even have to say anything. I just… knew. I don’t know how, but I knew something was wrong, and the way he looked at Calloway, er, uh, Rocco, I knew it was about you.”

“And Rocco let you tag along?”

“He didn’t say I couldn’t. I think we were both so intent on getting here, everything else was secondary.” Seb shifted from the chair and sat on the edge of the bed and scooped up my hands in both of his and held them to his chest. “It wasn’t about us, Ky. Nothing was as important as you.”

I exhaled a shaky breath and felt a single tear slide down my cheek. “I thought…” I swallowed thickly. “I thought you didn’t want me.” I glanced at my belly and amended my statement. “Us.” Seb jerked back like he’d been slapped. “You left.”

“I did.” He squeezed my hands. “I’m sorry. I should have said something. I needed time to work through everything, but I swear to you, Ky. I was coming back. I just needed to wrap my head around stuff, and get a plan in place.”

“A plan? Since when do you plan anything? I thought you were Mr. Spontaneous.”

Seb smirked. “You mean like sending gifts to beautiful women at hockey games?”

“Yeah,” I said, fighting back a smile.

The smirk fell off Seb’s face. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said, sounding wrecked. “I’m not a good person. You deserve so much better.”

I tugged my hands back and lifted them to his unshaven cheeks. Seb wouldn’t look at me, so I did the only thing I could think of, and kissed him. When he didn’t respond, I did it again. And again. Seb breathed through his nose and shuddered. Finally, he got with the program. Seb palmed the back of my head and slid his other hand around my waist, deepening the kiss with a moan, which I swallowed greedily. I happily let him take charge, and when Seb slid his tongue across my lips in silent demand, I complied. He tasted like coffee and longing and home. We made-out until my lips were swollen and my chin burned from his stubble. Seb pulled back and shifted from the bed to the chair and tunneled his fingers in his hair.

“Seb?”

He peeked over his shoulder at the door. Satisfied no one would interrupt, he turned back to me, his posture different, straighter, rigid. His body thrummed with nervous tension and he licked his lips.

“There’s no good way to say this, so I’m just gonna lay it out there.” The hairs at the back of my neck stood on end and a chill pricked down my arms. “When I was fourteen, I-I killed my father.”

I held perfectly still and tried my best not to react. I didn’t want Seb to think he frightened me. Was I confused? Yes. Shocked? Definitely. Frightened? Never. It was that moment I realized I trusted him—with my child, my life, my very soul.

“What happened?” I asked, urging Seb to continue. I didn’t want him to relive what was clearly a painful moment in his life, but I had to know, and not out of some sick curiosity. I wanted to know everything about Seb. All of it, the good, the bad, and yes, even the truly awful.

Seb’s eyes glistened and his neck flushed pink. The rosy color contrasted against his pale skin and, under the fluorescent lighting, his face appeared a sickly shade of green. Or maybe it wasn’t the light, because when Seb described his childhood, I felt sick too.

“Mom died young. Cirrhosis. Dad drank too, but the tough bastard didn’t do us a favor by croaking along with her. When Mom drank, she cried a lot.” Seb blinked, a far away in his eyes. “When Dad drank, he got violent, and Rémy… shit, he was just a little kid. I…” Seb brushed away a tear that slipped out. “I couldn’t let him hurt Rémy. I-I would hide Rémy, stash him somewhere in the house, then provoke the old bastard into coming after me.”

A wave of overwhelming love and sorrow came over me. I knew Seb might not appreciate the gesture, or interpret it as me thinking he was weak, but I couldn’t just watch as he ripped the bandages off of decade old wounds. I had to try and comfort him, even though it was too little, too late.

I scooted to the edge of the bed and grabbed Seb’s hand, threading our fingers. “Go on,” I said as I swallowed back a sob.

My heart broke for this man, for the boy he once was. Seb’s brash arrogance suddenly made sense. He used the abrasive persona to hide his broken childhood, his lost innocence. Created a shield to keep people from getting too close, that way they wouldn’t get a glimpse of the shattered man behind the curtain. I ignored the tears that dripped down my face. They didn’t matter. None of it mattered—not Rocco, not my fears, not Seb leaving. Not when it was so obvious that Seb was scared to death he would turn into his father. I squeezed his hand and he took a deep breath.

