The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“Tanger!” Duper bellows as the young defenceman breezes into the dressing room; guys are already wandering around in their underarmour, backwards ball caps and hideous yellow Crocs as the profanity laced chatter flows freely and competes in volume with the music blasting from the iPod docking station on a shelf over Flower’s stall.

By the time I’d arrived, someone had already taken the liberty of ‘decorating’ Tanger’s locker with inflated surgical gloves -and a few condoms of various sizes and colours-, medical gauze in replace of streamers and a sign of congratulations that assistant coach Mike Yeo had whipped up on his office computer. Disco Dan had even made a hasty run to the nearest CVS to grab Mister and Mrs Letang a card that we’ve since passed around the room, signed and slipped fifty bucks a piece into.

“What happened?” Duper inquires, as he playfully tousles our friend’s shaggy dark hair. “New wife tie you to the bed? Inflict some serious damage? You finally managed to escape?”

“I had my pre-game nap,” Tanger replies, and rakes a hand through his hair and both blushes and offers up a sheepish smile when Staalsy tosses a roll of stick tape at him and accuses him of being a ‘shit liar’. “I honestly did have my nap,” he insists. “I just slept in and…”

“He had his pre-game nap after getting his brains fucked out!” Cookie calls out from across the room, eliciting chuckles from everyone in the room and causing Tanger’s cheeks to turn an even more vibrant shade of red.

He’s not the type that brings his personal life -especially the sexual side of it- into the dressing room. Even before Peyton he’d never shared his experiences and never bragged about the women he occasionally took home with him after wild nights out with the boys. It hadn’t been routine practice with him; he’d had had his share of conquests but the amount of random hook-ups any of us had witnessed on his behalf could be counted on one hand. Tanger had always dated -even if some instances were fairly brief and rather casual- the women he’d banged; he’d always pulled out all the stops when it came to wining and dining them and had always showered their with flowers and expensive gifts. He simply doesn’t have it in him to be the fuck ‘em and leave ‘em type; he’s empathetic and compassionate to a fault and truly believes that every woman should be treated like a princess regardless of how big of slut they actually are.

“Come on over here…” Duper lays a hand on the scruff of Tanger’s neck and firmly directs him towards his locker, and then gives a small, sly nod -missed entirely by our teammate- in Flower’s direction as the lanky goalie gives Tanger a congratulatory clap on the shoulder before heading for the shower area. “…the boys got a little something for you and your beautiful bride. Although I don’t know what it is about some of you guys that you feel the need to run off and get married without anyone else knowing.”

“It was just a spur of the moment thing,” Tanger reasons. “Just something small and quiet. Quelque chose de vraiment privé. It’s not that we didn’t want everyone to be there. It’s just that Peyton wanted to get married before she was really huge and we didn’t want to deal with our families’ drama anymore. It was just the best thing for us to do. Il n'avait rien de personnel.”

“No offence taken,” Duper assures him, and then scoops up the envelope that sits on the bench in front of Tanger’s stall. “Just means you’ve got to throw us all one hell of a party this summer. Who’s all up for a house party at Tanger’s place once Peyton pops that mop topped spawn out?!” he hollers, and receives a hearty responses of ‘fucking A!’ and ‘hell yeah!’ in response. “Here…” he offers the card and the money enclosed inside to our friend. “…just a little something to say congrats. We’re all happy for you and goldilocks. Right, guys?”

We all offer up our congratulations or nods of agreement and than wait for the other shoe to drop; it’s exceptionally hard to keep a straight face and to pretend as if you’re not watching every move Tanger’s making with barely containable enthusiasm. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit him yet we’re all privy to the information and attempting to appear busy in our mundane, pre-game ‘rituals’ as he tears into the envelope enthusiastically all the while declaring, “You guys really shouldn’t have.”

“Now we now you two don’t exactly need the money,” Duper says, as Tanger’s eyes widen at the sight of the wad of cash tucked inside the card; guy makes over a million a year yet he’s acting as if he’s never seen that kind of green before. “But it’s not like we knew ahead of time that this was going down so we couldn’t exactly shower you with proper gifts.”

“This is too much,” Tanger shakes his head in disbelief. “Way too much, guys. You didn’t all have to do this. Just the card would have been fine. Peyton and I don’t expect anything. It’s enough that you’re all happy for us. C'est mieux que n'importe quel présents ou toute somme d'argent.”

“We just did it because we love you guys,” Duper tousles the younger man’s hair once again and presses a noisy, sloppy kiss to his cheek. “And we also have something else. Just for you.”

