The Man Who Can't Be Moved

MAX’S POV

********

“God…” Em moans from where she lies on her back in the middle of our rumbled bed; tips of her toes poking out from underneath the heavy black and silver jacquard duvet and her splayed across her pillow as she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes in a vain attempt to fully wake herself. “I’m tired! Sleep! I need more sleep!”

Aside from Tanger’s wedding earlier in the day and a short pre-ceremony lunch with the disgustingly happy newlyweds, a number of factors have prevented her from getting the rest she both desperately craves and needs; incessant all day sickness, the early onset of her ‘nesting instincts’ that propel her to want to complete as many chores -as well as renovations such as painting, laying carpet, and refinishing the hardwood in the living room and dining area- as possible and her apparently insatiable sexual appetite. Not that I’m complaining about getting laid as much as I am or that I’m slowly yet efficiently breaking down every single wall -both physical and emotional intimacy wise- that she’d built up around herself. What man wouldn’t want to be able to mould someone into everything they could ever possibly want in bed? And who doesn’t want to form powerful and impenetrable bonds that exist beyond sex? It’s far more about the act itself than it is about the trust that exists between us; I’ve taught her that it is possible to trust someone with every inch of both her heart and her body. Every day I’m discovering things that bother her or scare her when it comes to sex and it’s an ongoing process for us to not only get past them, but for her to conquer those fears and to be as comfortable as humanly possible.

Physically speaking, I want nothing more than to be able to pleasure her as often as possible; to spend morning, noon and night catering to her every sexual whim and fantasy. But I do have to work for a living; hockey and the practices and games and the frequent road trips is what puts a roof over our heads and food on the table and what will secure not only our futures, but our babies’ as well.

“And food…” she adds as an afterthought, as she gives a loud yawn that ends in a high pitched, adorable squeak and a languorous stretch. “…what time is it anyway?” she inquires, as she pushes herself up onto one elbow and reaches across her body with her other arm in order to scoop my watch off the nightstand. “You’re late…” she observes. “…or at least late according to your own schedule.”

It’s a roughly forty five minute drive from Fox Chapel to Mellon Arena; I’ve been known to risk enormously high fines for speeding by making it there in half an hour with the roads slick and messy from slush. I normally like to get to the arena two and a half hours prior to game time; I hang out in the dressing room and chatter with the guys and play video games or soccer in either the rink’s shipping and receiving area or the parking lot depending on the weather and then kill some time by tending to business in the stick room or getting my shoulder poked and prodded at by the medical staff.

Today I’m running late; it’s a quarter to five and I’d slept through -or either turned it off and don’t remember doing it - the alarm and I’m just now getting dressed after a quick shower. We’d gotten home from the brief nuptials and the lunch afterwards at quarter to one and we’d immediately retreated to the bedroom with perfectly innocent plans in mind. I needed to have my pre-game nap and I’d forced Em to lie down as well to make up for her lack of adequate rest and in the blink of an eye things had turned hot and raunchy. I find it impossible to resist her; the word ‘no’ simply doesn’t exist in my vocabulary when she’s kissing and suckling the side of my neck and repeatedly running the side of her foot along my calf as her hand lazily explores my shoulders, chest and abdominal muscles. No mortal man could ever resist that. And I’ve already proven several times that not only can I play on virtually no sleep, but I’m actually more effective on the ice if I’d gotten my rocks off just hours before.

I wonder if the more sex I have equals me one day being a regular Wayne Gretzky? If that’s the case, I need to take a year young sabbatical and do nothing BUT knock boots.

“Maybe you should stay home tonight,” I suggest, as I finish buttoning my pale yellow dress shirt and then tuck it into the waist of my charcoal grey dress pants. “If you’re that tired, you should just stay in and get some rest.”

“I wanted to come and see you play,” she pouts, and rolling onto her stomach, gets up on all fours and crawls towards the edge of the bed. “I’ve never seen you play,” she reminds me, as she pushes herself up onto her knees and buttons and zips my pants and buckles my belt. “Well I have…just never as your wife.”

“There’ll be lots of hockey games,” I point out, and then bite down on my bottom lip as she smoothes her hands over my stomach, up my chest and across my shoulders.

She’s my greatest weakness; clad only in the dress shirt I’d worn to the wedding, doe like eyes surrounded by impossibly long, dark lashes sparkling playfully, glistening lips still slightly swollen from all the bruising, greedy kisses we’d shared and her pale, smooth skin rubbed raw from my five o’clock shadow. My shoulders and back still sting like a bitch because of the road map of fingernail gouges she’d left behind, and just thinking about her being naked under that shirt ad reliving those moments of uninhibited, mind numbing ecstasy is enough for a familiar ache to build in the small of my back and the pit of my stomach.

