The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“Business or pleasure?”

The query is garbled and muted due to the iPod earphones blasting The Killers straight into my cranium, but I decide to acknowledge and play nice despite my growing irritation. I hate flying as it is; I’m the type of passenger that is constantly eyeing the others suspiciously and dissecting what I consider ‘sketchy behaviour’ while wondering just who on board managed to sneak through security with a bomb in their shoe or underwear. I’m also the type that usually spends the majority of a flight with my face tucked into a brown paper bag because I’m alternating between having panic attacks and vomiting and torturing myself with thoughts of whether or not I’d told everyone important to me that I loved them in case I don’t make it back. The simplest shudder of the aircraft and even the slightest bit of turbulence has me making the sign off the cross over my chest and begging and pleading with whatever higher power is in charge to just cut me a little slack; to take me when I’m an old woman warm and my bed instead of a terrorist blowing me up or a catastrophic failure disintegrating the plane. This time around I’m calm, cool and collected; thank God for the wonders of prescription medication, a legal drinking age of nineteen in Canada and the two triple shots of tequila I’d pounded back in the airport bar.

Giving an annoyed -and quite obvious- sigh and a dramatic eye roll, I pluck the bud out of my left ear and plaster an overly friendly, sugary sweet smile on my face as I turn to the middle age businessman seated next to me; dangerously close to infringing on my personal space, his knee constantly pressing against mine and his elbow frequently brushing against my arm despite there being more than enough room in the comfortable, spacious confines of first class. All I really want to do is mind my own business and indulge myself in the pristine and glossy copy of Cosmo I’d bought while waiting for my boarding call back at Trudeau Airport. Normally the sight of Megan Fox - I find her a total skank, but Max pitches a tent the second he sees her on television and always goes on and on about how his ultimate threesome involves her and me- gracing the front of my favourite magazine would be enough for me to never pick it up again.

But I’ve got a long suffering and extremely sexually frustrated husband waiting for me and I’m sure that later on when we’ve fucked each other senseless but we’re still desperate for more, he’ll be counting his lucky stars that I paid the five bucks for some reading material when he gets to benefit from the knowledge I pick up from the detailed sex articles inside. Not that he doesn’t usually handle the tutoring on his own; he’s not afraid to use his experience to his advantage and teach me everything he feels I need to know and I’m always a willing and eager pupil. But sometimes it’s nice to surprised him; to just take matters into my own hands and thrown him down for a change and rock his world. It doesn’t happen often, but I’m sure he appreciates it when it does. Every guy likes their woman to go all sex kitten on them; to take the reigns and turn the tables and to just…well to just fuck them for a change.

Not to mention that today’s his birthday; twenty five years old and I’m not even around to celebrate it with him. Instead I’m stuck forty five thousand feet above the ground in a flying tin can and desperate to get to Pittsburgh to be with him; to officially start spending the rest of our lives together. The past five months have been a struggle; six weeks in a rehab style facility to get a handle on my bi-polar and to receive the one on one and eventually group therapy that had been so successful in getting me back on my feet, another fourteen weeks of living with my in laws and seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis who would give me the strength I needed to face my fears about going back to Pittsburgh with the title of ‘Most Hated Woman’ hanging around my neck like one huge ass scarlet A letting everyone know how I had -in some of Max’s team-mates opinions- ‘whored myself out’. I feel empowered now; I feel confidant in my self and I’ve made peace with my decisions and I’m ready to face whatever consequence is going to nail me in the ass the second I arrive back in the ‘Burgh. I’ve made my bed and now I’m prepared to lie in it. I don’t regret choosing Max over Sidney, but I do feel shame in the way I’d handled things and I’m horrified that I’d jumped into the bed of another man while all but engaged to another. I never meant to hurt anyone; I never meant to fall in love with Max. But that doesn’t mean I regret it and that I’m not excited about spending the rest of my life with him.

Things happen for a reason. I have to believe that. And while I wish I’d dealt with things in a more mature and responsible fashion, I unfortunately can’t go back and change the past. We’ve all gone on; we’re all coping with the fall out of what we’d done and we’re all suffering in our own way.

