Kylie

The Kings scored the first goal of the game and I leapt from my seat to dance and cheer along with the twenty thousand or so other DC area fans. My grin was so big my cheeks were sore.

“Ky, that was awesome.”

I laughed and squeezed Nat’s arm as we jumped up and down and screamed while clinging to each other, our faces rosy with excitement.

“Right? It really was.” I couldn't stop smiling.

Nat and I met a few years ago as freshman at Georgetown University. Nat slogged through the tough physical therapy program, while I studied journalism, my passion ever since I was a little kid and my parents had to shoo me away from the more disturbing news segments I loved to watch. Our career paths couldn't have been more different, but in our first semester we ended up in a few intro classes together. When Nat loudly snorted at something the professor said that he didn't realize sounded like thinly veiled sexual innuendo, I giggled in response and we made eye contact. A match was made and we’ve been best friends ever since. Nat was my plus one whenever I went to Rocco's hockey games, and I never missed one at home. Not even if I had a test the next day and Rocco insisted I stay home to study.

Speaking of… Rocco skated by and grinned around his garish yellow mouthguard. The women in the seats all around us went absolutely nuts. Nat and I exchanged a knowing look and simultaneously rolled our eyes at the squealing females. Objectively speaking, I know my brother is an attractive guy. It's just… well, none of those women knew him. My brother. The real Rocco Calloway. I would even bet at least half were puck bunnies, women who went from game to game, hanging out where they knew the players would be, with the sole focus of landing a hockey husband, preferably by getting knocked up.

The bunnies had to have some sort of a clue as to what they were getting into when it came to professional athletes. But for the most part, regular everyday women knew less than nothing about athletes, or specifically hockey players, period. Because if they did, they’d bolt for the hills and run far, far away in the opposite direction. Most hockey players are—my loving brother included—by trade, notoriously quick-tempered, hard assed, immature, rough around the edges, uber-masculine alpha dogs who curse a lot. To the extreme. Pain doesn't stop them, words can easily send them into a rage, and from the maniacal behavior I'd witnessed over the years, I honestly believed every single one of them took a few too many hits to the head at one point or another.

Yeah, yeah, there are exceptions and I love my brother more than anything, but he's no different from the majority. Okay, so Rocco is by far one of the most loyal and kind people I know. That loyalty and kindness, however, doesn’t extend outside Rocco's seriously minuscule inner circle. Meaning, he doesn’t give a rat’s patootie about anyone he doesn’t know and won’t hesitate to use his massive muscles to prove a point.

When our parents died, I was thirteen and Rocco was nineteen. The accident occurred a couple months after Rocco got called up to the Kings from the Canadian Junior Hockey League and landed a contract for some ungodly sum of money. I was glad that at least after everything they sacrificed so he could play hockey, Mom and Dad lived to see Rocco achieve his dream. At the time, with the exception of Rocco’s success, the rest of my life sucked. Yet no matter how bad it got, my brother never let me down.

Despite being young, single, and suddenly wealthy, Rocco didn't hesitate to step up and become my guardian when he could easily have pawned me off on a relative. In fact, he refused to entertain the idea of me going anywhere but with him. Rocco dedicated himself to taking care of me; he put a roof over my head, made sure I went to school, got good grades, got into a decent college, and paid for my education. He always, always protected me and would likely do so for the rest of his life.

The scrape of skates on ice caught my attention and I watched Rocco stop in front of us. He tapped the boards with his stick, ignoring the squeals of eager fans. Nat and I performed what was now our ritual, and simultaneously spun to flash Rocco the back of our dark blue jerseys, both sporting number seven with Calloway printed across the back in big yellow letters. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Rocco give us a thumbs up. At least, I assumed it was a thumbs up. It’s hard to see much of anything with those thick, padded hockey gloves. Nat and I laughed and fell back into our seats to watch the game.

It was down to a few minutes left in the third period when a scuffle broke out in front of our seats. Since Rocco's tickets were in the first row near the Kings’ bench, we had a prime view of the action. Rocco descended on the puck, ready to flick it out of scoring range for the Comets by sending it to his center. From the left, a blur of white powered toward my brother, who didn’t notice. Rocco was busy handling the puck, lining it up for a pass. He located his teammate, only to find an Atlanta player all over the guy. On the fly, Rocco spun and flicked the puck behind the Kings’ goal. It skimmed along the curve to DC's right-side defenseman.

The speeding Atlanta player didn't get the message that the puck was gone. Instead of changing course and moving into position in front of the net to wait for DC to make a mistake so he could intercept and score, the jerk slammed full speed into Rocco. The men crashed into the boards, literally a foot from my face. Horror struck, I watched Rocco’s helmet slam against the plexi and bounce off the hard surface.

My heart clenched and I cried out, blindly reaching for Nat's hand. Unfortunately, she had no more of a clue what was going on than me. Nat leaned in so I could hear her over the loud boos and shouts of the crowd. "Ky, what the hell is that guy doing?"

“I don't know.” I was honestly confused as to what could possibly be going through number nineteen's head.

Wait. Number nineteen.

Ugh!

I knew who that was. Nineteen was Sebastian St. Clair. “That's The Sinner,” I spat. My lips twisted into a grimace as I patently ignored the flip-floppy, butterfly-flapping feeling in my belly.

Nat gave me a questioning look. “The Sinner?”

With a loud huff, I explained without taking my eyes off the fight, and boy were they going at it—helmets were off and they were grappling and swinging at each other, trying to snag the others’ jersey in their gloved hands. It was no holds barred, complete and utter chaos.

“Number nineteen.” I pointed at the sexy jerk who wore white and red. “That's the same guy that punched Rocco at the game the other day in Atlanta. The one you were supposed to come over and watch with me but skipped because you had a date.” I smirked at Nat then returned my attention to the ice. “He's a total ass. I swear, I think his goal is to maim as many opposing players as possible.”

Rocco took a blow to the side of his face and I inhaled sharply through my nose. He didn't look phased by the punch, so I relaxed and continued.

“The irony that his last name starts with Saint, combined with the fact that he’s a violent jerk, earned him the nickname ‘The Sinner.’” Yes, I made air quotes. “I mean look at him, Nat. The guy is so unhinged he shouldn't even be allowed to play.” The men continued to grapple and I sucked my tongue between my teeth. My pulse fluctuated with each punch thrown. “The really sucky part is that he's drop-dead, inhumanly gorgeous.” I snorted and rolled my eyes. "Not that it matters. His personality is awful. Sebastien St. Clair is hands down the biggest jackass in the entire NHL.”

I can admit he’s good looking. I may have poured over pictures of Sebastian St. Clair, and, as an aspiring journalist whose brother plays professional hockey, watched a lot of press conferences, some of which coincidentally included the Atlanta player. It would be highly unlikely to find a single straight woman, including myself, who didn't drool and get all hot and bothered at the sight of Sebastian St. Clair. What’s unfortunate, is the second he opens his beautiful, bow-shaped mouth, those stunning good looks dissolve like a mirage. The guy is a hot mess of anger, curses, and total assholeiness, both on and off the ice.

Which, because I’m an idiot, ended up turning me on like nothing else ever had. And that made me angry.

I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on Sebastian St. Clair, two, maybe three years earlier. I couldn’t forget, and not just because the man turned my crank. Because of the way Rocco—who as upset as he got at times, never, ever raised his voice at me—did just that.

Rocco and I sat on the couch to watch SportsCenter, my brother nice and relaxed since he didn't have a game for two more days. The commentators discussed the day’s NHL highlights, showing clips of the best and worst plays, then they ran various snippets of post-game press conferences from across the league. A couple minutes in, Sebastien St. Clair's face, in all it's perfection and glory, filled Rocco's enormous flat screen TV. I must have been unconsciously drawn to him, because without realizing it, I shifted to the edge of the cushion, eyes glued to the eighty-inch image of the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

“Don't even think about it.” I flinched at Rocco’s bark and turned to find him doing his grimacey thing. At me. His expression was so harsh, chill bumps popped up on my arms. “That guy,” Rocco pointed a finger at the screen, “is a complete horse's ass. I don't want you anywhere near him.”

Like always, I began to protest just for the sake of protesting. “But —”

“No buts!” Rocco practically roared. I shrank back into the couch. Rocco never yelled at me. Ever. The only response I could manage was a quick nod. “I mean it, Ky.” He leaned in close. “Stay away from him.”

Faced with Rocco’s serious stare, flared nostrils and burning eyes, I swallowed tightly. Even though the warning only made the temptation to get close to Sebastien St. Clair a thousand times stronger, I said what he wanted to hear.

“Okay.”

Whistles went off and the clock stopped, but Rocco and St. Clair were on another planet. Refs or not, the brawl continued. Their blue (Rocco) and white (St. Clair) jerseys moved so fast, I couldn't lock onto any one single thing, seeing only a mish-mashed blur of colors. Before I could blink, their gloves were off and punches were thrown.

Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

I gaped and my mouth hung open like a largemouth bass. The big jerk with the name St. Clair stamped on his jersey in bold red, hauled back his fist, swung. When it connected with Rocco's nose, I winced.

I managed to choke out an “Oh my god!” and leapt from my seat as if zapped by a cattle prod. My iced tea went flying everywhere, not that I cared. Screaming, I pressed my palms on the divider and banged on it hard enough to rattle the boards. “Hey you!” Despite the deafening noise in the arena, the shouts, the boos, the cheers, and the hiss of skates on ice, by some miracle, Sebastien St. Clair heard me. He must have, because he glanced up, and when our gazes met time stopped.

I swore, right then and there, the man I secretly fantasized about for years, was able to see right through me. Knew I wanted him. Read me like a book from cover to cover. The moment was short — just long enough to catch a glimpse of his incredible blue eyes, filled with sparks of playfulness that defied the violent actions of their owner. It was long enough. I was mesmerized by him. That one shared look may as well have lasted hours instead of a fraction of a second.