“Wow…” she arches eyebrows and glances down between our bodies as the beginning of my erection presses against her stomach. “…you certainly are…sensitive…lately.”

“Lately? You’ve always been able to do this to me just by looking at me a certain way,” I jerk my hips away from her as her hand drifts down my chest, over my stomach and down only my belt buckle.

“And what way would that be?” she inquires innocently, as she lowers her chin to her chest and peers up at me with those sultry eyes and drags her top front teeth along her bottom lip.

“That look,” I reply, and curling my fingers around her waist, remove her hand from its resting place on the top of her left thigh. “Arrêtez maintenant. Vous êtes une mauvaise fille,” I scold. “There’s no time for any of that.”

“I thought you said there’s always time,” she tosses the words I’ve used on several occasions square in my face.

“I’m already late,” I remind her. “I’m already late and I’m still on Mario’s shit list and if I don’t get to the arena on time…”

“Fine…fine…” she sighs exasperatedly and then slips her hands up my chest once again and takes hold of my tie as it lays draped around my neck. “…be that way.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing more I’d rather do than stay in bed with you twenty-four seven,” I assure my wife, as her nimble fingers quickly and effortlessly tie the baby blue, yellow and navy patterned silk in her possession. “But duty calls.”

“I suppose I can share you,” she huffs, as she tightens my tie and smoothes it down against my shirt and then flips down my collar. “I don’t really want to, but…”

“You should really go back to sleep,” I press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “You know what the doctor said about getting a lot of rest. I know that you’re stubborn and it burns your ass to listen to anyone, but…”

“I really wanted to go and watch you play tonight,” she says. “It’ll be my first game as an official WAG and I told Peyton that I wouldn’t make her suffer alone sitting with Erin. You know what it’s like when those two find themselves in the same room together; P will tear the bitch’s hair out and throw her down and kick the shit out of her. With Vero on bed rest, it’s my duty to play referee.”

“It’s your duty according to your wedding vows to both honour and obey me,” I tease. “And I am telling you to stay home and get some sleep.”

“The word ‘obey’ hasn’t been part of wedding vows for at least three decades,” she argues. “And if you really think you married a woman that is just going to sit back and let you boss her around…”

“Em, I wear the pants in this family. How many times do we have to go through this? I am in charge. Le roi du château. And as my queen, it is your duty to make sure that my successors are well taken care of. They’re going to carry on my name, non? They’re going to pass along the Talbot genes for decades. Don’t screw things up. The more Talbots the better. Soon we’ll be able to take over the world.”

“That’s a scary fucking thought,” she grumbles. “A whole bunch of sarcastic, egoistical, hairy little beasts running around. And what makes you think they’re boys? I could very well be having two girls. Or just one boy to carry on your legacy as you put it. Don’t get so ahead of yourself. You keep talking like that and you’re going to end up living in a house powered by estrogen for the rest of your life.”

“Christ…don’t even joke about something like that…what the hell am I going to do with girls? I know nothing about girls. I know squat about training bras and periods. I’m meant to have boys. You don’t have to worry about them coming home pregnant.”

“No you just have to worry about them coming home and telling you that they’ve gotten someone pregnant,” she retorts. “And if any son of yours happens to be just like you…”

“Hey, I may have sowed my wild oats, but I wasn’t careless. This is the first time I’ve ever knocked someone up. And considering how extensive the list is of ladies I’ve left extremely satisfied…”

“Stop while you’re ahead,” she frowns, and presses a chaste kiss to my lips in order to silence me. “I really did want to go tonight,” she laments, and trails the tips of her index fingers along my jaw line and around the outer edge of my ears before curling her arms around my neck. “I’ve been back for almost a whole month now and I haven’t been to one game yet.”

“We’ve been on the road more than we’ve been home,” I remind her. “And I was out for nearly a week and a half…”

“Still…” she grazes her nails against the back of my neck where the top of my collar meets my hairline. “…I’m not Halle Berry; she didn’t understand a goddamn thing when it came to baseball when she was married to David Justice and she showed no interest whatsoever in supporting him. I want to go. I want to be the only WAG that wears a jersey and jeans as opposed to a cocktail dress and sky high heels.”

“You’ve got lots of time to go to hockey games,” I assure her. “Right now, what you need to worry about is taking care of yourself and my babies. That’s all that matters. Everything else comes second, alright? And as far as the jersey goes…well as long as you still wear it at home, with nothing else on underneath it…”

“You are so very easy to please,” she declares, and kisses me once again; a soft, lingering kiss that makes my pulse race and my toes tingles. “I promise I’ll be wearing it as soon as you walk through the front door…”

“Yeah?” A broad grin tugs at the corners of my mouth and quickly spreads from ear to ear. “Now that’s definitely something to look forward to. And you know, as soon as they’re born…” I lay a hand on the side of her stomach. “…you’re all going to be up there in the stands, wearing jerseys. My boys gotta watch their old man play.”

