The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“Well…” Max’s breath is hot and sweet against the side of my neck and his voice rumbles deep within his chest; I can feel the reverberation against my back as we lay in wrapped in mess of tangled limbs in the middle of our basement floor.

After a marathon sex session that had last nearly four hours and had seen us experiment with several different -and often mind boggling positions- in more than a few strange and obscure places and a couple more common and practical, we hadn’t had the energy to move any further than the adjacent laundry room. My husband had ventured as far as the dryer to snag a polar fleece throw from a load of wash I’d completed earlier and had promptly returned, collapsed alongside of me on the carpet and swaddled us tightly in the blanket. We’ve been cuddled up like this ever since; my ass tucked tightly into his groin, both of his strong, muscular arms wrapped protectively -and slightly possessively- around me and one of his heavy legs draped over my thigh. I could lie like this forever; I could happily stay in his embrace for the rest of my life, completely and utterly relaxed by the sensation of his heart beating against me, the hair on his chest tickling my skin and his masculine, intoxicating scent invading my senses.

“…if there really is a ghost living down here, we must have given him one hell of a show,” my husband chuckles, and presses a kiss to my temple. “He must have gotten a real eye full.”

“Yeah…we certainly did provide Stanley with some first class entertainment,” I agree, and nestle the side of my face into the crook of his elbow as he stretches out his arm and rests it on the carpet.

“Stanley?” his chest shudders as he laughs and I can practically picture the playful glitter in his eyes. “The ghost has a name now? You call him Stanley?”

“I figured it was as good a name as any,” I say, as I drift the nails of my right hand along every finger on his left; slowly and methodically gliding over every inch of skin and memorizing every bump that mars his knuckles before travelling along the cold, smooth platinum of his wedding band. There’s still moments where it seems so surreal; where I catch a glimpse of the ring on his finger and I can’t honestly believe that he’s all mine. I am proud to say that I have successfully conquered what other women have failed so miserably at: I have tamed Mad Max; a sexy, incredible man that I can call my own and who loves me in a way that I’d never thought was possible. And while I know that there’s going to be a lot of twists and turns and bumps in the road, I can’t help but be filled with the utmost sense of optimism.

Maybe love truly is enough to see you through all of life’s problems. No matter how big or how small.

“I mean, in a way it’s homage to you,” I add. “I figured if I named him Stanley maybe it will bring some good luck. Seeing as you lost out on the real Stanley last year…”

“We’ve got a long way to go before we even can think about making a run for the Cup,” Max reminds me. “We’re still trying to crawl our way out of the basement.”

“But things are looking up,” I chirp, and entwining our fingers together, squeeze his hand tightly in encouragement. “Ever since Mister Bylsma took over…”

“Mister Bylsma?” he laughs at that and nuzzle my ear with the tip of his nose before resting his chin on my shoulder. “Did you honestly just call him Mister Bylsma? What’s with the formalities? Just call him Dan. Or Coach Bylsma. Or Disco Dan.”

“I think I’ll leave the cheesy nicknames to the even cheesier hockey players,” I decide, and then releasing my hold on his hand, wriggle my way out of his tight, possessive grasp and roll over onto my side. “You all think you’re such big, tough men…” I say, and press my lips against the tattoo that graces the inside of his bicep before giving him a chaste kiss and laying my hand on the back of his neck. “…yet you all come up with the corniest, lamest pet names for people.”

“Nicknames,” he corrects, as he combs his fingers through my hair and once again drapes a leg over my hip. “Not pet names. A pet name is something a guy calls his girl. Or vice versa. It’s an affectionate thing, you know? Something sweet between two people. Although I got to admit, I prefer all the vulgar things you say to me when we’re having sex than all the romantic, fluffy crap that comes out of your mouth afterwards.”

“What?” I ask innocently and flaunt a dramatic pout. “You don’t like it when I call you honey or baby? You don’t like it when I call you sweet cheeks?”

“The first two are okay, but the second one…” he shudders. “…only in private, okay? I’ve got a rep to uphold and if anyone found out that I actually like that…”

“What about pookie?” I tease. “Or lamb chop? Or how about…” I lightly scrape my nails along the back of his neck where hairline meets skin and mull a few different names around in my head. “…snuggles?”

“Oh hell no…” Max grimaces, and then covers my mouth with his in a long, deep, open mouthed kiss that makes my toes curls and both my stomach and heart flutter. The man is an amazing kisser; among other things. It’s just a damn shame that that exceptionally talented tongue is out of commission for so long. I wonder how I’m ever going to survive? “No nicknames…” he pleads, and drops a kiss on the top of my head before wrapping both arms around me and drawing me tight against him.