Then it was over and Sebastien St. Clair returned his attention to beating on my brother. What did it say about me, that even when he was exchanging blows with Rocco, who gave back just as good, I still found St. Clair sexy? Maybe it was the lure of the forbidden. Or maybe it was because during that infinitesimally small moment in time, that one teeny exchange we shared, my body had burst into flames, the fire flickering and growing into a frenzy of lust and want and need.

No. I was not attracted to Sebastien St. Clair.

I mean, yes. I was attracted to him, but only physically. The man was a jerk of the highest order, with an ego so large you could probably see it from space.

Again, the men slammed into the boards and my heart leapt into my throat. I held my breath, but not because of the brutal violence that played out a few feet away. My breath was stolen by the intensity of the feelings triggered by those fiery blue eyes. Another sharp whistle and I inhaled, bringing much-needed oxygen to my burning lungs. Palms still on the plexi, I stabbed at it with an index finger.

Okay fine. I can admit Sebastien St. Clair is sexy. Didn’t matter. Rocco is my brother and I will always support him on the ice.

“Hey you! Yeah, you, St. Clair! Back off, you big jerk!”

The refs futilely pushed their way through the thick crowd of bulky players who gathered in a tight circle to egg on the fight. Rocco detached from St. Claire's grip and used the back of his hand to swipe at his nose. When it came back bloody for the second time in two straight games against Atlanta, Rocco glared at the red smear. His dark eyes flashed with fury and he stared holes in Sebastien St. Clair’s face, while the muscles in his jaw ticked.

Uh oh. I recognized that look. Things were about to go away, way south.

I pounded harder on the partition and screeched at the clearly insane, and regrettably hot, Sebastien St. Clair. “Stop it, you… you asshole!”

Amazingly, he heard me again, and those eyes, the bluest I'd ever seen, locked onto mine once more. Startled by the potency of his stare, and its ability to send a flush of prickly heat over my skin, I jerked away from the partition and for a moment forgot where I was and what I was doing. The two of us stared at each other through the handprint-smudged divider.

“Ky,” Nat said, shaking my arm. Only I couldn't tear myself away from St. Clair's hypnotizing sapphire eyes. He couldn't move either. Well, not until Rocco's fist flew out of nowhere and connected with the side of his face. I winced as St. Clair's eyes squeezed shut and his head snapped sideways. Then, I started to scream.

“Oh my —“

It was St. Clair's turn to have his head slammed against the boards. His chiseled cheekbone crashed into the exact spot where I rested my palms. In a 'blink and you missed it' moment, the infamous Sinner ended up with his face smooshed against the half-inch piece of plexi that separated us. He blinked, glanced down at my Calloway jersey, and gave me a cruel—and ugh! too sexy—smirk before turning to retaliate on my brother.

“Oh thank god.” I clutched my shirt above my heart and exhaled when the useless refs finally made it into the center of the fray and ended the fight before either idiot threw another punch.

“Geez, that was intense,” Nat said under her breath. “Come on, sit.” She tugged on my hand and we both slumped down in our seats.

My earlier thoughts were confirmed yet again. Hockey players are quick-tempered, hard assed, rough around the edges, uber-masculine alpha dogs. The smear of blood left on the plexi was proof enough for me.

It didn't stop Sebastien “The Sinner” St. Clair from being the sexiest man alive. The big jerk.

Seb

“I really wish you would stop doing that, Seb. I'm serious. You can't attack every single player that checks me. You know as well as I do that getting hurt is part of the job.”

I strode across the room—the hotel’s décor indistinguishable from every other one I stayed in when the team traveled—to gaze out the window. Sometimes, having something to look at helped control my temper. Not that night, unfortunately.

I stared, eyes unfocused, too damn distracted to really see anything. With the heel of my hands, I rubbed my eyes until my vision cleared long enough to note the brilliant lights of the nation's capital. Lights illuminated the Washington Monument an eerie yellowish-white, the smooth stones glowing from base to tip. I placed the palm of my hand on the underside of my chin, shoved my head up and to the side, and groaned with pleasure when my neck cracked.

“Rémy, that ciboire had it coming.” I kept my voice even as my gaze drifted from the United States’ national monuments to the pitch-black sky, hundreds of pinprick stars sprinkled across the inky darkness.

“Christ, Seb. I'm a fucking winger in the NHL. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have your big brother do your fighting for you?” Unlike me, who tried my best to remain calm, Rémy had no such reservation. His tone pitched higher and the volume went up right along with it.

“Screw that.” Calm became impossible. As I grew agitated, my words slid into French. “You'll always be my little brother. It's my goddamn job to protect you.”

More than you will ever know.

Tired and beyond disgusted by my failures both the other night in Atlanta and earlier that evening in DC, I turned from the window, flopped on the bed, and kicked off my shoes. I managed to successfully ignore Rémy’s calls for three days after the game in Atlanta, too pissed with myself to listen to another one of my brother’s lectures about enacting revenge on his behalf. Besides, I had been somewhat indisposed. It took an unusually long amount of time to fuck the anger out of my system after Calloway put me on my back and knocked my head hard enough to have me yanked from the game for concussion protocol. The only reason I answered tonight was because I didn't want Rémy to get stressed out and worry.

“No Seb, it's not. It's not your job.” He let out a loud huff. “I get where you're coming from, really, I do.” At least Rémy’s breathing sounded better, which meant his ribs were almost healed. “You had to act like a parental figure because our dad —“

“This isn't about Dad.”

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Fucking perfect. I slapped a hand over the offending eye and cursed the damn thing.

“Oh, screw you. It's always about Dad. Mémère did the best she could, but we both know it was tough to grow up without parents.”

I didn't respond. Mostly because Rémy was one hundred percent wrong and had no clue what he was talking about, but hell would have to freeze over before I destroyed the lie I created to protect my brother from reality and all of its horrors. Okay, yeah. I maybe missed our mother, barely. She was drunk more often than not and a shitty parent. But at least she cared. Dad… well, I had zilch to say about the man that didn't include a string of obscenities colorful enough to make a porn star blush. Rémy, oblivious to my inner torment, continued.

“It's not that I don't appreciate what you do for me, bro. Growing up was…difficult.” Rémy swallowed and as usual, the guilt from the layers upon layers of lies crushed down on me. “And I know it was ten times worse for you, I mean, you still being a kid and all and having to act like the man of the house.” Another pause meant there was plenty of time to toss another suitcase full of guilt on my teetering mountain of baggage. “But, I'm twenty. It's time to let me try and take care of myself. I think I've done a pretty decent job being on my own for the first time in my life. You need to worry less about me and focus on fixing your own shit.”

I slid my hand from my twitching eye to massage the back of my skull, where a dull ache throbbed. I heard what Rémy said. I got it, I really did, but he didn't understand, and if I had my way, he never would. I couldn't stop caring or worrying that Rém had everything he needed and was protected from the douchebags of the world anymore than I could choose to make my heart stop beating. It had been my responsibility to watch out for Rémy for so long, I wasn't sure I even knew how to turn it off. It was part of me. Kind of like the ever present rage and self-loathing.

With the final rub to my pulsing head, I let my arm fall and sighed. “I’ll try.” Rémy barked a sarcastic laugh and I scrambled to reassure him. “No, really. I will. Promise. I just… I can't guarantee I'll be perfect.”

Rémy did another one of his dramatic pauses, this one so long I pulled the phone from my ear and checked to make sure the call hadn't disconnected, like I did so often when talking to my brother. It wasn't all that unlikely the thing would actually crap out, as every electronic device I ever laid hands on broke, fell apart, or somehow magically exploded. In fact, if I remember correctly, this was my fourth phone in as many months.

Right as I was about to ask if Rémy was still there, he soothed my thoroughly frayed nerves.

“Thanks, bro. For everything.” Rémy’s voice hitched and a lump formed in my throat. It caused both my stationary and my stupid, twitchy eye, to burn with unshed tears. “Just,” it was Rémy's turn to sigh. “You have to try and let me be my own man now, okay? I really, really need this.”

“Yeah.” I sounded like I gargled with gravel. “I get it.” I changed the subject before I said something monumentally idiotic that messed everything up and made the already tense situation a thousand times worse. “When do the doctors think you'll be back on the ice?”

Rémy didn't—and as far as I was concerned, would never–know the extent to which I had gone, and wouldn’t hesitate to go to again, to keep him safe. Could never know. I had literally been protecting my brother for well over a decade. From nightmares, from pain, from the reality of our shittastic childhood… from our father.

Rémy grunted. "I hate riding the bench. Doc says probably next week."

“Just in time for my team to whip your team's ass.”

“Yeah, okay.” He snorted, amused. “We'll see.”

“Catch you later, mon frère.”

Rémy chuckled. “Bye, bro.”

My head was killing me. I tossed the phone next to me on the too-soft duvet where it sank down a couple inches. The thick material puffed up around the device, nearly obscuring it from view. I put my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. The phone beeped, indicating it was low on power, and I groaned. Every damn device I touched somehow ended up malfunctioning. It’s like I’m some kind of human EMP. My very presence makes everything electronic spontaneously combust.

I didn’t have to look at the screen to know the battery was dying, because the stupid charger fritzed out yesterday. When I plugged it into the hotel's wall socket, sparks literally shot out of the damn thing. Without the stupid cord, my stupid phone would just have to up and stupidly die.

Shit. I dug both hands into my hair and swallow down the urge to scream. Rémy had no idea how much control he was asking me to give up. To go against more than fifteen years of deeply ingrained behavior. A decade and half of throwing myself on the grenade time and time again, in a bid to shelter my brother from the horrors of what used to be our life. Shielding Rém from Mom’s drunken binges and general neglect. Going to desperate measures to redirect Dad’s explosive anger and increasing violence onto me. I was the one who fed and clothed my brother. Made sure he got to school and took a bath and did his homework. I was the one to try and give Rémy the semblance of a normal childhood.

Okay, fine. We were dealt a shitty and no matter what I did to try and change things, our childhood was never going to be normal, but I hope I gave Rémy the illusion of normal. It was the best I could do and a thousand times better than growing up perpetually black and blue, haunted by pain and fear, telling your teachers your injuries were from hockey.

