The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“Okay…it’s official…” Em fumes, as she steps out onto the back deck, looking dwarfed in a sweatshirt pilfered from my side of the closet -it skims the tops of her knees and the sleeves are rolled up several times- as she pads across the frigid wooden planks in her bare feet. “You’re a fucking shit head!” she cries, proceeds to land a punch to my shoulder as I sit on the top railing, drinking a beer and minding my own business as I wait for the half a dozen steaks to cook on the grill.

I guess I could be considered a stereotypical Canadian; I grew up in a household that loved its beer -especially while lounging at the end of a dock on a hot summer day or hanging out on a bar’s outdoor patio- and its barbecue and I think nothing of standing out even in the dead of winter or pouring rain in my quest for the perfectly cooked serving of red meat.

“Jesus Christ, woman…” I nearly spit out a mouthful of Bud and wince as the punch hurts a lot harder than I’d expected it to; she’s a lot stronger and a lot tougher than she looks and with her feisty temper it’s not at all surprising that she’d had the most penalties in minutes of any female university player in all of Canada during her rookie year at Western. “Quelle a été ça? What did I do?”

“This…” she yanks up the sweater and the simple yellow t-shirt she wears underneath and nods down at the impressive start to her baby belly that’s straining against the front of her black yoga pants. “…is what you did! Are you proud of yourself? I know you told me when we got married that you’d ‘put a little meat on my bones’ but I’d always assumed you meant with your cooking. I never thought you meant this! I’m officially fat!” she laments, although the grin that tugs at the corners of her mouth and the playful twinkle in her eyes is solid proof she’s anything but pissed off. “I couldn’t get any of my jeans or cargo pants done up! What am I supposed to do? Live in sweatpants for the next five months?”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask, and stretching out my legs, wrap them around her waist and lock my ankles at the small of her back. “You want me to say ‘I’m sorry’? You want me to apologize for doing this to you? Fine…I’m sorry…I’m sorry for being so fucking incredible at baby making and having super sperm.”

“Egotistical shit…” she grumbles, and then giggles when I lightly press my heels into the small of her back and yank her into me. “What am I going to do?” she wails, as she curls her arms around my torso and buries her face in my chest. “I already can’t fit in any of my clothes! What’s going to happen when I’m eight months and the size of a double wide?!”

“There’s these things you can buy called maternity clothes,” I inform her, and finishing off my beer, sit the empty bottle alongside of me. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, I run both hands over her hair and down the length of her spine before settling them on her hips.

“I know that!” she cries. “I just don’t want to have to look all frumpy and boring all the time! I don’t want to have to wear tent dresses that make me look like a beached whale! I might as well just curl up and die now! Tent dresses, granny panties, support stockings, nursing bras. And what if I don’t lose all the weight! What if I stay fat forever? What if…?”

“I don’t have anything against being accused of being a chubby chaser,” I tease.

“You’re not making this any better on me!” Em tilts her face up towards me and pouts dramatically. “You’re supposed to convince me that things aren’t as bad as they seem! You’re supposed to tell me that you love me and that you think I’m the most beautiful, incredible woman in the world and that baby weight isn’t going to change that. You’re supposed to tell me that…”

“Emma-Leigh…” I heave an exasperated sigh and sliding my hands over her hips and along her sides, cradle her face tenderly in my palms. “Vous vous inquiétez pas trop, princesse. You are the most beautiful, incredible woman in the world. You’re my wife and the mother of my babies. And I don’t care if you’re a size two or a size twenty two…”

“Oh my God!” her eyes widen in sheer terror. “Don’t say that! Size twenty-two! Are you insane?”

“Je t'aime, peu importe quoi. Pour les extrémités de la terre,” I press a soft kiss to each corner of her mouth. Rien de tout cela compte pour moi. You’ll always be beautiful to me. No matter what.”

“Well…” she sighs. “…I guess that’ll have to do.”

“Je t’adore,” I kiss her chastely. “You know that. Je t'aime et nos bébés.”

“Nous vous aime aussi,” she says against my lips and then pulls back to grin up at me. “What’s gotten into you? How come you’re going all sappy? You turn twenty-five and you turn to a big pile of mush? If people really know what a softie you actually are…”

“Shhh…” I nip playfully at her bottom lip. “Don’t say that so loud. J'ai une réputation à défendre.”

