The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“Two weeks….” pausing on the top step of downtown Pittsburgh’s city clerk’s office, I briefly close my eyes and sigh dreamily as I allow my mind to conjure up images of a heavenly, well deserved fourteen days in Belize; a belated honeymoon that Max and I have decided to take at the beginning of August.

Leaving it until the last month of his summer holidays gives him a few weeks to adequately recover from his previously booked shoulder surgery and accounts for an extended hockey season in case a miracle happens and the Penguins actually make the playoffs. We’d decided on Central America because it would guarantee not only fabulous scenery - ‘as if I’m actually going to let you leave the room’ Max had quipped, only half joking- but a level of privacy and seclusion that the other tourists traps such as Turks and Caicos, the Bahamas, Paris and Rome (all of which we’d jotted down on our ‘honeymoon wish list) can’t provide us with. We’d even found the perfect resort to stay at; five star, all inclusive accommodations with the best possible amenities at our fingertips in the main building while we spend our nights -and our mornings, afternoons and evenings if Max has his way- in one of several isolated ‘huts that are nestled around the property. They’re a perfect little getaway -even with the twenty four hour concierge and room service- for couples.

“Twelve days spent doing nothing but knockin’ boots and two actually doing the whole tourist thing,” Max concludes, his deep, smooth voice and his warm, hearty chuckle drifting through the other end of the line and making me tingle from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes despite the frigid, blustery weather.

Four days into the road trip and I miss him terribly; long distance phone calls and fleeting moments spent on Skype just don’t cut it. I had thought I’d prepared myself; I’d thought I’d be able to easily adjust to my new existence as a proud, adoring hockey wife and I’d given myself an endless amount of pep talks and scoldings about how I was dealing with my husband’s first official absence. I hadn’t been as ready or prepared as I’d thought; I’m having a difficult time sleeping and I find myself in tears the second we get off the phone or our respective computers and I miss him so much it physically hurts. So much that I feel guilt for being such a baby about it, and I’m terrified to let him know how I’m feeling because I worry he’ll find me an immature, whiny, possessive little bitch.

“Is that all you think about?” I ask, unable to keep the grin off of my face as I tuck my cell phone between my ear and shoulder in order to attend to the buttons on my black, white and pink tweed pea coat and then tug on the knitted pink mitts and hat I’d stored earlier in my pockets.

While I’m freezing my ass off in the middle of a dreadful Pittsburgh winter -and saddled down in the midst of a seemingly never ending ‘to do’ list- my husband is enjoying temperatures in the high sixties and low seventies while the Pens get ready to kick off a handful of games against the various teams in California before heading up into western Canada.

“Mon chere…” he drawls in the sexy accent of his. “…don’t act as if that actually comes as a surprise to you. You married Max Talbot, non? You should know by now that I find it impossible to get enough of you. That I’ll never get enough of you. We’re newlyweds, oui? Well as a newlywed, the only thing I want to do is have as much sex with you as humanly possible in as many places as possible. Including those pyramid things you want to see so bad.”

“They’re Mayan ruins,” I inform him. “And something tells me they have security there twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. You couldn’t even get the chance to get your fly open or your Johnson out of your boxers.”

“I plan on going commando that day,” he explains. “That way the second the sun goes down and no one is around, I can just bend you over part of the pyramid and…”

“Max…stop…you’re going to get me all worked up and…”

“…and if you wear a sundress and no panties, it’ll be easy access all around,” he continues.

“I really hope that you’re alone while you’re talking about this,” I grumble. “I hope Flower’s not in the room.”

“No…I’m alone…” he heaves a long, forlorn sigh. “All alone. And miserable. Not to mention the palm of my right hand is getting really chapped from having to jerk…”

“If there was ever a time for you to be ambidextrous, this is it,” I tease. “And you really have to stop while you’re ahead. It’s not like I can indulge in phone sex while out in public. You’ll have to wait until later when I’m in the privacy of our bedroom and…”

“Will you wear that red and black lace thing you wore on Valentines Day?” he inquires hopefully. “You know, the one with the split up to your navel and those little panties that have the bows on your hips? ‘Cause I have a vivid memory of what you looked like in that and of what we did. And I have an even more vivid imagination.”