I know because that was me.

Then… I wasn't there for Rémy, and I would never forgive myself for my absence, even though it was the end result of something that needed to be done.

A sharp pain on my scalp brought me back to the present. I dropped my hands from where they were fisting my hair and yanking on it.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

I got up and must've paced the room a hundred times, jaw clenched, fingers laced on top of my head, but it was pointless. The memories brought back the rage. I was too far gone. Too angry. Too worked up over both Rémy's injury and his request that I basically distance myself from him.

I growled and snatched up the remote. Maybe there was a game on. Or SportsCenter. Something, anything to distract me from the burning hot fury that sat in my stomach like a ball of magma. I smashed the power button.

Nothing.

Why the fuck didn’t anything ever work right?

Again and again I jabbed the button with the same result, until I hurled the remote across the room. It ricocheted off the wall and left a pretty serious dent. This time, I couldn't hold back my shout of frustration. Shaking, I sat on the bed and rubbed my twitching eye. I wiggled to get comfortable and felt rather than heard the crack of glass under my left butt cheek. I shifted to one side and pulled out my phone. The second I saw the spiderweb pattern across the screen, it was game over.

There was no calming me. Not if I was stuck in that room. And not when, in less than fifteen minutes, I was supposed to meet some of the guys in the lobby bar to grab something to eat.

Only two things worked to squelch the feverish anger once it built to such explosive levels. Both involved taking control. At that moment, it was strong enough where I could feel it, like this physical… thing, a big, dark mass that pressed against my insides and made my skin feel all tight and hot, ready to split open any second and pour out of me in a stream of uncontrolled violence reminiscent of dear old dad. Problem was, even if I used both of my coping methods between now and the next game, I knew damn well the second I stepped on the ice I would snap.

How was I supposed to keep my promise to Rémy and come face to face with Calloway tomorrow night for our final game in DC?

Kylie

“Where the hell have you been?”

I flinched so violently at another of Rocco’s sneak attacks, my keys flew out of my hand and clattered to the tile floor. I bent over to retrieve them while I fought to not drop dead from shock. Once my heart stopped trying to beat its way out of my rib cage, I straightened, looked at my brother, and gasped. The aftereffects of Rocco's fight with Sebastian St. Clair earlier in the evening were blatantly evident. Scrapes and bruises littered his skin, and his bottom lip was all puffy and split down the middle.

Fine. Rocco was angry. It's not as if I didn't know he would be. I did kind of leave Rocco hanging by grabbing Nat and ducking out, skipping our traditional after game dinner. Maybe notifying him by text message wasn't the greatest idea, but I knew he wouldn't get it until I was long gone and there was no way he could stop me.

At the time, I felt bad about it… for roughly zero point four seconds, then a flurry of nerves—the rush I crave, the adrenaline from the excitement of the unknown and doing something Rocco would hate—held me in its trance. Sheltered for so long by my well-meaning, hovering, helicopter brother from hell, sometimes I needed to do something dangerous. Something I knew Rocco would disapprove of, if not flat out for bid. If he found out, and I went to pretty extreme lengths to make certain he never did.

Unfortunately, even the best laid plans went sideways. Like tonight. I hadn’t planned on Rocco discovering certain things about me, such as the reason for my spontaneous moments of reckless abandonment, or maybe, last week when I hopped a ride home from the campus library on the back of my acquaintance slash study partner’s motorcycle, somewhere in my subconscious I wanted Rocco to see me pull up on Grant's rumbling crotch rocket. I had been over an hour late getting home and studiously ignored every single one of Rocco’s avalanche of texts and calls. Which meant I knew with one hundred percent certainty, my overprotective brother would be staring holes down at the street, waiting for me to arrive.

I can't explain it but there are times when I can't help myself. Can't control my actions. I don't like to think I torment Rocco on purpose, but I'm pretty sure that would be a lie. I want to say it’s an unconscious decision, to poke at the beehive the very sharp stick just to see what happens. But it’s not. The rare times I rile Rocco up, it's most definitely a calculated move. A personal, if petty, little rebellion that only one of the sides knows is deliberate.

In my defense, I actually knew Grant, unlike some of the other guys I’d gotten rides home from. Grant was in all of my journalism classes and came from old DC money, so even though Rocco didn’t like it, I knew Grant wasn’t a serial killer or something.

I felt sick and my hands were clammy, because Rocco—being the big jerk that he is—pounced the second I walked to the front door. He towered over me, a full foot taller than my five-six, and crossed his thick arms over pecs as wide as three of me standing side to side, as he glared down. I shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. My face heated in humiliation. Rocco’s stare was so intense it was almost as if he somehow knew what I had been up to earlier in the evening. Just the thought of Rocco finding out was humiliating enough, despite the fact I chickened out.

And what if I had gone through with it? I was an adult and could make my own decisions. Maybe I was impulsive at times, intended to act first and think later, it was still well within my rights to make my own mistakes. Even if my actions were usually knee-jerk rebellions to Rocco's well-intentioned smothering.

“You jerk. You have to stop doing that! You scared me half to death.” I tried to return Rocco's glare, but nobody threw shade like my brother. With my body still suffering the aftereffects of the sneak attack, I prayed he wouldn’t notice how my hands trembled.

“Yeah? Well, you scared me,” he snarled. “So I guess we’re even.” Perma-scowl in place, Rocco's fury made me even more resentful. I was angry at him, but even more so at myself. Since he was perfectly good target, I directed all of my shame and frustration and fury at the tiny wrinkle between Rocco’s dark brows.

“I guess we are,” I snapped back. No way was I in the mood to deal with Rocco's issues. Not when I had so many of my own crashing down on me. I stepped around him and headed for my room.

“Hey! Don't you dare walk away from me.”

Oh no you didn't. I stopped dead in my tracks and tensed so fast my shoulders nearly smacked my ears. He did not just speak to me as if I were a five-year-old child.

Furious in a way I’d never been before, I spun on my heel and did something I almost never ever did. I took everything I felt, gathered it into a ball, and heaved it directly at Rocco’s head. I marched right up to him, tilted my head way back to meet his seething glare, and went off.

“Don’t you even start with that.” I stabbed a finger into Rocco’s sternum. Of course, because he’s built like a Mack truck, on the second poke, my index finger bent funny. “Ow! Dang it.” I waved my hand around in a ridiculous and futile effort to stop the pain.

Rocco lunged to catch my hand, which I narrowly avoided by spinning away, and almost landed on my ass for the effort.

“Christ, Ky. Lemme take a look. You might have broken it.”

Not feeling charitable in any way, when Rocco tried to grab my hand again, I yelped and cradled it to my chest. He did not get to treat me like crap then act all concerned and heroic. He did not get to be the good guy. Not tonight.

“No. Go away.”

Rocco rolled his eyes and scoffed. He held out his hand, palm up, with the clear expectation I would comply. “Stop being so damn stubborn and let me look.”

My jaw dropped so fast I might have felt my chin smack the floor. “Me? Stubborn?” I let out a very unfeminine snort. “You're the one who bulldozes over me to get your way and makes ridiculous demands by treating me like a kid.”

Using my uninjured hand, I waved at the den. Rocco followed the motion and his bruised cheeks flushed pink. Every light in the condo blazed bright, the huge television blared loudly, and six empty beer bottles sat like good little soldiers next to my brother's favorite chair… which just so happened to be next the windows that overlooked the front of the building.

“Case in point, Rocco. It's three in the morning and you're the one who decided to wait up for me like I'm a virgin on prom night. I don't need or want a lecture from you, especially one I didn’t ask for.”

Rocco winced and covered his ears. “Shit, Ky. I don't want to hear about your sex life.”

Considering an hour earlier, I almost broke my two-year dry spell, Rocco struck a nerve. I wanted to cry, and that made me angrier. Emotions all jumbled up, every last drop of my mental acuity drained, the dam that held me back finally collapsed. Every feeling I had, came exploding out of me like Mount Vesuvius.

After the cluster-you-know-what of a night—first watching Rocco get into a fight, then the guilt of thinking the guy who punched him was smoking hot, followed by me skipping out on Rocco after the game. Add in my failed attempt at a one night stand, having to call Nat from his place, her listening to me cry and snuffle as she calmed me enough to ask Grant to take me home, and top it off with Rocco giving me a ton of crap—the pressure became too much. And because I always hold back, too worried about hurting Rocco, my emotions decided to take matters into their own hands, and spewed forth in the form of a scathing rant.

“If there are things you don't want to hear, there's an easy solution, Rocco. Butt out of my personal life! God! It's not like I asked you to wait up and lecture me. I'm an adult, A-D-U-L-T.”

My words struck their mark. Rocco slumped, but the hardened glint in his eyes didn’t budge. Not one bit. When I finished my tirade, my chest heaving from exertion, Rocco replied, eerily calm in response to my rare outburst.

“You know I only worry because I care. If anything were to happen to you —“ Rocco closed his eyes and shuddered. When he met my gaze once more, I was, as usual, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of worry and fear radiating from his eyes.

I was so tired of arguing. An enormous wave of exhaustion crashed over my head, so immense and all consuming, I could have slept for days. I rubbed my eyes. It was late and I needed to get to bed or else I would collapse. I let out a long sigh and shook my head. Nothing ever changed.

Nothing ever would change.

Not if I kept giving in to the guilt. Which in turn, caused my spontaneous recklessness. Which then led to more guilt. And so the cycle continued. I just didn't know how to stop it. It was like being on a roller coaster as it crested the peak of the highest hill. Once you got to that point, there was nothing you could do to stop from going over the edge. But I had to try, didn't I? Otherwise we continue to have this conversation over and over until one of us eventually said something we couldn't take back.

My righteous fury drained. All I wanted was to go to my room and overthink every last second of my crappy night. Rocco would never back down, so it was up to me. I made sure to hang on to the edge the roller coaster tracks by my fingertips to keep from going over.

