Seb

I sat on the edge of the bench, coiled tighter than a slinky. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck and I chomped anxiously on my mouthguard. I glanced at the scoreboard that hung above center ice. Less than two minutes left in the third period and the score was tied 1-1. Every single one of my teammates looked as antsy as I felt. If we won against Edmonton, we’d be in the Stanley Cup playoffs. I wanted it so bad I could taste the metallic tang of the Cup, picture it raised in the air as I kissed the hell out of it.

Coach called for a line change and I stood. When the right wing swung his leg over the board, I leapt onto the ice, heart racing. I hadn’t been this nervous since I played in my first NHL game.

The puck was at the far end of the ice. Hajek had his hawk-like gaze locked on the small black disc, and Calloway fought against the Oiler’s center to move it out of the crease. Over the last eighteen months or so I’d come to better appreciate Calloway’s aggressive style, especially since I was no longer on the receiving end. The announcer declared one-minute left in the game. Calloway wasted no time and doled out a bone-crunching shoulder check that sent the Oiler ass-over-skates. The guy landed in a heap of pads, face first. One lightning quick turn by Calloway, followed by a perfectly executed flip, and the puck hit my tape dead center. I spun and charged down the ice, acutely aware of the players in my vicinity, tracking them in my peripheral vision. A streak of orange alerted me to the imminent arrival of a veteran Oiler—who happened to be a future hall of fame defenseman. He raced toward me, approaching fast.

“St. Clair!”

How I heard Roussell over the thunderous roar of the sold-out Edmonton crowd, to this day, I don’t know. Roussell deked the other defenseman, and dashed toward the crease. I faked right, rotated the opposite direction, and quickly calculated where Roussell would end up when the puck reached his stick. I aimed the puck and slapped it away. I successfully confused the Hall of Famer, who spun around, looking down in a desperate search for the puck. I saw Roussell successfully snag my pass right before I was hit by a brutal body blow. The fucker slammed into me and aimed an illegally elbow up and under my pads. Bastard landed a sharp jab to my solar plexus. Stars burst behind my eyes and my vision went black around the edges. The cheap shot left me hunched over and gasping for air, but didn’t knock me out. Thankfully, I was conscious when the horn sounded and the raucous noise of the home crowd cut off abruptly.

Roussell must have scored.

The next thing I knew, the announcer called my name for the assist and I was swept up in a boisterous celebration. The team crowded around me and Roussell grabbed me in a bear hug and lifted me off the ice. They cheered and shouted and I gave me so many slaps to the helmet I lost count. Even Hazey left his precious net to squeeze me with his Hulk-like strength. An icy glove slapped the back of my neck and I jerked around. Calloway’s dark eyes crinkled in the corners, his smile visible even as he chewed on his mouthguard.

“Coach wants you out,” he said, sounding amused. I started to argue, only to snap my mouth shut when Coach barked from the bench.

“St. Clair! Get your goddamn ass over here!”

I scowled and Calloway laughed. “There’s only five-seconds left and you got sucker punched. Go sit.” He steered me toward the bench. I didn’t like it, but went without complaint. To be honest, my abs were killing me and I couldn’t really breathe deeply enough to argue even if I wanted to. I hopped over the boards and Coach slapped my helmet.

“Great job, St. Clair.” I blinked, confused by the strange, foreign way Coach V’s mouth contorted up in the corners.

“Are you… smiling?” I asked, stunned. “Who are you?” Behind me, Ovechkin chuckled. The smile slid from Coach’s face.

“Sit your ass down, St. Clair,” he snarled, then returned his attention to the ice.

“Better,” I mumbled under my breath, though I caught the slight twitch of Coach’s lips. The man was beyond overjoyed and I had to admit, it was good—if not rare as hell—to see for a change. Ovechkin shifted down the bench to make room.

“Nice play,” Ovechkin said, reaching up to slap my helmet.

“Thanks.”

The sides lined up, and everyone on the bench moved to the edge of their seats, holding our collective breath. Five-seconds. Provided nothing major went wrong, in five-seconds we would win the Eastern Conference title. The puck dropped and Roussell, the lightning-quick bastard, snagged the puck like a fucking champ. One expert fake out, followed by a smooth pass, and the final buzzer went off. The players on the ice threw their hands in the air, sticks held high. The rest of us tumbled over the boards to join them in a boisterous celebration.

After giving out and accepting congrats, I broke from the pack and skated up to the plexi to the left of the bench. Just like it always did—and hopefully always would—my pulse stuttered at the sight. Kiley stood in the front row, cheering, her friends Piper and Nat next to her. Rocco’s girlfriend of almost a year, Mila, who worked wonders for Calloway’s bristly personality, was on Kiley’s other side. I winked and Kiley’s eyes sparkled. God, how I love that woman. But my attention was quickly diverted to my heart, my reason for living, who wiggled in Kiley’s arms. Pudgy arms reached for me and I got a toothless grin.