“I thought you liked what I had on last night. When we had our little…web cam session…” I say, as I carefully make my way down the snow covered front steps of the clerk’s office and head for the public parking lot half a block away.

It’s barely noon hour and I’ve already been running myself ragged; the course catalogues from both Penn State and the University of Pittsburgh lay along my right forearm and I’d spent almost forty five minutes in line just to file the necessary paperwork to legally change my name. And I still have to pick up a special order Ralph Lauren dress I’d purchased on line from Macy’s -a heavily beaded, halter style gold number that fits like a second skin and skims the tops of my knees- and then stop at the vet’s to get my babies -two beagle puppies Max had adopted from the local ASPCA and had given me for Valentines Day and I’d promptly named Copper and Todd after the characters in mine and Tyler’s favourite Disney movie growing up ‘The Fox and the Hound’- their food.

“You remember, don’t you?” I ask my husband, as I keep my voice low and my chin tucked into my chest as I journey down the sidewalk. “The silver satin spaghetti strap number? That seemed to work you up right quick. And get you off.”

“Yeah…yeah…I liked that one. I loved that one. But that red and black lace one…mon dieu….” his voice trails off and he gives an appreciative, animalistic growl.

“Maxime…you’re a naughty boy,” I scold. “You know what it does to me when you talk French. If you make me wet my favourite Hello Kitty undies in public…”

“D’accord…d’accord…” he chuckles. “I’ll stop. I’ll be a good boy. But as far as security guards at those pyramids go….”

“I thought you said you’d be good?”

“I bet if I gave them fifty bucks a head they’d take off for half an hour. Bet if I tossed them a hundred apiece they’d hang around and film us for posterity.”

“You never stop,” I sigh. “You are just one big walking ball of hormones.”

“Come on, Em…don’t you think that would be fucking hot? Wouldn’t it just be such a fucking turn on if we could watch ourselves on tape? Having sex? While we’re having sex in real time? The idea of that doesn’t do something for you?”

“A Max Talbot sex tape? Are you sure there’s already not one out there somewhere? I’ve heard stories about you, Maxime. And I’ve seen some of the nasty ass bitches you’ve tapped. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if one of them had hidden cameras set up in their bedroom. Or even talked you into something like that. Not to mention you’re a bit of an exhibitionist.”

“I am no such thing!” he gasps dramatically. “Just because I like to walk around in the privacy of my own home with no clothes on and I…”

“With no curtains on the windows,” I point out. “And how about the time you got that crazy idea for us to have sex against your living room window? Your living room picture window at that. Do you remember? The night before I left for Montreal? Do you remember that?”

“Of course I remember. How could I forget that? How could I ever forget having you pressed face first against the glass while I was fucking you from…”

“Everyone in the apartment across the street probably had their binoculars out watching us!” I cry, as my cheeks flush from both embarrassment and from the overwhelming desire that floods through my entire body as memories of that night assail me. Our sex life is anything but predictable and mundane and I’ve done things with him in the span of only a few nights that I’d sworn I’d never have the guts to try. Max brings out the wild, uninhibited Emma-Leigh; he lets me lose complete control and I always have total faith in him that he’ll either gently encourage me or stop if things get too out of hand.

“So what? So we gave them a free show. No big deal. Ask me, they got extremely lucky. I mean, look at us. I’m devastatingly handsome, never mind hung like a horse…”

“And not at all conceited,” I toss in with a grin.

“And you…well you…vous etes tout simplement incroyable…you’re phenomenal, Em. You’re beautiful and sexy and you’re just…tu es mon monde entier. Mon soleil et la lune et les etoilles.”

“Maxime…” I’m horrified to both her my voice crack with emotion and find that I’m struggling to hold back a threat of tears in the middle of a busy downtown sidewalk. “Arretez, s’il vous plait. Tu vas me faire pleurer. Don’t turn me into a blubbering mess, okay? At least let me be an emotional wreck behind closed doors.”

“What’s wrong? Are you hormonal? Are you PMSing?”

“No!” I huff. “I am not PMSing, you tool! I miss you! I miss you and I’m miserable without you! And you busting out all those sweet nothings in French is not helping!”