My suffering is currently coming in the form of the man next to me; the physical epitome of class and sophistication with his cropped salt and pepper hair, electric blue eyes and an obviously well built and toned physique accentuated by an exceptionally tailored black and grey pin stripped suit. His crisp mauve dress shirt is snug across his chest and his eggplant, silver and pink patterned silk tie is wrinkle free and boasts a rectangular shaped pin that I’m pretty sure is real diamond and black onyx and matches his cuff links. His face is smooth and ageless, teeth dazzling white and perfectly straight and his scent is intoxicating and I’m certain most women would view him as extremely attractive and would have long ago given in to his subtle, seemingly innocent flirtatious behaviour. I’m tired of him rubbing his knee against mine no matter how many times I yank my leg away and huff in exasperation and I certainly don’t want or need the drinks he’s been attempting to ply me with. And it’s doing nothing for me when he continuously flashes his expensive gold and platinum Rolex.

I’ve managed to ignore him for most part; never venturing past polite smiles or simple one word answers and concentrating on the magazine perched in my lap. I’m not in the mood for any bullshit and I certainly have no interest in acquiring a sugar daddy. Especially a married one; I’d noticed how he’d yanked off his wedding ring the second he’d sat down and had slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“Come again?” I ask, and immediately regret my choice of words when he bears those teeth in a wolfish grin and eyes me from eye to toe; sizing me up and apparently looking what he sees despite my rather boring choice of wardrobe.

There’s nothing even remotely sexy -at least in my opinion- about a pair of thick black tights, dark denim skirt that skims the tops of my knees and a simple powder blue cotton blouse that shows just the slightest hint of cleavage and the thin platinum chain around my neck and diamond skeleton key pendant that dangles from it. Maybe it’s the footwear; men always seem to salivate over a sexy pair of kicks and the knee high black leather boots I’d found in a boutique in Old Montreal are no exception.

“Well now that you’ve brought the word up…” he drawls, and then skims the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip as he studies my chest. “I wouldn’t mind coming at least once today.”

What an asshole. That kind of comment is something I’d expect from pubescent teenage boys still hiding porno magazines under their mattress or at the bottom of their sock drawer or from college guys who not only think foreplay is five seconds of grabbing your tits but that every woman on the planet enjoys them using their dicks like plungers instead of actually employing some technique. And in my case, I’ve heard worse come on’s and much more perverted and raunchy comments from hockey players who have way too much adrenaline and testosterone coursing through their bodies for their own good.

“Well judging by the calluses on your palms, I’d think it’s safe to say you’re accustomed to taking care of business on your own,” I casually remark, and then add before I slip the bud back into my ear: “So if you don’t mind, leave me alone and ask the stewardess for directions to the bathroom.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips and I bite my tongue when he has the nerve to yank the ear phone back out and both flip my magazine closed and turn it face up in my lap. “Business or pleasure?” he inquires yet again.

“Both,” I reply, yet offer up no additional information.

It’s none of his goddamn business why I’ve spent the last five months out of the country; why for the sake of my sanity I’d kept a low profile thousands of miles away from the man who’d become my husband during his way too brief Christmas break. The pleasure of my return to Pittsburgh lies in Max; in spending the rest of my life as his wife and starting a family with him and going old and grey with him by my side. The business side revolves around the many things I’d left unfinished; bridges that I am desperate to rebuild and the apologies and explanations that have been eating away at me every day for almost half a year.

“You know…” he slides his elbow across the arm rest between us and allows his fingertips to graze across the top of my right hand. “You’re pretty cute.”

Are you for fucking real? Cute? Cute is a word that’s reserved for a basket of kittens or a litter of bunnies or puppies dolled up in frilly outfits and bonnets and those Anne Geddes photographs where she dresses babies up in costumes resembling fruits and vegetables or attaches angels’ wings to their backs. You don’t call a soon to be twenty year old woman cute. It’s almost like trying to keep a straight face when calling Bruce Boudreau adorable or Alexander Ovechkin handsome.

“Thank you…” I give yet another sugary sweet smile and this time add a flutter of my eyelashes to the mix. Any normal man would sense my irritation and just back the fuck off; apparently this guy wasn’t born with a sarcasm detector. “I’ll have to remember to let my husband know how much you admire my…cuteness.”

“You’re married?” he looks and sounds sceptical.

“Mm-hm,” I give a nod in confirmation and stretching my left arm across my body, hold my hand palm down and wriggle my fingers in order to draw attention to the jewellery I sport on my third finger. I don’t have what everyone would consider a ‘traditional’ engagement ring; instead of a massive, gaudy diamond that’s capable of blinding anyone in a ten foot radius, Max had given me a cushion cut amethyst set in platinum and bordered by diamonds; a representation of both of our birthstones. Underneath are a diamond eternity band and a thick, plain platinum wedding ring that have been soldered together.