“Hey, champ,” I said as I knocked on the plexi and looked at a pair of bright blue eyes, so similar to my own it was freaky. My son babbled and smiled as he strained harder to get to me. At nine months, Jamie—or James, after Kylie’s dad—was not only fascinating, he was my whole world. Watching as Jamie started to recognize people, recognize me as his dad, simultaneously made me proud and put a lump in my throat at the same time. His little face literally fucking lit up when I entered a room. Talk about stroking your ego. Road trips were all but unbearable, but knowing Jamie and Kylie were waiting for me when I got home made everything worth it.

They were my home.

“Hi, daddy!” Kylie said in the high-pitched voice she does for Jamie as she waved his cubby hand for him.

I ignored the ear-piercing screeching of the female fans that tried to get my attention. Nothing and no one could pull my attention from the loves of my life. I blew Kylie and Jamie a kiss each, and rolled my eyes at the collective “awwww” from Piper, Nat, and Mila. Kylie helped Jamie blow a kiss back, and pressed his tiny hand to the plexi. I put mine on the other side, and even though we weren’t touching, the love that flowed between us was more than enough for me. A shower of ice rained down on me. I wiped my face and neck and playfully elbowed my brother-in-law.

“Jerk.”

Calloway shrugged, a grin plastered across his face, not one bit sorry for snowing me. He bent over, cooed at Jamie and, to Jamie’s delight, knocked on the plexi with his huge hand. Mila waved at Rocco and I swear, the big dork had fucking hearts floating in his eyes, not that I was one to talk. I could fully admit that both Kylie and Jamie frequently reduced me to a love-struck idiot, armed only with their beautiful smiles.

“C’mon,” Rocco said. “Cameras are waiting.”

I glanced over my shoulder and concentrated on not frowning. Since the news broke a little over a year ago that I was going to be a dad, along with the subsequent engagement and quickie wedding to Kylie, my reputation had done a one-eighty. Don’t get me wrong, the media remains the bane of my existence. They harass and cajole me and my family, sometimes stalking us around Atlanta to get pictures for their tabloid rags. When I was single, it was annoying, but the more unethical journalists started to target Kylie and Jamie, and I refused to take that kind of bullshit sitting down. More than once I’d gotten into a scuffle with an aggressive paparazzo. They sued, I won. Thankfully, the American justice system didn’t allow depraved idiots to use their freedom of the press as justification to be allowed to terrorize a pregnant woman or a new mother and her baby.

I mouthed, “Love you,” to Kylie and Jamie, and skated backwards from the plexi, toward the knot of players, team management, and journalists who gathered at center ice. The latter two stood on a carpet someone rolled out to prevent feet from going out from under unsuspecting people. I wish they hadn’t. Fuck, I’d give a month’s salary to watch a select few of my least favorite reporters faceplant.

“Let’s get this shit over with,” Rocco mumbled.

“A-fucking-men… brother.”

He threw his head back and laughed until tears streaked his face. When Calloway found out Kylie was pregnant with my kid, he beat the shit out of me, mostly because I wouldn’t hit him back, not after I found out he was Kylie’s brother. At the time, I didn’t want to do anything to damage my fragile relationship with Kylie, or, oddly enough, with Rocco. A year and a half later, and we were almost as close as Rémy and me. Shocking, I know. Took a lot of getting used to, what, with a Sasquatch in the family and all. For the first few months, I wouldn’t relax around him. I kept waiting for the inevitable punch to the back of my head when I wasn’t looking. But if nothing else, Rocco loved his sister and nephew, and if that meant he had to accept me, that’s what he did.

Turns out Sasquatch is a pretty stand-up guy. Who knew?

“Shut up,” I said when Calloway kept cackling at me calling him brother.

My grin ruined the pout I was going for.

“Does Mila hate that as much as Kylie?” I reached up and yanked on Rocco’s playoff beard. He swatted my hand away.

“Ow, you fuck. And yeah, she despises it.”

I chuckled. “Kylie told me it looks like I glued a ferret to my face.”

Rocco’s eyes went wide and, once again, he burst out in hysterics. “Oh my god! Sounds just like my sister. Mila, she just begs me to shave.” Grinning, Rocco wiped his eyes and shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it. I’m not going to be the one to jinx the team by shaving.”

“Me either,” I agreed.

We were close enough that the media swarmed. Rocco threw an arm around my neck and turned his wide smile on the reporters. “Chin up, brother,” he said from between his clenched teeth. “We’re gonna get that Cup and then, this suffering will be totally worth it.”

I glanced over my shoulder, needing to see my family. Kylie was happily chatting with Nat while Jamie chewed on a lock of her hair. A feeling of warmth, of comfort, of finally accepting myself and the love of another, spread through me.

I turned to Rocco and said, “It’s already is, brother. It already is.”

Now… How do I break it to him that I knocked his sister up again?