“Je suis desolee,” he apologizes, and he falls silent for a several seconds before he clears his throat noisily. “If it makes you feel any better, I miss you too. Tu me manques tellement. Tant qu’il me tue a l’interieur. I can’t wait to see you; I can’t wait to come home.”

“I miss you too,” I tell him, and then sniffle noisily and glance down at the books in my possession. “When you get home I have a surprise for you,” I say, anxious to sway him from his very rare -at least while he’s sober- sentimental and sappy mood before I dissolve into tears. “A very, very nice surprise.”

“Yeah…” I swear I can picture the grin as it creeps across his face. “Lace or silk? Crotch or no crotch?”

“Mind out of the gutter, s’il vous plait. You’re not easing your suffering in any way, shape or form.”

“I know…I’m not…” he agrees with a sigh. “But there’s no one around and once I hang up I can relieve my suffering.”

“Why did I marry you?” I inquire, as I finally reach my husband’s gleaming black Range Rover and balancing my belongings on my hip, fish my keys from my coat pocket and slip them into the lock. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because you love me,” Max confidently replies. “’Cause you love me and you can’t live without me.”

“I tolerate you at best,” I chide.

“And ‘cause the sex is off the fucking hook,” he proudly and cockily adds. “’Cause I got the skills; I make sure you see stars and black out and call me God and…”

“Maxime!” I snap irritably, as I toss the books into the front passenger seat and he immediately shuts up courtesy of the tone of my voice. “I love you,” I finish, and he chuckles as I slip behind the wheel and shut my door.

“Je t’aime aussi, bouton,” he says in return, and I can’t help but smile at the use of the nickname ‘Button’; a term of affection he’d adopted our first night together because of my petite stature. “Everything is okay?” he asks. “Things are good? You’re keeping care of yourself?”

“I am taking my crazy medication faithfully,” I assure him, and sliding the key into the ignition, bring the engine to life and immediately adjust the temperature of the heating that comes spilling from the vents on the dashboard. “And you’ll be happy to know that as far as the state is concerned, I am now officially Mrs. Emma-Leigh Kennedy-Talbot. I just have to g to the DMV and change my licence and I need to…”

“Kennedy-Talbot? Why the hyphen? I thought we agreed no hyphen? I thought we agreed just Talbot.”

“I changed my mind at the last minute. I thought it sounded more professional all together.”

“Merde…” he grumbles. “…it sounds horrible. All those goddamn names shoved together. Emma-Leigh Kennedy Talbot. Don’t even try to say it three times fast. It’s like a fucking tongue twister. You know how I feel about that. You know that I just wanted the one name; you know how much it meant to me. You couldn’t give me that? You couldn’t give me something I wanted? You had to…?”

“Holy baby….” I laugh, and draw my seatbelt across my body and secure it tightly. “Don’t get your undies in a twist. I was only joking. I didn’t hyphenate anything. Just one last name, okay? Emma-Leigh Talbot. I can’t believe how riled up you get about that. How can you be so old fashioned when it comes to my name change but nothing else?”

“Because it’s only right,” he says. “It’s only right that you take my name. It’s the way things should be. I have to be a traditionalist in some way, non? Well this is my way. I want you to have my name so that everyone knows you belong to me. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“The ring on my finger isn’t enough?” I inquire. “People know I belong to you, Max. I think the wedding pictures the Pens’ PR department splashed all over the website drilled the fact I’m your wife into everyone’s heads. But to be fair, I’d be lying if I said that your whole old fashioned, bossy act didn’t turn me on. Just a bit.”

“Just a bit…” he gives a derisive snort. “More like a whole lot. I turn you on tout le temps. I bet I even have you all worked up right now. I bet those poor little Hello Kitty panties are just taking a beating. Or should I say a creaming.”

“You are a pig,” I declare. “I love you, but you’re a pig. A massive one.”

“You wouldn’t want me any other way,” he concludes. “But you prefer me naked and tied to the bed. You need to be a little more gentle, mon ange. I know you were some kind of knot tying champ when you were in Girl Guides, but my wrists are killing me ‘cause of the other night. You should see the bruises. And I can’t exactly hide them either.”

“Well consider it payback for all of the bruises you’ve left on my body. You know, we could always just tame things down from here on out. Have a strict ‘no rough sex’ rule.”