“I know you care, Rocco, but you have to understand. I’m twenty-one, not sixteen. I go on dates (ha-ha, not really). I have friends I do things with. Sometimes, I'm studying at the library. My point is, it doesn't matter what I'm doing. You need to get over yourself and stop demanding to know every little thing I'm up to or who I’m with.”

I didn’t mention how I purposely did things to upset him and that his smothering only made the urge to do those things worse.

Rocco’s brows smushed even closer, and that stupid crease grew stupidly deeper, while I watched his stupid chiseled jaw grind back and forth.

“I’m not going to stop caring, Ky. Ever. And I’ll wait up every single night if I goddamn want to.”

If that was how he wanted it…

Imitating my brat of a brother, I stuck out my chin. “Fine.”

Rocco blinked and cocked his head. “Fine?”

“Yep.” I popped the P. “Go for it. Wait up as long or as often as you like, but make no mistake…” I took a step back, not because I thought Rocco would hurt me, but because he really did look like he was on the verge of losing it. “I’ll let you know when I'm going out, but remember, I don't answer to you. Then, when I get home from wherever I was doing whatever the hell I wanted to do, I'm not speaking to you about it or justifying my actions. Not a word. I'll come inside and go straight to my room. Period. You'll get what you want—to see with your own eyes that I'm not dead or injured. That's the full extent of what you deserve to know.”

“But –”

Oh, hell no. No more capitulating.

“No, Rocco.” I inhaled a deep breath and it felt like every muscle in my body went slack from lack of energy. “I love you and I appreciate everything you've ever done for me, but you're not bullying me into getting your way. Not this time.”

Focusing on anything but Rocco, my tumultuous emotions began to settle back into place… for the moment. My psyche might have been taken care of, but my body continued to react. Tiny beads of sweat trickled down my spine and my heart pounded as if I ran a marathon. I felt the ache of every single one of the imaginary twenty-six point two miles down to my bones.

For an almost college graduate, I had the distinct impression that I was terribly naïve. Nat tried to warn me, said I wasn't cut out for one night stands. And she was right. When I bumped into Grant at the bar and he asked if I wanted to leave, my mouth worked faster than my brain and I said yes. Reckless Kylie had been in the driver’s seat, eager for an escape, even if temporary, desperate for a moment of freedom from the constant anxiety and guilt. When I got to his place, I freaked out and locked myself in his bathroom. All I got out of my failed one night stand did, was to feel worse. And confused.

Despite how bad an idea going home with Grant was, I think I needed to do it. To attempt to step out of Rocco’s suffocating protective bubble. When Nat and I bumped into him at a college bar in Dupont Circle, Grant seemed like the perfect option for my first foray into no strings sex. He’s good-looking, and looked completely unlike his usual buttoned-up self. Instead, Grant wore a leather jacket and had a couple days of stubble on his jaw. His eyes shone with just enough danger to pique my interest, much different than he acted in class.

Fine, in retrospect it wasn't my best idea, but Grant really did put off some seriously sexy vibes. Why I freaked out, I don't know. Nat admitted she was glad I didn't go through with it. She said he gave her the creeps.

None of which mattered. Not Grant, not my inability to have meaningless sex, and not Rocco. It was a lose-lose situation. Part of me was angry, afraid, and ashamed at what I did, and worse, an even bigger part of me wished I had gone through with it.

Rocco scowled, still standing over me, waiting for me to give in. I hung my head, and exhaled.

Once again, I would hand over another piece of myself in order to make Rocco happy. Sometimes, I felt like a carcass, picked clean to the bones. Every scrap gone, my remnants hollow and empty. I took a deep breath through my nose and pushed onward. I made sure to keep my voice light to soothe Rocco's worries, if for no other reason than to get him off my case.

“You gave up a lot for me. I know that, and you've been there for me when no one else was.” Rocco opened his mouth but I was determined to get it out. If I was going to submit to Rocco's wishes to worm my way out of the situation, I was at the very least, going to cling to a teeny, tiny bit of pride. “But I need this, Rocco. I need to do my own thing. Please? How about a compromise?” I bumped him gently with my hip and smiled. “How about when I go out, I promise to call if I'm going to be late getting home so you won't worry?”

Rocco scrubbed his hands over his face. His palms scritched across the quarter-inch of growth on his cheeks. His arms dropped to his sides and, dammit, he looked crushed. My big, strong, rock-steady brother was breaking. I swallowed.

I did that.

I put that vulnerable look on Rocco's face, and even though I hated seeing it, I did have needs of my own to take into account. Needs Rocco didn't need to know about. Needs that required fulfilling. Needs my brother wouldn’t understand. I was stuck between a rock and a firing squad, either way, I lost.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered.

“Me too.”

Rocco reached out and wrapped his arms around me. Surrounded the familiar, comforting warmth, and the scent of the body wash he'd used for as long as I could remember, I allowed myself to feel loved. I emptied my mind, used the moment to let go of my problems, all of them—Grant, the look on his face when I told him to bring me home, fighting with Rocco. For that moment, I loosened the binds that connected me to the piles of stress and worry that stuck to me since the day our parents drove to a party and never came home, a tragic result of impossible circumstances. The harsh Minnesota winters combined with a broken streetlight and a perfectly placed patch of black ice.

I laid my cheek on Rocco's wide chest, closed my eyes, and sank into the embrace. As usual, the silence in my head didn't last nearly long enough, and the heavy weight of guilt and doubt crept back in.

How could I be so heartless to my brother? After all he did and sacrifice for me? He took me in. Raised me. Fed me. Hell, he was still taking care of me, paying for my undergrad degree and the roof over my head. I felt like an ungrateful, whiny, brat.

Rocco squeezed tighter. “I think your compromise sounds good. Thank you,” he murmured into my hair.

Overwhelmed by both Rocco’s unwavering love and the truck full of guilt that dumped its load on my shoulders, I stepped back and Rocco dropped his arms. I picked at the hem of my shirt and gave him a watery smile.

“I-I’m pretty tired. I'll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah.” Rocco patted my arm and I snuck one last peek at his face. At least he looked more like himself. Gone was the deep wrinkle and furrowed brow, along with the hostility he used to mask his stark fear of something awful happening to the only remaining member of his family. “Oh, one more thing,” he said. I froze, worried Rocco might know something, maybe about Grant or even the weird semi-crush I had on Sebastian St. Clair. “No more motorcycles, Ky. My heart almost gave out when I saw you on the back one.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I nearly shit my pants.”

That, I could do.

I exhaled and quickly nodded. “No problem.”

I was lucky to have him and I knew it. Rocco was so brave and reliable it was easy to forget that I wasn't the only one who lost my parents. Rocco suffered too, and from that unspeakable day forward, he was absolutely petrified he might lose his sister as well.

After facing way too many hard truths about myself, I was done. While the getting was good, I fled to my room and locked the door right as the first hot tear fell onto my cheek. I flopped onto my bed fully dressed, and wondered why I changed my mind about Grant.

I could have told myself it was fear. Or inexperience. But I knew the truth, something no one else would ever know. Not even Nat. And if Rocco found out… I shivered. He couldn't.

I could keep it from them, but not from myself. As Grant led me out of the bar, I pictured someone else holding my hand. I imagined what it would be like if Sebastian St. Clair was the one taking me home, not Grant. Fantasized about what Sebastien would do to me, whether he would be gentle or rough, what he smelled like, what he tasted like, what his skin would feel like under my fingertips. And I knew, Grant was a poor substitute. He wasn't who I wanted. It didn't matter that I would never have Sebastian St. Clair, my mind knew the difference and rejected Grant flat out.

Eyelids heavy, I pictured Sebastien’s beautiful face. The bright blue eyes, the full lips, and that knowing look he gave me at the game. I closed my eyes and imagined his bedroom, and the hungry, urgent kisses he would rain down on my mouth and throat. I could almost feel the power contained in his muscular body and the way he harnessed it, in a fierce, take no prisoners attitude. I decided he would be aggressive and forceful. In my fantasies anyway. My body tingled as I pictured him throwing me down, pinning me to the mattress, and making me feel deliciously helpless as he kissed me.

I was just getting to the good part when my rational mind kicked and I realized what I was doing. I couldn't fantasize about Sebastian St. Clair. Nothing good would ever come of it, and even though none of it was real, I felt guilty doing it. Like I was betraying Rocco. What kind of sister wanted to get down and dirty with her brother’s worst enemy?

And because I’m warped, the idea turned me on that much more.

I had to stop torturing Rocco with my tendencies to engage in spontaneous and reckless activities. Like the time I hopped in a car with a couple classmates and we drove to New York City for the day and ended up staying the night in some fleabag motel outside Trenton, New Jersey. Oh, and maybe I forgot to call Rocco and tell him where I was. Or the time Nat and I blew off class to go skydiving on a whim. Boy, did Rocco blow his top over that one when I may have, sort of, accidentally, possibly on purpose, posted a video of it to my Instagram account where I knew he would see it.

God, I really am a sucky sister.

The image of Sebastian St. Clair popped back into my head and my cheeks burst into flames. No way. I refused to entertain fantasies of him. At least not while I lived with Rocco. Wait, what? No! Not even when I moved out. It was out of the question. The temperamental hockey player was off-limits.

I buried my face in my hands, so stressed I couldn't even enjoy an erotic fantasy about a hot guy. I hated to seem ungrateful. I was beyond blessed to have such a wonderful, caring brother and I knew it, but why did I have to be so messed up in the head? Why couldn't I do the one night stand thing with a regular guy without panicking like a freak?

Why did everything always have to be so freaking complicated?

Sebastian St. Clair’s face flashed through my mind again.

Ugh. Like I said, complicated.

Seb

“No man, I'm telling you, she was without a doubt the hottest chick I've seen in my life.”

“Who?” Evvy asked as he accepted a new beer from our server.

I took a long swig from my bottle before answering. “The one I saw tonight, you know, when I was throwing down with Sasquatch.” Evvy gave me a blank look. “Sasquatch.” More blank staring. I rolled my eyes. “Dude, c’mon! Rocco Calloway.”