“What are you? Some kind of child bride?” my seat mate gives a chuckle. “Don’t you think you’re a little young to be married?”

“Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be hitting on me?” I retort, and yank my hand away when his fingers curl around mine. “How would you feel if some dirty old man was trying to get in your daughter’s pants?” I ask, disgust dripping from my voice.

“My daughter is twenty and married to a forty five year old colleague of mine,” he replies.

Why does that not surprise me?

“And my wife happens to be twenty two,” he continues, as if that’s something to be proud of. “My third wife, actually.”

“Well I’m not interested in being number four,” I inform him. “So if you don’t mind…”

“I’m not interested in adding you to the collection either,” he interjects. “I’m just interested in…” he leans sideways and places his lips against my ears and whispers. “…well you’re a smart girl, figure it out.”

“Sorry…” I dig my elbow into his chest and shove him backwards. “…if I need a magnifying glass to find it and you need a whole bag of Viagra for just a single go around, you’re definitely not my type.”

“Feisty,” he grins. “I like that. I bet it does something for your husband.”

“Actually, it does. And you know what else does something for him? Kicking the shit out of any pathetic little weasel that so as much looks at me the wrong way or has the nerve to breathe on me. He’s big and scary and extremely possessive and volatile. So unless you want a severely temperamental French Canadian handing you your ass five ways from Sunday the second this plane lands, you’d back the fuck off. Comprendez-vous?”

Okay, so maybe that tirade was a bit of a stretch; Max certainly is blessed with a volatile temper that you don’t want to get on the wrong side of and I’m confidant that he’d lie down and die or take a bullet for me, but he’s far from being scary. He doesn’t go out looking for trouble yet he doesn’t back down from it either; if someone gets in his face or push all the wrong buttons, he won’t think twice about fucking them up. He’s scared of no one, evidence by the way he plays hard, hits even harder and loves to chirp at -and mock- the opposition. My husband isn’t afraid to take his beats; he’s come home with black eyes, split lips, a few busted noses and bruised ribs and struggles every day to cope with the pain brought on by a bad shoulder that most definitely will need surgery in the off season.

Simply put, Maxime Talbot is a man’s man. And that’s the best type of man of all.

“God…” my creepy seat mate gives a dramatic shudder. “I just love it when a woman plays hard to get.”

“Hard to get?” I can’t help but laugh in his face; there’s no bigger ego crusher than a woman so blatantly shooting you down and not hiding the fact she thinks you’re a complete loser. My own husband had learned the hard way that I don’t tolerate bullshit; that I don’t give in easily just because you have a pretty face and a hot body. Sure, seeing him naked in the shower had been an unexpected and extremely delicious treat, but it hadn’t resulted in me throwing myself at him. Not at first, anyway. “I’m playing impossible to get,” I inform the man next to me, then snatch my magazine and ear phone from his hands. “Now if you don’t mind, keep your hands to yourself and your mouth shut for the rest of the flight. Because I am not above putting my fist through your teeth.”

My obnoxious companion’s eyes widen at the vehemence in my voice and he finally relents, holding his hands up in surrender as he sinks back into his seat and moves both his arm and leg out of my personal space.

“Douche bag,” I mutter, and then pop the buds back into my ears, crank the volume on my iPod and go back to reading my magazine and learning all about the ‘sex positions he craves the most’.

I can’t get back to Pittsburgh soon enough.

**********

I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry; I wouldn’t draw attention to myself and scurry through the airport with tears spilling down my cheeks and create a hell of a scene as I launched myself into the strong and waiting arms of my husband. I’ve seen way too many corny romance movies with the stereotypical airport reunion scene that I’d vowed I wouldn’t fall into ‘cheese ball fluff’ territory by allowing myself to become an emotional wreck.

Unfortunately, it’s easier said than done; the second I spy Max in the crowd of anxious and excited family members waiting for the various passengers to step through the de-boarding tunnel, I’m off and running. Tears blurring my vision as relief from having arrived safely mixes in with all of the loneliness that had plagued me throughout the past five months. It had been so hard; being away from the one person that had single handily saved me from myself and who I’d consciously chose to spend my life with has been a complete nightmare. To know that he’s been waiting for me all of this time, anxious for me to get better and build up both my physical and emotional strength in order for us to start our life together is overwhelming. Max had become a totally different person; dependable, trustworthy, responsible and extremely mature. He’d given up all semblance of his old life in order to be a better person; to be the man that he felt I needed and deserved.