“Your boys?” she rolls her eyes. “You’re pushing it, Maxime. You might be jinxing yourself, you know. All this talk about boys might lead things in the opposite direction. Give your princesses instead of princes.”

“Boys,” I confidently insist. “I can feel it. Deux garçons.”

“We’ll just see about that,” she sing-songs, and I brush her hair away off her shoulders, loop it behind her ears and press my lips to her forehead. “Mmmm…” she buries her face in my chest and inhales deeply. “…you smell absolutely fuck-able.”

“I gotta go,” I reluctantly force myself away from her when she punctuates the last word by digging on of her hands in my hair and scraping her nails roughly against my scalp. “I don’t really want to, but…”

“I really do wish I was feeling up to being there,” she says, as I cover her lips with mine in a long, deep kiss before taking my face in her hands and pecking the tip of her nose. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been that supportive.”

“Are you crazy? You’re my biggest fan, Emmy-Lou. My most loyal supporter. I don’t need you to be in the stands to know all of that. Besides, you’re always with me in some way. All those months that you spent in Montreal? You were right here…” I place a hand over my heart. “…you always are. No matter how far apart we are.”

“Don’t do this, okay?” she tugs on my tie. “Don’t be going all sentimental on me. While I appreciate you have this softer side to you and there’s nothing sexier than a man who isn’t afraid to show emotion, just…well just don’t. My hormones can’t take it. I’ll either burst into tears or throw you down on this bed and attack you.”

“I prefer the latter,” I tease, and then move to the end of the bed and snag my suit jacket from where I’d earlier laid it over the footboard. “Make sure you get some rest,” I order, as I do up the cuffs on my shirt and shrug into my sport coat. “I don’t want to come home and find you in one of the spare rooms painting it or downstairs in the basement doing laundry. Eat and sleep. Two things you need the most.”

“Oh don’t you worry about me eating,” Em says, as she crawls across the bed, grabs my watch off the nightstand and tosses it to me. “I’m on a seafood diet.”

I arch a quizzical eyebrow. “A seafood diet? I haven’t seen you even touch it.”

“No…no…seafood as in ‘I see food and I eat it’. Get it?” she giggles at her own joke and then flops down onto her back in the middle of the bed. “Tonight I’m going to have a feast of leftovers from last night. BBQ steak and chicken, hot dogs with chilli, cheese and peanut butter on them.”

“Jesus…” I grimace at the mere though of the last item and journeying to the side of the bed, place my palms on the mattress and lean down to kiss her farewell. “No torturing the princes, okay? Be nice to my boys.”

“Girls,” she argues, and then sticks her tongue out at me before raising her head from the bed and rubbing the tips of our noses together. “Face it, Talbot. You’re screwed. You have broken too many hearts and have had way too much ass to not be punished for it. It’s karma, baby.”

“We’ll see. You get some rest. Prenez soin de mes bébés.”

“I will,” she promises. “Play safe, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, and pecking her lips one last time, turn to snag the remote control to the plasma television off the dresser and drop it alongside of her.

“I’d say score a goal, but that’s highly unlikely,” she teases.

“You’re a real comedienne,” I tousle her hair affectionately. “One day soon, I’m going to be a hero, baby. A true fucking superstar. Just you wait. One day, I’ll make you proud.”

“You already do make me proud,” she says. “And it has nothing to do with hockey.”

“Now you’re going to get me all choked up and emotional,” I wink playfully at her as I head for the door. “Rendez-vous plus tard, le bouton.”

We never say goodbye to one another. It’s always ‘see you soon’ or ‘talk to you later’. Goodbye just seems so permanent. As if we’re planning on never seeing each other one again.

And that’s a thought that’s just too painful to bear.

******

EMMA-LEIGH’S POV

The sound of the doorbell and the dogs’ excited, hysterical barking shatters the peaceful realm of sleep that had sucked me under almost immediately after hearing Max’s car pull out of the driveway. I’d formed a protective, cozy cocoon around me with the duvet, buried my face in my husband’s pillow and quickly found myself lulled into slumber by the scent of cologne and sweat lingering on the sheets. It’s my ritual when he’s on the road; use his clothes as pyjamas, sleep on his side of the bed with his pillow cuddled tightly into my chest. He’d even sent me several of his well worn and tattered t-shirts, a jersey and a pair of his sweats when I’d been in Montreal so that I’d have ‘comfy’ clothes that made me feel close to him. He’d even shipped me a bottle of the cologne he uses so I could spray both the tees and my pillow with it after things had been laundered and the smell stripped away. Pathetic to some I’m sure, yet a total necessity for me. It had helped me keep my sanity during those long, lonely months; I’d healed better than anyone had expected me to because I’d had something incredible to go home to when all was said and done.