Evvy rolled his eyes back. “Oh. Riiiiight, I think you might have mentioned her a time or twenty. The blonde in the Calloway jersey, the one you won’t shut up about. How could I forget?”

I punched Ev in the biceps and scowled. “First of all, it's a sweater, Evvy, not a jersey. Second, you didn't see her, you unlucky bastard.”

I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of the breathtaking blonde. At the time, she had been all riled up, furious even, but somehow the anger aimed my way did nothing to detract from her stunning good looks. In fact, the slight curl to her upper lip and the blazing fire in her eyes only made her that much hotter.

“Too bad you missed her, because she was smoking. And for the record, Evvy, you're an asshole.”

Fucking Everette raining on my parade.

I sucked down the rest of my beer and stared off into space. Thinking about the girl had me half-hard, which served as a reminder to how I left things with Amanda. I winced at the memory.

And I was calling Evvy an asshole? Pot meet kettle.

“You got that part right,” Ev said as he slugged down the rest of his drink and belched. “At least I'm proud to be an asshole.”

“Whatever, Ev.”

Evvy didn’t get it and obviously, I was terrible at explaining exactly what about the girl at the King’s game made her different, and why her face decided to imprint directly on my gray matter. Even I didn't fully understand why I couldn't shake her loose. Not that it mattered. Hell, I didn’t know why I bothered to tell Evvy about her in the first place. I didn’t discuss women—or feelings, or any other girly crap—with anyone. Though the rare times I felt the need to purge something from my system, Ev was my go to guy. Still, I never waxed poetic about women. Especially not one particular woman.

I lounged back in my chair and pretended to check out the bar. No way did I want to look at Evvy after spewing all that embarrassing shit. Apparently, my mouth to brain filter broke. Probably when Calloway dropped me to the ice. There was no other explanation, because I hadn’t been able to stop talking. After spotting her, I yammered in Evvy’s ear, going on about Hot Blonde from the final buzzer right up to the present, minus the ten minutes I took to duck into my room and call Rémy. In the span of a few hours, the blonde had become an unhealthy obsession.

I picked at the label on my beer and tried to figure out how to get my man card back, but my one-track mind had other plans. When I locked gazes with Hot Blonde, something happened. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud. Christ, I could hardly admit it to myself. It was like we had an instant connection or some other equally ridiculous bullshit. You know, the kind of fantasy nonsense they put in chick flicks to get women all mushy and teary. The kind of crap that’s so far-fetched you know damn well it never happened in real life.

Except it did. To me.

The primitive part of my brain didn’t seem to care that, unlike most women, Hot Blonde hadn’t been flirting or tossing me sultry looks. Quite the opposite. When we locked gazes, Hot Blonde was furious. She repeatedly slammed her hand on the plexi while cursing me out. Worse, despite the fact that she looked like she wished my face would melt off, I felt something. Saw something. Something in her bright chestnut colored eyes. Fuck me, I sounded like such a pussy. I drained the rest of my beer, snorted at how ridiculousness it was, and patently ignored Evvy’s questioning stare.

I was losing my damn mind.

It wasn’t my fault. Whatever mysterious woo-woo magic spell Hot Blonde cast on me, it worked. She sank her claws right in and refused to let go.

My cock thickened when I remembered her luscious mouth. Thick, red lips that would look perfect wrapped around my hard length. Hot Blonde was fucking gorgeous. In fact, her only visible negative trait was her downright hideous taste in hockey players. Who in their right mind wore a Calloway sweater? In public?

Evvy’s inability to understand, combined with the knowledge that I'd probably never see Hot Blonde again, pissed me off, and I didn’t need anyone’s help getting angry, thank you very much. Bottle empty, I raised my hand and signaled the server to bring another round.

Evvy tipped back his chair until the front legs lifted off the ground, and did an exaggerated stretch so he could not so subtly scope out the DC hotel bar. His eyes flared and the chair dropped to all fours with a bang, startling me. Naturally, I was taking a sip of my brand new beer and jerked at the sound. The glass rim of the bottle clanked against my front tooth.

"What the fuck, Evvy?" I put a hand to my mouth and pulled back my fingers to check for blood. None.

“Check it out, Sebby.” Evvy leaned across the table and used a tilt of his head to point to his left. “Brunette and blonde, big tits, tight dresses, and two almost empty cocktail glasses.”

I followed Evvy's gaze and found the women. Not that it was hard to figure out who he meant. They stood at the corner of the bar and were so out of place, they may as well have been wearing dresses made out of flashing neon lights. Yep, Evvy might not know what those women were, but he could tell they were easy prey. They were attractive, hot actually, if you went for the super high maintenance type. The kind that wore loads of makeup and had fake tits and big hair and would let you do whatever you wanted to them, just so they could say they fucked a hockey player.

On a normal day, I might be interested… as long as one of them was agreeable to my preferences. Tonight? Even with anger that simmered just beneath the surface of my skin, desperate for release, there wasn't a single thing about either woman I found appealing. Not in the least. Though it was blatantly obvious they were interested in us. No one with a set of functioning eyeballs could miss the way the women used their mouths to do provocative things to their straws while boldly attempting to make eye contact.

I shook my head and took the easy way out. “Dude, I told you hundred times, I'm done with puck bunnies.”

That part was true, but also I wasn't about to explain to Evvy that it wasn't the fact that the women were bunnies, so much as I just wasn't in the mood to fuck. At least not anyone who wasn't Hot Blonde. And wasn't that realization a shocker? The fight with Calloway and subsequent argument with Rémy were the exact types of confrontations that cranked up my stress level, which made having a handy outlet on standby a necessity. In essence, I should have jumped at the chance.

But I didn’t.

Evvy continued to drool over the bunnies. He couldn’t peel his gaze away. Good for him, I guess. It sucked that I couldn't manage to scrape up even a tiny spark of interest, because puck bunnies are easy lays and perfect for releasing all kinds of tension. I’m a pretty good judge as to whether or not a woman would be interested in my brand of kink, but I wasn’t in the mood.

First time for everything.

Besides, they really were bunnies, and yes, I would do any number of depraved things, but I refused to fuck puck bunnies. I wouldn't touch one even if it meant I imploded from sexual frustration.

Evvy glanced at me and checked out the women again. His forehead wrinkled and he grunted. "You positive they’re bunnies?”

Puck bunnies are hockey groupies. Women whose solitary goal in life is to fuck hockey players, typically with the aspiration of landing one as a husband. Or trapping one. And I would know.

At the beginning of my rookie year I got the exact same speech as every other newbie. Management warned us about the flocks of women that hung around arenas and scoped out the bars of the hotels the team stayed at. They advised us to keep our distance from the bunnies. Awkward as it was, they even laid down rules and insisted every player follow them when it came to puck bunnies, or any hookup for that matter—keep your cock wrapped, never give out your phone number, and don't bring anyone to your place.

Of course, every rookie idiot nodded and said, “Okay, no problem.” Then those same idiots went and screwed their way through the pack of bunnies anyway. What nineteen-year-old man on his own for the first time passed up such easy pickings, especially when it was flung in his face left and right? Not me, and not most others, either.

Clearly, I outgrew the bunny phase faster than Ev, who was practically drooling at the posing women. I quit the scene cold turkey after a particularly terrifying incident involving a puck bunny, a pregnancy, and nine months of sweating it out until the paternity test proved the kid wasn't mine. Seemed Evvy was gonna need a scare of his own before his wayward dick learned its lesson.

“They’re definitely bunnies. Not interested.” I waved a dismissive hand.

It was surprisingly easy to say no to guaranteed pussy. My mind was still back in the arena with Hot Blonde. Picturing her standing on the other side of a smudged piece of plexiglass, staring at me with loathing… and what I blatantly recognized as desire. Too bad there wasn't a way to find out who she was. I might pass on puck bunnies, but no fucking way would I pass up a night with her. Shit, I'd even be the bigger person and overlook the fact that her taste was so bad she wore a Calloway sweater. I might even be willing to fuck her vanilla, if it was all I could get. She was that hot.

Evvy pushed back his chair, stood, and shot me a wicked grin. “Well, if you're not down for some action, all the more for me.” He rubbed his hands together like some kind of movie villain. “Catch you later.” He winked and sauntered, yes, motherfucking sauntered, over to the puck bunnies. Minutes later, the three left the bar, one of Evvy’s arms thrown over each girl’s shoulders.

I shook my head and chuckled. Idiot. I tossed down some bills to cover the tab and headed up to my room. Alone. Yeah, I was thrumming with electricity, and I was tense and pissed I lost the fight with Sasquatch, and still needed to release the rumbling mass of pent up energy that vibrated inside my body. Screw it. I’d just have to jerk off in the shower like a horny teenager. It wouldn't do much, but it would take the edge off.

Like I told Evvy, Hot Blonde or not, when it came to puck bunnies, lesson learned.

* * *

A couple weeks after DC and Hot Blonde—and spending countless hours stroking my dick raw to the memory of her face, while imagining what she’d look like naked and tied to my bed, screaming my name—I entered the Comets’ locker room. My shoes squeaked as I came to an abrupt halt.

Something felt off. Way off. Confused, I glanced around before I dared to cross the threshold. It didn't take long to figure out what was wrong. The boisterous sounds were missing. The pregame excitement. The hustle and bustle. The teasing, the jokes, the cursing. It was quiet. Too quiet. Especially for game day. The guys were always extra hyped and crazy loud before every game. I frowned.

Son of a bitch.

There wasn’t a player in the league who didn’t know what a silent locker room meant.

Trade.

Since I didn’t get a call from management, and I didn't get one from Evvy, I knew neither of us was shipping out. For sure my best friend would have phoned me right away if he were getting sent off to god knows where.

So if not us, then who?

The whole thing sucked. Most days, I enjoyed my job—especially the cheers of the crowd when I knocked a guy down on the ice—but I loathed trades. They were by far the worst part of playing a professional sport. At any given moment, my entire life could be uprooted. Within hours, I could be required to pack my crap and get my ass on a plane to a city I didn't know, with nowhere to live, a bunch of teammates I'd never played with before, and on top of all that–I would still be expected to give my very best performance on the ice. Sometimes that very same night.