“Please! I think your reputation took a serious hit when you decided to get married!” she laughs; a magical, beautiful sound that has been all but absent with all the worries surrounding her and the babies’ health.

It’s always in the back of our minds; no matter how much we joke around or how many passages out of ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ we read aloud and no matter how many long term plans and dreams regarding our children’s futures we allow ourselves to talk about, the fear is always one step away from totally taking control. I think about it a lot during my down time; I sit at my stall before games or during intermissions and while the other guys are joking around and attempting to stay lose or listening intently to Disco Dan’s preachings and pep talks, my mind is a thousand miles away. It’s during my downtime where I let the fatalistic thoughts eat at me; I lie awake at night while my wife is fast asleep and I run through every possible horrible scenario in my mind and I try to plan how I’ll handle things and take care of her if something bad happens during the operation and we’re left to wallow in grief.

Now that everyone on the team and the management and ownership group knows what’s going on -I’d called Mario himself and told him what was going on and he assured me that word wouldn’t get out to the public unless I specifically told him I wanted it to- some of the stress and the anxiety has lifted; I can keep my spirits high by looking at the ultrasound picture taped to the inside of my locker -I hide it before the press is even allowed through the doors- and being able to talk about it with the guys that already have kids and who have gone through pregnancies with their wives, has lifted a huge burden off of my shoulders. It’s a waiting game right now; two weeks to go before the operation and it feels as if it’s two decades.

“Do you realize what kind of damage you did to yourself when you decided to change your evil ways?” she inquires, as she stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to her lips before sidestepping over to the barbecue and lifting the lid. “I don’t think you understand how disappointed a huge chunk of Pittsburgh’s female population is that you’d decided it was time to be a one woman man. It’s a harsh blow, don’t you think? One minute you’re fulfilling all their dirtiest, kinkiest desires and the next they’re reading about you getting married in the newspaper? I’m surprised no one’s tried to break into our house or cut the brake lines on my car or boil our pets.”

“Those are Sidney Crosby fans, not Max Talbot fans,” I chide, and slip down from the railing. “And don’t touch my meat.”

“Don’t touch your meat?” she smirks. “Now there’s something I’d never thought I’d hear you say. Usually you’re always wanting me to do something to your meat.”

“And you have the nerve to call me the pervert? You’re the one with the mind always in the gutter. I meant this meat…” I nod down at the grill as I open the lid. “…ne pas toucher. You can’t cook for shit.”

“You didn’t marry me for my domestic skills,” she points out.

“Obviously not because you don’t have any,” I tease. “I’ll break you yet, Emma-Leigh. I turn you into a domestic goddess yet. Pretty soon you’ll be cooking me gourmet meals and separating laundry properly and remembering to pick up my suits at the dry cleaners.”

“Never! You’ll never win this battle, Max. I’ll never conform. I just want to be a pretty face. That’s it. I don’t want to be Martha Stewart. I don’t want to bake cookies and learn to knit.”

“You’ve never been just a pretty face. You are far from being just that.”

“Wow…” she curls an arm around my waist and gives an approving nod. “…I’m impressed. You certainly are getting into the habit of saying all the right things.”

“Dupers is a good teacher. He’s tutoring me on everything I need to know. Like how to just smile and nod all the time and toss in a couple ‘yes honeys’ so it looks like I’m actually paying attention to what you say.”

“Please…” she rolls her eyes at that. “…I wield all the power here. Don’t you ever forget that. Sex is the ultimate weapon. And I’m not afraid to use it. So unless you never want to get laid again…”

“I’ll just ask Staalsy for my little black book back,” I casually remark, and then chuckle and jump out of the way when she grabs the fork I’d been using to turn the steaks out of my hand and waves it in the direction of my groin.

“Don’t fucking make me hurt you,” she warns. “Don’t make me snap under the weight of my pregnancy hormones and do some serious damage to you. Because I will make you completely useless to both me and all the little skanks in that little black book.”

“Doubt you’ll do much damage with a salad fork,” I chide, and then hold up my hands in surrender when she advances on me. “Okay…okay…I’ll be good…I was just joking…you know I’d never do something stupid like that…”

“You’re a man,” she huffs, and tosses the fork aside. “Men do stupid shit. They can’t help it. They were born with a stupid gene. How else would you explain using a staple gun to put up Christmas lights in your mother’s bay window?”

