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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. Wh
en 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.
•Sebastien St. Clair, number 19, age 26, 6’2”, 240 lbs, right-winger, born in Trois Rivières, Québec, Canada. Atlanta Comets.
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.
•Rèmy St. Clair, number 13, age 21, 6’1”, 230 lbs, right winger, born in Trois Rivières, Québec, Canada. Charlotte Rush.
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.