Thank god it hadn't happened to me… yet. I reached out and quietly knocked on the wooden panel of the nearest row of wardrobes to prevent a jinx. I left Canada for a reason, and just the thought of getting traded to a team north of the border sent my terrified balls crawling up into my body.

On a deep inhale, I stiffened my spine and, after disrobing and hanging my suit in the first changing area, which consisted of a simple row of upright wardrobes, strode into the second changing area. No one wants their suit to smell like used, sweaty hockey gear, so everything is kept separate. Clad in only my boxer briefs, I padded into the actual locker room and approached my cubby, the one I use to store my gear and uniform and where I dress for practice and games.

Nearby, a small gathering of players huddled around a guy who—since I was staring at the guy’s back—I didn't recognize. I didn’t, however, miss the fact that whoever it was, was one tall motherfucker and had blond hair. What I did know, was that he wasn't one of my teammates, which meant he was new. From there it wasn't hard to put two and two together and figure out I was looking at the back of Unlucky Traded New Guy’s head.

Someone thumped me in the arm and I heard a familiar cackle.

“Ow! Shit, Evvy. What's your problem?” Ev isn’t exactly the gentle type. I grimaced and rubbed my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I caught him grinning like a lunatic.

Still smiling, and still creepy as fuck, Ev leaned in to conspiratorially whisper in my ear.

“Lookie who we got.” As Evvy said the words he tipped his head in the direction of Unlucky Traded New Guy. “It's your number one favorite person in the whole wide world,” he sang. “After me, of course.”

I narrowed my gaze and focused on the back of the big, dirty blond head that sat perched atop a super tall, super wide, super stacked body, and wracked my brain to figure out who the hell it could possibly be.

Almost as if Unlucky Traded New Guy felt me staring at him, he slowly twisted his thick neck until I got a good look at my brand new teammate.

“Oh, fucking hell,” I murmured, only not nearly as quiet as I thought, because Ev snickered, and at the same time, Bastard New Guy’s mouth curled into a sneer.

New Guy wasn’t the unlucky one. That particular prize went to me.

Because I was staring directly into the Cro-Magnon-like face of Rocco “Sasquatch” Calloway.

He’s my new teammate? What the ever-living-fuck? Why would they send that shithead here?

I dropped my chin to my chest and sighed.

Aw, fuck.

Last week, our best defenseman, first line player and one of the coolest guys on the team, Gordon Hatcher, broke his ankle. And yeah, in theory I knew they’d have to replace Gordie at some point, but never in my worst nightmares did I think his replacement would be Rocco Calloway.

The sour look on Calloway's face reflected my exact thoughts—basically, a summary of every single obscenity in the Urban Dictionary.

“St. Clair,” Calloway growled.

Great. Just great. Put a cherry on top of the shit sundae and call it a day.

In an attempt at awkward politeness, instead of walking up and socking the guy in the solar plexus like I was dying to do, I cleared my throat and remained calm-ish.

“Uh, hey Calloway. Does this mean you're one of us now?”

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Dammit. I blinked in a futile effort to stop my spazzing eye. If I was gonna have to play with Sasquatch on a daily basis, I needed to try to make things a little less weird, right?

One thing I learned at an early age is that you don’t disrespect your teammates. They’re your family. Granted, it looked like we were about to be a big-ass fucking Sasquatch family, but still a family. The trade also meant the two of us wouldn't face each other on the ice anymore, which was kind of irritating. Punching Rocco Calloway was one of my favorite pastimes, plus I wouldn't get another chance to break the guy’s ribs.

Rocco Calloway, it appeared, held no such standards in keeping things civil. Likely due to the fact that less than a week after our fight in Atlanta, the one where Calloway knocked me out cold, we had our second epic rumble in DC. The one that went down right in front of Hot Blonde—a.k.a. she of the hideous taste in hockey players. The woman who currently haunted my dreams and left me with a perpetually chaffed dick from the never-ending need to rub one out.

“I’ll never be one of you, asshole,” Calloway spat as he took a step toward me. Naturally, the others caught on to the suddenly hostile environment, and being a bunch of immature brats, reverted to second graders and called out “ooooooooh” as Calloway puffed out his Sasquatch chest and stalked in my direction. He sported an expression that let me, and everyone else in the locker room, know he was itching to turn my face into an unrecognizable smear.

At six-foot-two, two hundred and forty pounds, I packed pure muscle and was in no way small. During a game, I have zero reservations extracting a little pain from someone as big as Calloway. Off the ice, well, that's another thing altogether. Going toe-to-toe, without the benefit of pads and skates that made me look bigger and taller, Rocco Calloway made me feel like the Keebler fucking Elf. The dude towered over me, his blond-haired, behemoth body, big enough to eclipse the sun.

Calloway came to a stop mere inches away and extended a thick, rock hard finger to stab me in the chest. I growled and fought the urge to snatch Sasquatch’s fat digit and snap it in half.

“You stay the hell out of my way and I'll stay out of yours, St. Clair.”

The familiar dark fury awoke from its slumber. Deep inside, it churned and pulsed as the pressure grew more intense by the millisecond. I growled again, but before I had the chance to lash out with one of my patented, highly insulting, and expertly wielded verbal slap downs, Rocco spun on his size sixteen heel and stomped off, then—

Everyone in the locker room, including me, sucked in a loud breath and cringed.

Holy shit! That was close.

Sasquatch had to have been beyond furious to make such a careless mistake. Idiot didn't look where he was going and almost stepped directly on the white and red Comets logo woven into the black carpet in the center of the room. At the last second, Calloway tottered on his tippy toes and took a clumsy leap to the side to narrowly avoid it.

Asshat. He almost broke the golden rule of hockey. The near miss of his big fat Sasquatch foot on the logo brought on another round of “oooooooohs” from my useless teammates. Not that Calloway didn't deserve it. Everyone, from old-timer to rookie, knew you didn't step on the team logo. Ever. That was peewee hockey 101 right there. I wouldn’t have minded lending a helping hand in giving the inevitable, and well deserved, beat down, had Calloway actually stepped on it.

I sighed and scratched my chest where I still felt his phantom finger jabbing into me. Too bad that beat down would have to remain a fantasy. Stupid Sasquatch reflexes.

Once Calloway left the locker room, I dropped onto the bench in front of my cubby, scrubbed my hands down my face, and groaned. That was when another of my jerk teammates decided it was the perfect time to kick me when I was down.

“He good addition to team, da?”

Next to me on the bench, Evvy silently laughed. Traitorous jerk’s shoulders shook and Ev covered his mouth with his hands. I stared up at Hajek and frowned at the goalie’s unwanted two cents.

“Yeah, fucking wonderful, Hazey. It's gonna be so awesome to skate with someone whose number one wish in life is for me to drop dead.”

Hazey’s face lit up. “Da, I agree. It shall be quite entertaining to watch.”

With that, Hazey, clueless as usual, turned and walked away. I heard him cackling like a hyena and realized Hazey might not be as clueless as I thought. Fucker. Evvy was no better, I suppose, my friend now bent in two, clutching his stomach as he burst into hysterics.

Ha-fucking-ha.

Entertaining for them, maybe. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to have anywhere near as much fun with Calloway around as the rest of my team.

Whatever. I suited up in home gear and ignored the ribbing. Eventually they would get bored of the St. Clair-Calloway rivalry and shut the fuck up. As a unit—minus Calloway, whose selfish ass must've already gone on ahead—we trudged through the tunnel to emerge onto the ice. Coach was in rare form, already barking out warm-up drills like Cujo on crack as fans trickled into the arena. When I snuck a glance over at Coach, I half expected to find foam dripping from the man's dangling jowls. A half-hour later, all red-faced and wild eyed, a rabid looking Coach shouted for us to get our sorry asses off the ice.

We gathered in the tunnel and waited for the game to start. I patently avoided the harsh glare aimed in my direction. It wasn't that I feared Calloway, it was that I feared I wouldn't be able to hold back. Once the rage overflowed, there was little that could get me to stop. Beating down my teammate would certainly get me ejected from the game. Or fired. My hands were completely tied, and not in a good way.

It sucked.

Kylie

I double checked my ticket stub and reread the seat number for my very first game in Atlanta. It wasn't as good as Rocco’s seats in DC, but I certainly had nothing to complain about. Like DC, it was in the front row. The problem was that it was on the opposite side of the ice from the players’ bench. Opposite from where I’d been sitting since I was thirteen years old, doing my homework in the arena while I waited for Rocco's game to begin. Also, the new location meant my seat was directly behind the penalty box.

Just perfect.

Now I'd have to listen to the nonstop, unique and colorful, curse-filled rants the players unleashed when they spent their big-boy version of a timeout in the bin. Not that foul language bothers me. My brother is a hockey player after all and I practically grew up at the rink. I figure I know every single possible swear word in English, a bunch in French, a handful in Russian, and a whole lot more in languages I couldn't even begin to guess at. I’ve been known to drop a swear or two myself now and then, so I couldn't care less about the cursing. I watched the games for one reason and one reason only, to support Rocco. It was not being seated up against the ice that bothered me. Especially since my brother tended to be prone to fighting.

To say Rocco had been upset when he got the call that he was traded would be the understatement of the twenty-first century. Rocco played for DC since he got drafted seven years ago. The memory of the day we moved from Minnesota and left the only house we'd ever known was as clear as if it happened yesterday. Rocco purchased his Georgetown condo with his signing bonus and we’d lived there ever since. Because I went from a family of four to being raised by my brother in a city thousands of miles away, I didn’t have time to grieve for my parents until Minnesota was gone. Moving to DC and leaving everyone I knew behind, made it that much more difficult to adjust. Moving again, this time to Atlanta, felt almost as traumatic.