I love the way he smells and the way he feels; smooth skin over hard muscle, the hair that mats his chest teasing my nipples, and the way his fingertips drift ever so slowly down my spine. Our bodies fit so perfectly together; so close that I can feel his lashes fluttering against my cheeks when he closes his eyes and our foreheads and the tips of our noses touching. It’s intimacy in its purest, most incredible form; a sense of comfort and acceptance that you can spend you’re entire life looking for but never quite find. I’ve been lucky; I’ve had two men in my life that have evoked powerful, overwhelming emotions from the depths of my very soul; two totally different guys that had somehow both succeeded in making me feel as if I was the most beautiful, incredible woman on earth.

It’s taken me months to realize that it hadn’t only been Max that had had loved me. Sid had brought out the same feelings and I hadn’t been mature enough to see if before it was too late. And while I wouldn’t go back in time and make a different choice, I would gladly take back some of the things I’d said to him and the way I’d treated him throughout our short lived, ill fated relationship. He hadn’t deserved any of that. And he certainly hadn’t deserved the way things had ended.

It terrifies me that I’m thinking about him at a time like this; I can’t believe I’m even allowing myself to think about my ex boyfriend when I’m totally and completely immersed in my husband. It’s not that I still want to be with Sid; I don’t ever find myself wishing that I’d chosen him over Max. But I can’t lie and say that I didn’t feel anything the other night at Flower’s house; I can’t fool myself into pretending that there’s no lingering emotions or attraction in the same way I can’t deny that our history and the failure to get proper closure is preventing me from fully moving on with my life. I’ve heard that there’s always one person in your life that you’ll always love; someone that will always have a special place in your heart and who, no matter how many years pass or how much you adore the person you’re with and wouldn’t give them up for anything in the world, still manages to take your breath away or your heart hammer in your chest whenever they so as much walk into the room.

For me, Sid is that one person. There’s just too many memories; there were too many feelings experienced and shared to simply discount and sweep under the rug. We can’t pretend as if we never happened. And there will always be a small part of me that wonders ‘what if’; a tiny, miniscule shred of my brain that will forever be jealous of any woman he’s with and that will always react powerful to him whenever he even smiles at me.

And the only thing that makes all of this seem remotely acceptable is the thought that maybe there’s someone in Max’s life that he’ll never be fully over; someone that he loved and lost and that he’ll always have a soft spot for. He couldn’t have been with all of those women and felt nothing for at least one of them. There must have been someone that he actually cared for; a woman that he even remotely considered spending the rest of his life with.

********

“Emma-Leigh…” Max’s voice cuts through my reverie and I shiver as those slightly calloused fingertips glide across the small of my back and then along my spine once more.

“Maxime…” I echo, and nestle my face into the hallow of his throat.

“Remember what we talked about earlier? About you not feeling well?”

I nod. “About how you think there’s some modern day miracle at work and I’ve somehow managed to get pregnant despite the fact I’m on birth control? How for some reason you still want me to take a test even though I am telling you that I’m having some of the worst PMS of my entire life?”

“I still think you should take a test,” he says, and I roll my eyes and heave an exasperated sigh. “I just think that it’s better to be safe than sorry,” he quickly reasons, and tightens his hold on me as I attempt to pull away. “Wouldn’t you rather just know for sure? Instead of just assuming that everything’s okay and…?”

“Have you ever had period cramps?” I challenge. “Have you ever felt as if someone was going to rip your uterus clear out of your stomach?”

“Well considering I’m not a woman and I don’t have a uterus or get a period…”

“I’ve had my period since I was twelve. I think I know what PMS is. I am not pregnant. No way, no how. So you need to just…”

“Remember how the doctor said that sometimes certain medications can screw up how well the patch works? Remember how he said that…?”

“Remember how he distinctly said that my medication isn’t on the list of ones that can mess things up? Christ Max…” I shove him away scramble into a sitting position. “…let it go, okay? There’s nothing wrong with me other than some kind of weird ass stomach bug. We’re not having a baby. We’re always careful and we’ve never had a slip up and…”

“But there’s always a first time,” he interjects. “Just ‘cause your meds weren’t on a list that was made a couple years ago, doesn’t mean that…”

“You need to just relax,” I huff, and then lean over and snagging his t-shirt from where it had been tossed -in the heat of the movement- on top of the cluttered coffee table, yank it over my head and then scoop up his glasses. “…I know what it feels like to have a period, okay? I’ve been suffering like this since I was twelve. Things are just a little worse now ‘cause of all uterus’ decision to rebel and the fact that I’ve got some kind of virus. So would you please just chill? Could you do that for me? Could you stop being so damn bossy for once?”