“Oh hell no,” he argues. “Are you out of your mind? That’s like asking the earth to start turning counter clockwise. C’est impossible. It’s never going to happen. And you know what else is never going to happen? Me getting down to the team bus in time if I don’t hang up and get my lazy ass out of bed. Practice is in forty five minutes”

“What about your shoulder?” I ask, and I can hear the rustling of clothes and sheets as he climbs out of bed.

“Don’t worry about that. Let me worry about my aches and pain, okay? You just…”

“Don’t make me call the trainers, Max,” I warn. “Don’t make me embarrass you by going all mother hen and calling the team doctor. Don’t…”

“Okay…okay…my shoulder is a mess,” he reluctantly admits. “A total fucking fucked up mess. I have to freeze it before every game and sometimes I have to have the meds topped up in between periods. But I’ll survive. I just need to get past the next four months and…”

“Isn’t it going to make things worse?” I attempt to keep the worry from being evident in my voice. “The labrum just has a slight tear in it now, right? Can’t it make things worse if you keep taking so many hits? What if you take one really bad hit and it tears completely and…?”

“That’s just a risk I have to take,” he reasons. “Four months, button. Just four months. I get through them and through my surgery and it’s all good. No stress, alright?”

“But what about afterwards?” I fret. “What about the several months of healing and rehab and…”

“Emma-Leigh…please, baby…don’t worry your pretty little head over this. Things are going to be okay. I’ll be fine. I just want to think about us. About us and getting through the season and my surgery and then those two weeks in Belize. Let’s think about that, okay? About having two weeks all to ourselves. Where we don’t have to share one another with anyone or anything else. Can we do that? Think about only good things?”

“We can,” I sigh. “I just don’t want you…”

“I have to get going. I have to jump in the shower and get the show on the road. Another day, another dollar. Meme merde, jour different.”

“I’m going to meet little Miss P at PNC park. The future Mrs. Lepretty is taking me out to lunch. She says it’s to discuss wedding plans but I think that’s code language for ‘let’s rip Kris’ family to shit’. Did Kristopher tell you about how his mommy’s undies are in a knot over the fact that there’s a baby on the way? Apparently Momma Lepretty is all in a snit because Baby Lepretty didn’t remember how to use a condom. She even went as far to accuse Peyton of poking holes in all of the rubbers in the box. I guess they’re going to hell because they’re having un bebe hors mariage. Tres scandalous,” I roll my eyes as I say the last two words.

“You can’t win with French Canadian families. Especially the ones that are tres religious, tres tendu. You either get the mother like Kris’ who is about to have a stroke because the baby is coming before the rings are on their fingers, or you get one like mine who thinks we’re doing something terribly wrong because we’re married and still using birth control. As far as my mother is considered, the fact that we’re not actively trying for a baby and the fact we’re using any kind of protection is massively sacrilegious. I guess she thinks marriage is still only for procreating purposes.”

“All the more reason to have a baby!” I chirp. “To make the in-laws happy! You don’t want your mother to be miserable, do you?” I ask. “You don’t want to break her heart much longer, do you?”

“I’d rather my mother be miserable if it means keeping you healthy,” he replies. “I have to get going. I have to…”

“You’ll call me later?” I inquire, and then quickly add, “Not that I need you to keep in constant contact or that I can’t function without you. ‘Cause I can. I don’t need you checking up on me all the time and I certainly don’t need to know your whereabouts all the time. I just figured if you wanted to talk to me…”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get back from the hotel after the game,” he promises. “Make sure you watch tonight. Make sure you sit in front of the television in my jersey. And nothing but my jersey. And make sure that when I get a hold of you you’ve got that red and black lace thing on and that you’re ready for me. We may be a thousand miles apart, but I can still rock your world.”

“So conceited,” I grin.

“Have I ever failed to deliver? Have a fun today, okay? Don’t be causing too much trouble. Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime aussi,” I tell him, and then hear the soft click as he disconnects the call.

Sighing heavily, I press the END button on my cell, toss it onto the dashboard and then close my eyes as I rest the back of my head against my seat.

Love may not be easy. It may come with ups and downs and twists and turns and profound moments of angst and loneliness.

But it’s all worth it.