When word of the trade came down, Rocco went bat-shit crazy. He was beyond livid. If he wasn't my brother I would have been seriously afraid of him, that's how angry he was. The look in Rocco's eyes could only be described as borderline murderous. The only way I got him to calm down and accept the trade—after he shouted he was going to quit the NHL—was to agree to move to Atlanta with him. Apparently, the thought of leaving his little sister to fend for herself in DC sent my overprotective brother into one of his patented, full-blown, uber-controlling freak outs. This time with a serious injection of flat-out rage over the unexpected trade.

To Rocco, it didn't matter that I was twenty-one and one semester from completing my journalism degree, or that most of my peers already lived on their own. Nope. My insanely uptight and overbearing big brother made it perfectly clear he wouldn't be going anywhere without me. After everything he sacrificed for my benefit over the years, I wasn't willing to let Rocco quit the NHL and ruin what he worked so hard to achieve over something as stupid as where I finished school. It didn't take any prodding on his part to get me to agree to the move. Luckily, my journalism advisor said I had enough core courses to get my degree. All I had to do to complete the remaining credits was find an internship in Atlanta.

Which was how I ended up at the Peach Dome, sans Nat, wearing a Comets jersey of all things. Just a generic one with no number on it, since they hadn't printed any with Rocco's name yet. How could they? He only got the call thirty-six hours ago and everything else happened in a such whirlwind I could barely remember. I spoke to the University while Rocco arranged to have our stuff packed and shipped as he began to search for a place to live. Temporarily, we were staying in a suite in the enormous hotel connected to the arena via an upscale shopping mall. The move was so sudden, I rushed around like a chicken with its head cut off and still only managed to pack a single suitcase. I was so frazzled, I forgot to bring my beloved hair straightener and my favorite pair of heels.

Resigned to making the best of it in Atlanta, I settled in my seat and tried to get a feel for Rocco's new home arena. The five-year-old Peach Dome was impressive, huge and modern with massive hi-def screens that hung over center ice. The seats were bright red in some sections, black in others, and as much as I missed DC and the familiarity, I had to admit these chairs were a lot more comfortable than the ones in the old TeleBank Arena.

After player introductions—during which I was stuck in the restroom, the line much longer than I thought it would be—then the national anthem, the sides took their positions and the puck dropped. Right from the start I knew the game would be exciting, if nothing else. The instant the tiny black rubber disc hit the ice, the game went from zero to Millennium Falcon hyperspace in two point five seconds. Zipping back and forth, up and down the rink, the players were streaks of color—red for Atlanta and teal for Charlotte.

To my surprise the fans in Atlanta were way more animated and into the games than those in DC. So much for the stereotyped genteel Southerner. If they existed, they weren't at the Peach Dome. It made me miss having Nat at my side. Atlanta fans shouted, clapped, cursed, roared with approval, booed their displeasure, and stayed wholly invested in the game from start to finish. Though it felt like swallowing glass shards and betrayal to Rocco's old team, even if it was only in my head, it might very well have been the most fun I’d had at a hockey game.

Rocco and one of the Charlotte players began to tussle a bit and my stomach dropped. The men battled hard for the puck, sticks and elbows flying everywhere, bodies crashing into the boards. Because I wasn't seated right up on the ice, I became frustrated. I couldn't get an up-close and personal view of the brawl, like I did for Rocco's last fight.

Just thinking about it made me frown. Rocco's last fight was with that cocky, sexy, jerk, Sebastien St. Clair. The Sinner. Even though I didn't have my ringside seat, I was close enough to read the name on the Charlotte player’s back without difficulty. It said… I squinted, then my eyes bulged.

Wait… no.

I blinked, knowing it was a mistake. Surely, I misread the name. After blinking a few more times, I waited for the men to spin around so I could read the Charlotte jersey again. When I did, my breath caught.

The guy’s name was… St. Clair?

Thoroughly confused, I racked my brain and shuffled through my memories, trying to recall the name of the team Rocco played a few weeks ago in DC. The game where St. Clair and Rocco got in that horrific and bloody tussle. The one where Sebastien St. Clair's smug and stupidly handsome face got squished against the boards right in front of me. It couldn’t be…

That exact moment, the Charlotte player looked up and I found myself staring into a pair of crystal clear blue eyes. Familiar blue eyes. When I realized where I had seen those eyes, goose bumps broke out down my neck and arms. I scrambled to reach under my seat, blindly groping for the program an overeager usher shoved into my hands as I went through the turnstile. Flipping through the pages, I found the one with the Comets’ team roster. I quickly scanned the column and stopped on number nineteen. Just as I thought. Right there was a color picture of a man I vividly remembered. The one who winked at me in DC, all playful and super sexy with his big blue eyes. The jerk. After giving the photo a nice, leisurely once over—for research purposes only—and ignoring the way my skin flushed with prickly heat, I read the description.

So if St. Clair is listed on the Comets’ roster how could he possibly be fighting Rocco again, this time wearing a Charlotte jersey? Did St. Clair get traded at the same time as Rocco? I glanced back up at the ice. That didn't make sense, because—I looked back down at the program—Yep, Rocco's name was already on the Comets’ lineup. If they changed Rocco’s trade status, they certainly would have changed Sebastien St. Clair's.

I should've paid more attention to the visiting teams at all those games I attended instead of gossiping with Nat. While I examined the roster over and over, trying to make sense of everything, the fight ended and regular play resumed.

I peeked over the edge of the program. No one sat in the penalty box so it must've been a clean fight. I scanned the ice until I located the Charlotte player with the blue eyes and the number thirteen on his back. Almost as if I expected what I already knew to be fact to have somehow changed, I found myself shocked that it still said St. Clair above his number. Completely dumbfounded, I shook my head.

I don't get it. St. Clair is still with Atlanta yet he's also with Charlotte.

A streak of red flew past my seat and the light behind the Charlotte goalie flashed red. The loud buzzer echoed throughout the arena. As a single unit, the crowd surged to their feet and cheered as the announcer's voice boomed over the PA system.

“Goal, number nineteen, Sebastien St. Clair. Time of goal, seven minutes, thirty-two seconds of the first period. This is St. Clair's thirtieth goal of the season, putting him on track to set a team record for most goals in a single season.”

My body moved faster than my brain. Without consciously doing so, I leapt to my feet with the other fans and craned my neck. In the swarm of red and black I located number nineteen. And there it was. “St. Clair” stitched over a one and the nine. He skated in a circle in front of the net, hands and stick over his head as his teammates jumped all over him and slapped their gloves on the top of his helmet.

No way. Two St. Clairs? How did I not know this?

While the rowdy crowd continued to go berserk over the goal, I sat back down and flipped the program to the Charlotte roster. Halfway down the list I found him. Wow. The man in the photo next to the player's profile definitely held a resemblance to Sebastien St. Clair, but there were subtle differences. For example, he had dirty blond hair and somehow looked… kinder than his brother. It was in the eyes. Even though they’re the exact same intense, bright blue shade as his brother’s, they appeared less jaded, less hostile. Less angry. At some point, something hardened the elder St. Clair. Something that didn't touch the other. I looked past the picture to read the bio.

Ohmygod. Two of them. The brother is young, and probably new to the NHL. But more important, how had I failed to put two and two together? After that gruesome show and infuriating wink he gave me in DC, I should have remembered the game was played against Atlanta, which meant I should have realized the assholey Sebastien St. Clair was one of Rocco's new teammates. For a future journalist, I felt mighty unobservant making such a big gaffe.

Mid-chastise, an ear-piercing whistle stopped the game, and I glanced up from the program. The two refs and the two linesmen huddled at center ice, probably sorting out a penalty. I used the break in action to pull out my phone and quickly Googled the St. Clair brothers. Two seconds into my search, the announcer broke my concentration.

“Penalty, Atlanta. Number nineteen, Sebastien St. Clair. Two minutes, hooking. Ten forty-four of the first period. Power play, Charlotte.”

The crowd booed and did so loudly and enthusiastically, protesting the call. Hmph, of course it was Sebastien St. Clair. Typical. Except for noting the name of the player, I paid zero attention to whatever else the announcer said. I was too busy holding my breath and scrunching down in my seat in an effort to look as small as possible, because the sexy as sin, penalty-loving jerk in question was skating in my direction.

When St. Clair stepped into the box, it highlighted just how close he was. The back of the penalty box, and the tall sheet of plexi that separated it from the crowd, stood less than two feet from my chair and, oh crap, he turned and stared at me the exact moment I stared at him. St. Clair’s eyes widened comically and his gaze fell to my Comets jersey. That wicked smirk of his emerged—the provocative one I remembered all too well—and when he raised a dark brown in question, I knew he was mocking my shirt. Embarrassed, I crossed my arms over my chest.

Ugh!

The guy was so infuriating! He had an unnerving, and totally annoying, expression of approval on his stupid handsome face. Despite loathing the man, my stomach did a somersault and landed at my feet. While St. Clair continued to smirk like the cocky jerk he was, he threw another of those irresistible winks my way, then turned around to wait his two minutes.

Once his eyes were off of me, I was able to exhale. If I could sink into the floor and disappear, I would. The tempting and frustrating Sebastien St. Clair was Rocco's teammate.

Oh. My. God. Kill me now.

* * *

During the intermission between the first and second periods someone tapped my arm, and I flailed at the unexpected contact.

“Excuse me.”

Once my heart stopped trying to beat out of my chest, I glanced up to find an usher standing next to my seat. The sweaty young man wore a red polo embroidered with the Atlanta Comets logo. He clutched an envelope in one hand and balanced a large flat box on the palm of the other.

Annoyed that he startled me, and irritated with myself for being so jumpy, I squinted up at him. When he said nothing, I held back the urge to roll my eyes. The usher literally looked so nervous I thought he might pass out, and there was no way I was doing CPR on him. Okay, fine. I would do CPR, but I didn’t have to like it.

It seemed as if we were going to get anywhere, I'd have to speak first. I raised my brows. “Can I help you?”