“I remember one day, hockey practice went unusually long. Rem wasn’t with me because I aged up to the next league. By the time I got home, Papa was shitfaced and had Rémy cornered. He was terrified. Blood dripped from Rémy’s nose and… fuck, he was only seven years old.” Seb pulled his hand free to cover his eyes. “I had my stick in my hands and saw red.”

Seb’s hand trembled and his shoulders shook. I touched his arm in support, but remained silent. It was Seb’s story, and he needed to tell me at his own pace. Most likely, it was the first time he’d ever told anyone.

“I think I blacked out, or something, because the next thing I knew,” Seb said, his voice thick with emotion, “I was covered in blood. The police were there, putting me in the back of their car, and Rémy was… I heard him screaming my name. He was in some woman’s arms. She was trying to calm him down, but he was crying, fighting her to get to me. I-I tried, but… They handcuffed me. I couldn’t do anything. And after that… I wasn’t there for him.”

Seb buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Screw the bed. I climbed down, wires and all, and curled in his lap. Seb wrapped his arms around me and I did the same. Then I pressed my cheek to his chest. My heart ached for Seb as he let it all out, years of holding in his sorrow, his pain. Nothing I said or did would erase the memories or what they did to him. My hands were as bound as his that day in Québec, even if I wasn’t handcuffed. It didn’t mean I couldn’t share the burden.

“But you were there for him, Seb. You stopped a horrible man from hurting a child. You know he would have eventually killed one or both of you.”

Seb sniffed and stood with me in his arms. He deposited me on the bed as if I weighed no more than a feather, and went into the attached bathroom. The water ran, and a moment later, Seb returned, his face red and damp. He stood awkwardly next to the bed.

“Sorry for unloading all that on you.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I snapped, furious that Seb’s father not only abused him, but made him feel bad for sharing his pain with me. “I know you don’t believe me, Seb, but what you did doesn’t change the way I see you, or how I feel about you.”

Seb features pinched. “How can it not?”

“Because, I promise you, Rocco would have done the exact same thing for me, and if I had to, I would have too.” Seb was speechless, mouth working open and closed. Eventually, he shook his head and dropped back into the creaky chair.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “I’m an asshole, I’ve been nothing but an asshole since we met. I treated you like shit, and now you know I killed my own father with my hockey stick. How…” His voice cracked. “How are you not telling me to leave?”

The distance was too much. I climbed back in his lap and held his face in my hands. “You’ve got it all wrong, Seb. I’m the one who treated you badly. I agreed to meet you in that hotel, specifically because I knew it would piss Rocco off. Well, that and because you’re smoking hot.” I grinned and he huffed out a laugh. “You forgot that I’m the one who left you, because I knew I was falling for you. The idea of Rocco finding out no longer thrilled me, it scared me to death. I hid you, when I should have been proud to tell him I cared about you.” I stared at Seb as I continued. “I do care about you, Seb.”

Seb studied my face, checking for my sincerity. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found, because the corners of his mouth pulled up. “We’re pretty fucked up, huh?”

I laughed. “Yeah. We are.”

While he continued to look in my eyes, Seb placed a hand on my belly. “I can live with that.”

My heart soared and I couldn’t stop smiling. I was going to spend the rest of my life with the most complicated man I’d ever met, have his child. Seb made me happy. I knew he would protect our family, with his life if he had to. Seb might think he’s a terrible person who did terrible things. That he’s a sinner. But I know better. Sebastien St. Clair is a good man, a survivor. And he’s mine.

With his palm still pressed against my abdomen, Seb leaned close and gave me a feather-light kiss. I put my hand on top of his and felt a tiny nudge from the inside. Seb’s eyes grew wide and he stared down.

“Did you… did you feel that?” he asked, awe-struck.

Right on cue, there was another tiny bump, directly beneath our stacked hands. I didn’t want to cry anymore, but tears of joy burst free and I laughed. “I think it’s the baby. It moved.”

Seb stared at me like I hung the sun in the sky. No, more than that. He stared at me as if I invented hockey.

“Il a bougé, le bébé. It moved,” he whispered. Seb’s handsome face broke out in a huge grin and he kissed me again. “Je t’aime.”

I don’t speak French, but recognized what Seb said. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and said, “I love you, too.”