“I blame too much beer. Alcohol is always the culprit. I can’t believe she told you about that.”

“Oh she’s told me tons of things about you, Maxime. Loads of delicious little goodies I’ve stored up here…” she taps the tip of her index finger against her temple. “…that I plan on using against you whenever I want something. Don’t tempt me; you wouldn’t want people finding out about the picture of you in red patent leather high heels, a black sequined dress, blond curly wig and full make up, would you?”

“I was eighteen! Eighteen and totally plastered! My brothers dared me to do it and…”

“You be a good boy,” she narrows her eyes and glares at me. “Or else.”

“Or else what?” I laugh, and chase after her as she attempts to head for the sliding door that leads into the kitchen. “What are you going to do, huh?” I wrap my arms around her from behind and press a kiss to her temple. “You think I’m scared of a little pipsqueak like you? You think I’m threatened by someone that’s small enough to fit in my pocket?”

“Stop…” she orders, and giggles and squirms in a vain attempt to escape as I nibble at the side of her throat. “You can’t be a shit and then expect me to go all weak in the knees over you. You can’t expect it…”

“Come on…you’re powerless when it comes to resisting me…resisting the Superstar.”

“Enough!” she pleads, and then shrieks when my fingers dig into flesh at the bottom of her ribcage and begin tickling her mercilessly. “Stop! I’m going to piss my pants! Stop it, Max! Stop it before…!”

“Lovely…” Peyton’s voice cuts into our moment of childish fun, as she and Tanger round the corner of the house and begin their ascent of the deck stairs. “If you’re going to molest each other, can’t you do it in private?”

“This is our house,” I remind her, and press a kiss to my wife’s cheek before releasing her. “If we want to molest each other in our backyard…”

“Not like anything bad can come of it!” Em exclaims, as she and her best friend exchange a hug and kisses to the cheek in greeting. “He’s already corrupted me a thousand times over. And infected me with his seed. What more could happen? And speaking of seed…” she opens Peyton’s coat and lays a hand on blondie’s baby bump. “Baby Lepretty! My how you’ve grown!”

“And moving around like crazy,” Peyton reports, a proud, graceful smile curving her lips as she runs a hand over her tummy. “Morning, noon and night. Certainly isn’t the calm, quiet type like daddy.”

“Lepretty has a wild side somewhere deep down,” Em declares, and gives Tanger a warm hug. “Don’t you, Kristopher? Look at you…” she pats his cheek softly. “….look at that cute little grin. Can he be any more of a proud papa? Could you be any more adorable?”

“You should see him when he’s talking to my tummy,” Peyton digs her elbow playfully in her fiancé’s side and smiles adoringly at him. “And sings to it. In French of course.”

“Take notes!” Em orders me, and then links her arm through her best friend’s and tugs her in the direction of the sliding door. “Now that my lover’s here, men are no longer a necessity,” she declares.

“At least let me watch,” I beg. “I’ve been a good boy.”

“Use your imagination!” she retorts, and then blows me a kiss and shoots me a wink before disappearing into the house.

“How do we do it?” I ask Tanger. “How do we put up with that? Sommes-nous vraiment ce fou?”

“It’s love,” he reasons with a shrug. “Love can make you crazy.”

Ain’t that the truth.

*******

“So where’s all the wedding stuff?” Em inquires an hour later, as we lounge around the kitchen table, surrounded by a disguting amount of dirty dishes as we pick at the remains of supper and dessert that litter our plates. “Usually you two are armed with mountains of crap. There’s no organizer, no lap top, no seating plan that you’re still stressing over…”

“There’s actually been a change of plans,” Peyton replies, as she drums her neatly manicured fingernails against the sides of her water glass and Tanger picks absentmindedly at the label on his bottle of beer. “A huge change of plans.”

“Uh-oh…” my wife’s eyes flicker nervously between our two guests. “What happened? Who fucked up?”

“No one fucked up,” her best friend assures her. “It’s nothing like that. No one’s done anything wrong. It’s just that we’ve changed our minds about things and…”

“What did you do?” Em hisses in Tanger’s direction. “Everything was fine a couple of days ago when she was worrying about having to cancel our trip to New York for her to find a new dress. Everything was just peachy fucking keen forty eight hours ago. You must have done something.”