“I’m, uh, supposed to, uh, give this to you.” The usher held the box as far from his body as possible, thereby, shoving it in my face. He sounded so nervous I felt kind of bad for him. Wisps of blondish-red hair stuck to his forehead and his fair cheeks flushed bright red. Even his hands shook. The guy couldn't have been any older than me, maybe not even. In all likelihood, he was new at his job, and it showed.

Baffled, I gave him a blank stare as he squirmed and tried to work out whatever the heck it was he needed to say.

After an eternity, the usher cleared his throat. If the entire situation weren’t so weird, I would think the his life depended on him delivering whatever it was he held in his trembling hands.

I scrunched my nose and looked at the box as if it were a live grenade, or maybe a basket of venomous snakes. Who the heck would send me a gift? And why? And during a game of all things?

“Are you sure that’s for me? I'm not expecting anything.”

“I’m, uh, positive.” The usher's head went up and down, over and over, like a deranged bobble head doll.

Okay, now I just wanted to get rid of him. “Fine. I guess.”

He exhaled much too loud and his shoulders visibly slumped. Then the sweaty usher threw the box in my lap and tossed the envelope on top of it. Good thing I have quick reflexes, or the corner of the box would've poked my eye out.If that happened, the top would've flown off and then there would have been snakes everywhere.

Carefully handling the package, I treated it as if it were an IED, one jostle away from blowing up in my face. When I turned to thank the sweaty usher—for what I have no idea, as the kid almost blinded me—he was halfway up the stairs.

Okaaaay…

Whatever. I set the box flat on my thighs and picked up the envelope. Still trying to process the peculiar notion of being sent a gift during a hockey game, I held the white rectangle and ran a fingertip around the edge. The paper was high quality, thick and weighty. Naturally, because nothing in my life is easy, the outside of the envelope was blank and had no distinguishing features or watermark. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I had the oddest feeling that someone was looking at me.

I glanced around the rink as chills rippled down my spine. The whoosh of my pulse thundered in my ears, dulling the noise of the enthusiastic crowd. Was someone watching me right now? The thought released a burst of adrenaline and my anxiety skyrocketed. I gave the envelope a suspicious glare and flipped it over several times, wondering who, and why, until my head hurt.

After several minutes of freaking out, I straightened in my seat and huffed, feeling stupid. I wasn’t in a James Bond movie. Besides, I had nowhere near the qualifications to be a secret agent or double-crossing spy worthy of receiving a Mission Impossible-style exploding message. It was a hockey game for god’s sake.

Relax, Ky. It's a note.

Before I could torture myself with anymore overthinking, which would only cause more stress, thus, more anxiety, I jammed a finger under the flap and tore open the envelope. Tension broken, I exhaled and only then did I realize I had been holding my breath. Annoyed, I yanked out a neatly folded sheet of the same thick paper as the envelope. Hmm, maybe Rocco sent something? Maybe he couldn’t meet for dinner after the game and it was his really, really strange way of apologizing?

No. I shook my head. If that were true, at the end of the game my brother would simply send a text. Even if Rocco did need to cancel dinner, it wouldn't explain the box. Rocco isn't the gift giving type. He prefers to show his love through actions, not material things.

I skimmed the note and the first thing I noticed was the personalization at the very top. From the desk of Frank Vernon. Next, my gaze landed on a tiny Comets logo in the corner. Frank Vernon, Frank Vernon… I'd heard that name before, but for the life of me, I couldn't place it. The scrutiny continued as I took in the sum total of the note—a few meager lines of messy scrawled ink. Definitely a man's handwriting, and not Rocco's. I read the brief blurb then froze, the paper ready to slip from my fingers.

What the—?

I reread it four more times.

I'm glad to see your taste in teams has improved. I wonder if your taste in players has as well? Meet me after the game in the lobby bar of the hotel attached to the arena and maybe I can persuade you to root for someone else.

My mouth hung open and my pulse skipped. Three sentences. A mere handful of words. Words that said so much yet told me nothing. No signature, no indication who it was from. Was it from him? Sebastien St. Clair? The Sinner? That was the only thing that made any kind of sense, and that was a stretch.

Nervous and twitchy, I fumbled and almost dropped the note. It had to be from him. And he wanted to meet. For what? My brain downshifted and conjured up a bunch of inappropriate and filthy images. Images of Sebastien St. Clair doing things to me. Things I would only admit I wanted in my darkest fantasies.

Face flaming hot, I glanced up from under my lashes to scan the—

Oh my god.

One thing I learned in journalism school was to trust my instincts. If it felt like you were being watched, you were.

Sometimes, I hated being right.

As if drawn to his presence, my gaze landed on Sebastien St. Clair. He sat on the Atlanta bench, and despite being all the way across the ice, I could clearly make out his bright blue eyes as he studied my face. My bright red face. It didn't matter that a little over eighty-five feet separated us, the scorching heat in his intense stare was unmistakable, as was the way his lips pulled into that annoying smirk.

The smirk may as well have been a sensual caress because my insides burst into flames, the desire so potent it left me feeling raw and exposed. The sensation grew and thrummed and made my body respond in ways I didn't want it to. My complete lack of control over my reaction made me angry and I gnashed my teeth.

I hated him. Okay, fine. It’s not that I hated him, so much as I hated what he did to me. Hated the way my stupid body reacted to him. Was drawn to everything about him. I was drawn to him. There was something about Sebastien St. Clair, a buzzing undercurrent of danger that he emanateed, and that was what easily seduced my reckless side.

Feeling a little bit humiliated and a lot furious, I broke the connection first and dropped my attention to the box in my lap. Well, if it was from Sebastien St. Clair, it most likely wasn’t a box of snakes. I inhaled a shaky breath and closed my eyes. What was he playing at? Besides the obvious, which was a full out assault on my senses with the singular goal of driving me insane with lust.

The Calloway stubborn gene kicked in. I refused to give St. Clair the satisfaction of knowing he got under my skin. I focused on the gift in my lap, steeled my expression, and kept it neutral as I lifted the lid. After peeling back several layers of red tissue paper—and no sign of snakes, thank you Jesus—I almost broke my vow to remain straight-faced. It took a lot of effort to bite back the laugh that threatened to burst free. Sitting amongst the tissue lay perfectly folded Atlanta Comets jersey. An odd choice of gifts since I damn well knew Sebastien St. Clair saw the one I had on. His note confirmed the fact.

No longer caring whether or not he saw me react, I frowned. Honestly, I should have just slammed the lid back on the box and shoved it under my seat. Made the guy sweat it out by refusing to accept his stupid gift and his even stupider suggestion that we meet.

Yeah, no.

I was way too curious to give in, and that made me even angrier. The fact that Sebastien had me curious. Infuriated by my lack of self-control, I lifted the present out of the box and held it up. My eyes narrowed.

What a pompous jackass.

On the back of the jersey, embroidered in bold, thirteen-inch numbers, were a one and a nine. Above that, in three-inch lettering, was the name St. Clair, stitched horizontally over the shoulder blades.

“Nice shirt. He's a really good player.” The woman in the seat behind me had taken it upon herself to look over my shoulder and comment on my gift. “And he’s sexy, too.” She chuckled and went back to watching the game.

I grimaced. Like I needed or wanted anyone's opinion on Sebastien St. Clair. Even though I knew he was waiting, dying to see me lose my cool, I couldn't help but cram the stupid thing back into the box and force the lid on. So what if he knew I was mad? He’s clearly a first-class jerk, so why should I care?

I pressed my lips together in a hard line, knowing what I was about to do. I couldn't help myself. I was weak. With a sigh, I gave in to the urge and glanced over at the Comets’ bench to locate Sebastien St. Clair, so I could glower at his arrogant ass. He needed to see just how much of a jerk I thought he was. Only, instead of leveling my best stern glare across the ice, I flinched and let out a humiliating high-pitched squeak.

It was patently obvious my luck was nonexistent when it came to all matters St. Clair. Because the teams swapped sides for each period, the man for whom my glower was intended was standing mere feet from where I sat. His position at right wing meant he was directly in front of my seat, skating in slow, sensual circles while he waited for the ref to set up the puck drop.

Of course, because I’m me, he stopped skating right in time to catch me staring. Those glittering blue eyes locked on to mine and I became helpless. Sebastien was so close, I could see the desire that burned in his heated stare as he unapologetically checked me out, raking his gaze up and down my body without shame.

A current of electricity crackled through the air between us. My body tingled and my blood sang as my breath hitched in my lungs. I was trapped. Frozen. Held in place by Sebastien St. Clair as surely as if he were physically pinning me down with his strong hands, and damn if that thought didn’t unleash a jolt of desire that quickly spread low in my abdomen.

Screw what I was supposed to do. What I wanted to do was worship at his feet. Prostrate at the altar of St. Clair.

I blinked a few times before I shook myself free of his trance, and put a hand to my blisteringly hot cheek. It grew hotter as I wondered if Sebastien St. Clair knew how much I wanted him.

I glanced back up and his lips twitched. Of course he knew. Did the man miss nothing? Then, Sebastien did the unexpected. He didn't smirk or laugh or wink. No, the man smoldered. The look Sebastien St. Clair aimed my way was so scorching, so intense, so consuming, my entire body went up in a conflagration of invisible flames. The air grew so hot and sticky, sweat beaded along my temples and a single drop trickled between my shoulder blades. My overwhelming response to the man reminded me of something Nat used to say whenever she spotted a hot guy.

“Ky, call 911. My panties are melting.”

God, how I used to tease her about it. Told her no one was that good-looking. I was wrong. I'd never make fun of Nat again. It seemed I finally found the one man who could actually make my panties melt.

Unfortunately, it just so happened to be the infuriating, frustrating, devastatingly sexy jerk, Sebastien “The Sinner” St. Clair. God, he was such a bad idea. There wasn't even a word for how bad an idea he was, and that only kicked Reckless Kylie’s interest up another sizzling notch.

Nat, call 911. My heart’s about to stop and my brother is going to kill me.

Because I knew, no matter how stupid it was, I was going to meet Sebastien St. Clair at that hotel.