A brilliant smile that causes his turquoise eyes to sparkle and dance spreads from ear to ear and brightens his entire face, and before I can even manage to get a greeting out of my mouth those muscular, powerful arms are wrapping around me and lifting me clear off the ground; forearms settling under my ass and holding me in place as I curl my arms around his neck and my legs around his torso and kiss every inch of his face. Scruffy beard and all. There’s no words that need to be said between us; the long, agonizing wait and the broken road is finally nearing it’s end and we don’t need to tell each other how much we’ve missed one another, how hard it’s been to be apart and how much we love one another. It’s all right there in the way he holds me; in the way I melt against him and he removes one arm from under my bottom in order to lay a monstrous hand on the back of my head and draw it down onto his shoulder. We don’t care who is staring at us; who may be whispering about the outrageous public display of affection or the gossip we know a reunion between Sidney Crosby’s ex and Max Talbot will cause. We’d both been vilified in the press and on the internet and Max had done his best to shelter me from that; to spare me the heartache of ignorant people that couldn’t possibly understand how hard it had been for us to make the decisions we had.

Eventually I sniffle noisily and pull back and offering a shaky smile as I cradle his face in my hands. My heart skipping a beat when he gives that boyish, mischievous, slightly lopsided grin and then presses a kiss to the tip of my nose.

“Bonjour,” he says simply.

“Bonjour,” I respond, and cover his mouth with mine in the first kiss we’ve shared in two months. It’s neither hurried or rushed; it’s our lips moving slowly and tenderly against each other and it’s the tip of his tongue tentatively pushing against my teeth and the soft sigh I release when I finally grant him entrance.

“Comment ca-va?” he inquires, and presses a kiss to each of my cheeks and the side of my neck before I finally untangle my legs from around his torso and he places me on the ground. “The flight was okay?”

“Comme ci, comme ca,” I admit. “Look at you…” I tug playfully on his belt buckle and eye him from head to toe; the hunting jacket, the tattered and worn jeans and scuffed up boots. And the beard. Not as hideous as what I’d seen on television during the playoffs, but it’s obvious he hasn’t picked up a razor in a couple of weeks. “…you make one hell of a sexy looking lumberjack,” I declare.

“A lumberjack, huh?” he busts out that grin again and then reaches out to entwine the fingers of his left hand with my right. “I guess that fits, considering I’ve got a pretty big piece of wood already ready for you and calling your name.”

Okay…so maybe not all of the old Max has completely disappeared. And that’s good; because all of the sides that I’d fallen in love with are still intact.

“C’est tres belle,” he says, nodding his approval as he lays his free hand on the top of my head and allows his fingers to slip through my brand new hair do; cut up to my elbows and straightened and adorned with chunks of honey blond that that the stylist had assured would not only brighten my face, but make me totally sexy. “I like it; you look incredible baby.”

“I was worried you wouldn’t,” I admit. “I was worried you’d…”

“I love it,” he assures me, and kisses me softly.

“Wish I could say the same about this,” I tease, and reach up to scratch my nails against the right side of his face. “Did you suddenly forget how to shave or…?”

“I’ve been lazy,” Max admits. “When the cat’s away, the mouse will play.”

I frown.

“Not like that,” he sighs exasperatedly. “I’ve been a good boy. A boy scout. I swear to you I have not even looked at another woman, let alone fooled around with one. You’re the only one I want, Em. Never doubt that. You and only you. Always and forever.”

“Kiss me again,” I demand, satisfied with his response, and grip the front of his jacket in my hands and yank him into me. “And this time, do it like you mean it, Mister Talbot.”

“I don’t know if you can handle it, Mrs Talbot,” he says in response, but does exactly what he’s told; his hands cupping the sides of my face as he kisses me deeply and passionately; a kiss that holds so much promise and reminds me just how much I’ve missed him. The taste of his mouth, the feel of those huge, calloused hands, the smell of his skin. And when the need for air becomes a dire necessity I find myself once more overcome with emotion; the tears flooding my eyes once more and relief and love surging through me.

“Let’s go home,” Max suggests, and takes one of my tiny hands in his. “It’s time to go home now, Emma-Leigh.”

Home.

No word has ever sounded so damn good.