My immediate thought regarding my unexpected visitor is that Max had called Peyton and told her about my inability to make it to the game and she in turn had decided not to attend in favour or checking up on me. It certainly is a Peyton thing to do; she’s the type of friend that worries incessantly and willingly skips out on her own fun to make sure that you’re okay and well taken care of. And as I toss off the comforter and reluctantly slip out of bed and head from the room, I’m fully prepared to find my best friend on the front porch -she refuses to use the extra key we’d given her- with take out and junk food that will see us through at least the first and second period of the game. And as much as I’d rather be at the arena in person, television is better than nothing.

“Copper! Todd!” I bellow, as I hurry down the stairs. “Enough, boys! Tous les deux vous la fermer! You’re giving me a headache!”

The puppies scurry away from the door as I make my way into the foyer; pausing to tidy my ponytail and both straighten out Max’s dress shirt and make sure it’s covering my bare ass before answering the incessant ringing of the bell.

“You’ve got a fucking key, Peyton!” I holler, as I snap open the deadbolt, slide across the chain and then yank open the door. “I don’t know what the hell you have against using it! We wouldn’t have given it to you if…”

“Emma-Leigh,” my mother’s voice brings my tirade to an abrupt end. It’s a voice I’d grown up to despite; a constant condescending, disgusted tone that I’d lived with since I was a little girl and makes me cringe. She’s never been able to hide her outright hatred for me; I’d been an ‘oopsie’ baby and she’d spent the last nineteen years both neglecting me and reminding me of the fact I was nothing more than a burden. And now she’s having a change of life baby? If she didn’t want me while she was a young woman, why would she want another child now?

“Mom…dad…” I blink at the sight of my parents on my porch; my mother’s nose wrinkled in disdain at the sight of the chipped and faded paint on the front door and the wrought iron railing that is rusted and needs to be refinished or replaced entirely. Things that are already on Max’s ‘to do list’ yet he has little time for during the hockey season. “…what are you guys doing here? Why are you in Pittsburgh? What…?”

She lays a hand on my stomach in way of answering and then gives a derisive snort. “How nice of you to tell us,” she snarls.

“You came all the way here to see if I was actually pregnant? You could have just called and…”

“We didn’t just come here for that,” she breezes past me and wanders into the foyer. “Are you alone? Where’s that…man?”

“You mean my husband?” I avoid my father’s attempt to hug and kiss me and then close the door behind us as he steps into the house as well. “He does have a name, mom. Max. His name is Max. It’s not him or he and certainly isn’t ‘that man’. And he’s at work. There’s a game tonight. I was actually going to go and watch him play.” Total lie, but they don’t need to know that. “So I don’t have time to stand around and chat. I have to get showered and dressed and drive to the arena. How about you two just go to the hotel and get settled and tomorrow we can chat?”

“How about you cancel your plans and stay home,” my mom suggests. “And we’re not staying at a hotel. We’re staying here.”

“Not at Tyler’s?” Panic immediately sets in. “Why can’t you stay at Tyler’s? Why…?”

“We’re staying here,” she insists. “There’s no room for discussion, Emma-Leigh. We’re staying for a few days and that’s final. And then you’re coming home. To Sault Ste Marie.”

“Excuse me? Why would I go back there? My life is here. And in Montreal. I have a husband, mother. We live in Pittsburgh during the hockey season and in Saint-Bruno de Montarville in the summer. Sault Ste Marie is not home. It’ll never be home again.”

“We’re here to take you home where you belong,” she explains. “To un-brainwash you and make you realize what a horrific mistake you’re making with your life. That man is no good for you. Don’t you see what he’s doing; he’s gotten you pregnant already, he has full control of you and doesn’t even let you associate with your family. He…”

“Me getting pregnant was a total accident!” I fight back. “We didn’t plan it! And it may be unexpected but we love our babies. And I’m staying right fucking here. With Max. We’re raising our babies together. So if this is what you came to do, turn around and leave. Get the fuck out of my house and…”

The vicious slap she lays across the right side of my face echoes throughout the foyer and immediately causes tears to well in my eyes.

“Listen to me you disrespectful little bitch,” my mother roughly ceases my shoulders. “We’re here to take back what’s ours. We’re here to talk you out of this horrible life you’ve chosen for yourself. And you’re going to listen to us and do exactly what we say. Do you understand me?”

My worst nightmare has officially touched down in Pittsburgh.