“Lee-Lee, no one has done anything,” Peyton insists. “You’re just reading too much into what I’m saying. Kris didn’t do anything wrong. Far from it. Everything’s great between us and you’re…”

“Everything can’t be great between you if you’re cancelling your wedding!” Em huffs. “How can everything be great if there’s a change in plans? A huge change in plans. Sounds like bad news to me. Sounds an awful lot like someone screwed up and…”

“Why is she always like this?” Peyton address me. “Why does she always jump to conclusions? Can’t you get a better handle on her, Max? I would have thought by now that you would have gotten better control of these things and calmed her down a bit. She’s just as irrational as she was before and…”

“I am not irrational and I am not jumping to any conclusions,” my wife argues, and then gives a sheepish smile when her best friend stares pointedly at her. “Okay…so maybe I have a bit of a bad habit doing that, but…”

“A bit?” Peyton snorts derisively. “You’re possibly the most irrational, wound up person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Why would you immediately think something is bad? Just because I told you that there’s a change in plans doesn’t mean…”

“Because two days ago you were upset about the whole dress thing! Because you had your panties in a twist over the fact you’d have to go to New York without me because of my operation…”

“Do you really think I’d leave town while you’re in the hospital? Peyton inquires. “Do you really think I’d do something for myself while you’re going through that? I’d never do that. Ever. You mean more to me than some wedding dress. You, Max and those babies. And you all mean more than to Kris too.”

He nods in agreement.

“You’re more important than a trip to New York. I can find another dress anywhere. Or I could have. That doesn’t matter anymore. Things have changed and…”

“Things have changed because something is up…” Em glares at Tanger once again.

“I swear I did nothing wrong!” he holds his hands up both surrender and self defence. “I’d never do anything to screw things up! If you’d just let her explain instead of freaking out like this…”

“The reason why there’s a change in plans is because Kris and I decided that we’re not getting married this summer,” Peyton explains, and then lifts a hand to silence my wife when she opens her hand to speak. “We’re not getting married this summer because we decided to do it sooner. A lot sooner.”

“How sooner is a lot?” Em inquires.

“Tomorrow,” her best friend replies. “We’re getting married tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. At City Hall. We’re going to get married and Kris is still going to show up for the game tomorrow.”

“It’s what we want to do,” Tanger chimes in. “We just want to be together. We don’t want to wait, you know? We want it to be legal as soon as possible. No huge wedding, no stress, no drama from my family. That’s just not who I am. I’m not that kind of person. I like quiet. I crave quiet.”

“We’ve been thinking about doing it this way for a while,” Peyton admits. “Since you two got married. You guys didn’t need a big thing. All you needed was each other and a few friends. A massive wedding and reception doesn’t mean two people love each other more than a couple that gets married in something very small and very subdued. That’s what we want. And we want the two of you to be there. You’re the two most important people in our lives. Even if Kris won’t admit how much he actually does love Max.”

“I always knew he had a boy crush on me,” I tease, and reach across the table to tousle Tanger’s hair.

“Don’t be such an asshole,” he growls, and slaps my hand away. “You know how I feel about you. Tu sais Je t'aime comme un frère.”

“This is what we want,” Peyton assists. “And we want you to be with us when we do it. Will you come? You have no idea how much it would mean to me, Lee-Lee. You have no idea how much I love you and how much I…”

“I love you too,” my wife whispers, tears sparkling in her eyes as she slips out of her chair and journeys over to her friend. “You know I love you, P. After everything that we’ve been through and everything you’ve helped me through…”

“These pregnancy hormones are just too much,” Tanger sighs and shakes his head in dismay. “I can’t take this. I can’t take all the crying. She cries about everything! Last night it was because I forgot to get extra onions on her Big Mac.”

“Of course we’ll come,” Em promises, as she dries her tears on the sleeve of her sweater and then wanders over to me. “I mean, I’ll have to pick out Max’s clothes to make sure he looks decent…” she teases, and lays her hands on my shoulders and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I mean, do you really want him showing up in that hideous Ed Hardy hoodie? Or one of his many plaid shirts?” she shudders at the mere thought.

“You’re lucky I love you,” I declare. “Damn lucky.”

“Yes…” she agrees, and presses her lips against my cheek. “…I most certainly am.”