“I’m not trying to be bossy,” he gently argues, as I slip his glasses onto his face. “I just think it would put both our minds at ease if you just…”

“Your mind,” I correct, and raking a hand through my hair, pull my tresses out from the back of the t-shirt. “It would put your mind at ease.”

“I’d just feel better if you’d take a test,” he admits, and propping himself on one elbow, reaches out with his free hand and rubs my back softly. “Peace of mind, you know? I know you’ve had a period for forever now and that you know what PMS is like and I know the doctor said that your meds weren’t on that list, but…”

“Would it shut you up?” I ask. “Because you’re honestly starting to drive me insane and…”

“It would shut me up,” he confirms. “I just want to know one hundred percent. I don’t want there to be all these nagging thoughts in mind about how just maybe…”

“Fine…” I huff, and throw my hands up in surrender. “Fine…I’ll take a damn test…but you’re going to feel really stupid afterwards when it comes back negative.”

“If it comes back negative, I’ll apologize,” he promises, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he sits up, curls an arm around my neck and pulls me backwards into his chest.

“When,” I stress. “When it comes back negative. And hypothetically speaking, if it did happen to come back positive, what…?”

“If it comes back positive we‘ll deal with it,” he says.

“We‘ll deal with it? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I know you don‘t want a baby right now, but if I am pregnant, there‘s no way I‘m ‘dealing’ with it. I’m not giving it up for adoption, I’m not having an abortion, I’m not…”

“What?” he actually has the nerve to laugh. “Are you insane? I’d never tell you to have an abortion or to put it up for adoption. I didn’t mean ‘deal with it’ like that. I meant that we’ll deal with it as in having it. I don’t want a baby right now, but if there is one…well I’ll have to accept it, right?”

“Right,” I whole heartily agree. “But there is no baby. No bun in the oven. No mini Talbot in the works. And like I said, you’re going to feel like such an ass when I take a pregnancy test for no reason.”

“I will get down on my knees and say I’m sorry,“ he assures me, and then wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Among other things.”

“You’re out of commission for a while, remember? You realize that I’m going to suffer more than you will, right? That all because you had to run out and get your tongue pierced, you….”

“I did it for you!” he cries, and then chuckles as I direct an elbow into his stomach. “All for you! You’re going to be the one benefiting from it! Not me! Don’t be so damn ungrateful. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t had had your best interests in mind. Just think…a couple more weeks and…” he nibbles at the side of my neck. “…you’ll be thanking your lucky stars that I think about you so much. That I’m constantly trying to make you happy.”

“You made me perfectly happy before you got your tongue pierced,” I remind him.

“It’ll be even better,” he vows. “I’ve been with girls with their tongues pierced and…”

“And I don’t want to hear about it, okay?” I scowl. “I know that I said I’m totally accepting about your impressive and somewhat startling history with the opposite sex and that your whole reputation as a manwhore doesn’t bother me, but…”

“History is the perfect word. History. ‘Cause that’s what it is. Ancient history.”

“…but that doesn’t mean I want to hear the details,” I finish. “I don’t want to hear about the women you’ve been with, alright? I’d rather just not think about them as actual people. So no details, no descriptions of their physical appearance, no names, okay? Let’s keep your past as impersonal as possible. Can we do that?”

“I think you’re a little too sensitive about the entire thing,” he says.

“And you’re not at all sensitive about my past?” I inquire. “You don’t have your panties in even the slightest bit of a twist over my history?”

“What history? You’ve been with three guys. That’s not much of a history.”

“Don’t even try and pretend that it doesn’t bother you to think about me and Sid. Don’t even try and act like it doesn’t get you all pissy and hot under the collar whenever you think about me being with him. Especially when you have to look at him every day in the dressing room and…”

“I could give a rat’s ass about you and Sid,” he grumbles. “Seems to me that you do though.”

“Don’t be so damn passive aggressive,” I sigh. “Don’t try and pick a fight when there’s absolutely nothing at all to pick a fight over. Honestly, Maxime. Sometimes you’re just so…I don’t know…sometimes you’re just so…you.”

“I’m totally over you and Sid,” he says with a shrug. “You’re the one that keeps bringing it up and…”

“I only bring it up because you say something that makes me think about it,” I inform him. “How am I supposed to get over it and get on with my life when you won’t let me? How am I supposed to…?”

“You can’t let it go because part of you doesn’t want to,” Max argues, and then pressing a kiss to my cheek, releasing his hold on me and reaches behind him to grab his long discarded sweatpants. “Some sick and twisted part that loves to torture you. It’s almost like you feel as if you have to make yourself suffer to make up for what you did. Like you have to do some kind of penance for choosing me over him. When is that going to end, Em? When are you going to finally let that go? You don’t owe him anything. You don’t need to grovel on your hands and knees for his forgiveness. You think he really gives a shit? You think he’s losing sleep over all of this? He’s gone on with his life. He’s met some really nice girl that…”

“Autumn Winters,” I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Yeah…I know. She works at UPMC. Apparently she’s something like six years older than him and was married once before and has a kid and…”

“And who gives a shit?” my husband asks, as he clambers to his feet and climbs into his sweats. “Who gives a shit what her name is or what she does for a living or whether she was married and has a kid? Who gives a fuck? What does it matter? That’s Sid’s life. Not ours.”

“I give a fuck when she starts harassing me,” I mutter. “It matters when she starts phoning the house to talk to me. It matters when…”

“She phoned the house?” Max frowns. “When?”

“This afternoon.” I reveal. “I guess the word is totally out that she’s Sid’s girlfriend and some reporters ambushed her at work today and started asking her all kinds of questions about how she felt about his ex girlfriend now being married to one of his teammates and somehow the fact that I’d been pregnant and had had a miscarriage got out and…”

“She didn’t know? She didn’t know that all of that had happened? It was talked about everywhere. It’s still talked about.”

“I guess she doesn’t read the paper, listening to the news or surf the ‘net because she’d had no idea,” I reason with a shrug. “Well, she knew about the whole ‘ex-girlfriend marrying Max Talbot thing’. But she didn’t know a damn thing about the baby. It was all new to her. I would have thought for sure that Sid would have told her about all of that. Especially if they’re as…tight…as everyone is saying they are.”

“So she just decided to call here?” Max asks. “Just because she didn’t like something she heard and Sid didn’t have the balls to tell her about you and the baby she decided to talk to you about it? And how the hell did she get our phone number anyway? It’s unlisted. How’d she…?”

“Apparently someone at the Lemieux house gave it to her. She didn’t tell me who, though. She was actually pretty decent about the entire thing once she managed to unclench her ass cheeks over the fact that Sid had a life before she ever came along. I told her that she needed to be talking to him about everything. That I was married now and that he was no longer part of my life.”

“What did she say?”

“Before or after she told me I was full of shit?” I smirk. “She seems to think that I’m still in love with him and that I’m going to stand in his way of going on with his life. I told her that she was barking up the fucking tree and that she didn’t have a right calling here and accusing me of bullshit and that she needed to stop while she was ahead and I wasn’t going to tolerate her harassing me. I mean, it’s not my fault Sid didn’t tell her about everything that went down between us. Maybe he didn’t want to tell her. Maybe he didn’t feel like it was any of her business because he doesn’t think there’s anything legit between them.”

“Or maybe he’s just a pussy assed mama’s boy,” Max mutters.

“She thinks I’m some kind of threat,” I continue. “Can you believe that? She actually told me that she thought the two of us should get together and ‘smooth things out’. That we don’t have to be friends or shopping buddies or even sit next together at games and charity events but that we should ‘be civil and put on a united front’ for the better of the team and your and Sid’s sakes. That she feels as if it’s ‘best to neutralize the threat sooner rather than later’. Like is she for fucking real?” I give a derisive snort. “She’s so fucking high and mighty, Maxime. Calling here, bitching me out for something Sid failed to do and accusing me of having a thing for him still? Who the fuck does she think she is? Maybe if she wasn’t so self conscious about herself and about whatever’s going on between them…”

“Maybe she’s legitimately threatened,” he says. “Maybe she thinks he’s still in love you and she thought maybe she’d see if you felt the same way.”

“Well I don’t,” I confidently state. “And I told her that. I told her that I was married and that I didn’t really give a shit what or who Sid is doing. I don’t think she believed me, but…”

The cordless phone resting on the coffee table springs to life and brings an abrupt end to our conversation. It’s nearly one thirty and late night or early morning calls can only mean one thing: extremely bad news. And my stomach clenches agonizingly and my heart hammers in my chest and a million and one horrific thoughts involving my brother, parents and Max’s family surge through me. And the frown that appears on his face when he snags the phone and checks the call display just tortures me even more.

“Who is it?” I inquire, panic threatening to overwhelm me. “Is it someone from your family? Someone from mine? Tyler? Peyton? Oh my God…something didn’t happen to the baby, did it? Answer it, Max! Answer it before they hang up! Answer before…”

“It’s for you,” he practically growls, and then furiously tosses the cordless into my lap, turns on his heel and stomps towards the basement stairs.

Glancing down at the phone, the dread only increases as I spot the familiar numbers scrawled across the small LCD display.

Sid’s cell phone number.

What in the fucking hell?