“Yeah?” Tanger’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning that’s just reached the bottom of the landing and spotted the mountain of presents under the tree. “Quelque chose pour moi? What is it? It’s not a stripper, right? You guys didn’t hire one did you? ‘Cause I don’t think…”

“Not a stripper,” Duper assures him. “It’s just a little something to show us how much you mean to us. Just to show that we’re happy for you.”

“Really?” the young defenceman excitedly bounces up and down on his heels. “What is it? What…?”

Before he can even finish his sentence, Flower sneaks up behind him and reaches out to smash an entire pie plate full of shaving cream -pilled inches high- directly into his face. Foam splatters a good foot in either direction and covers Tanger from the edge of his hairline to the tip of his chin and drips onto his obviously expensive linen suit and Italian silk tie.

“Motherfuckers!” he roars, as we all laugh hysterically. It’s a totally childish and unbelievably amateur prank but it never gets old in the same way placing Saran wrap over the mouth of a toilet bowl and waiting for an unsuspecting victim to wander into the stall and then listening to his tirade of profanities never gets tiring.

It’s often the camaraderie within the dressing room that’s more enjoyable than the game itself; the goofing around, tasteless jokes, playful yet horrifically disrespectful banter that we engage in and the simple act of sitting around and listening to music with your boys. We never take ourselves too seriously for the first couple of hours in the dressing room; we guzzle Gatorade and water and feed our faces with protein bars and talk about the women in our lives or our plans for after the game or what movies we watched on television the night before. Harmless, every day shit that people often take for granted. But as soon as seven rolls around the party like atmosphere comes to a grinding halt; the music is turned off and we put our game faces on and start the process of getting into our equipment.

“Come on, Tanger!” Staalsy yells from other side of the room. “You can’t tell this is the first time this has ever happened to you! I’m sure Peyton’s creamed on your face more than once!”

“That’s my wife, asshole!” our teammate snarls, as Flower places the pie plate on top of his head and proceeds to lay on top of it and flatten the remaining shower cream into Tanger’s beloved and immensely popular ‘sex hair’. “Wives are fucking sacred!”

“How sacred could they be? Both yours and Max’s wives are your buddies’ rejects,” Cookie gives a derisive snort.

“Well maybe if the original guys could get the fucking job done…” Flower retorts, and gives an apologetic shrug when both TK and Sid glare at him. “…I am just saying…obviously something wasn’t being done properly or you’d both be with the same women.”

“Ask me, Sid and TK ended up with the better end of the deal,” Cookie smirks. “Probably better off for it, right? I mean, it’s all fine and dandy that Tanger and Max got married and I wish them the best of luck. But let’s face it, you can’t turn a whore into a housewife.”

“Why not?” I challenge. “Worked out just fine for you, didn’t it?”

“Take it easy, Max…” Duper smacks me upside the head with a towel he snags from the top shelf of my locker. “Don’t stoop to his level, okay? He just wants to rile you up. Don’t fall for that shit. Just keep your mouth shut and don’t make things worst, d’accord?”

“D’accord,” I agree, and he pats me playfully on the cheek and tosses the towel in Tanger’s direction. Cookie’s looking at me as if he’s planning on gobbling me up for his next meal; a vicious, hateful stare that would make a pussy quiver in fear. “Keep looking at me like that your face is going to look that permanently,” I say. “Either that or you're going to end up with my fist buried in it.”

“You really think you’re just the fucking shit don’t you,” it’s a statement more than a question. “I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast, Max. And I’ve handed bigger and better their ass. So either you keep your big mouth shut or you’re not going to have any teeth left. I’m not above taking you out in the parking lot and showing you the business.”

“You know what’s funny about that? Showing people the Cooke business must run in the family. ‘Cause last week your wife offered to take me out into the parking lot to show me hers.”

The hatred in his eyes intensifies. Normally I’m worried about opposing players nailing me from behind into the boards if I make the monumental mistake of taking my eyes off the play. Right now I’m seriously considering the chances that my own guy is going to take a run at me and lay me out.

“Don’t encourage the piece of shit,” TK mutters from his stall alongside of me. “Just let him have the last fucking word. Gives us all a rest from having to listen to his bullshit. I’m telling you though, he keeps talking shit like that about my sister…”

“Why are you going to do?” Cookie inquires. “Beat me up? Or do you just save that for helpless females? Especially pregnant ones?”

I lay my left forearm against TK’s chest in order to keep him where he is. Despite his ongoing anger management therapy and the remarkable strides he’s made not only with his volatile, uncontrollable temper but his issues with alcohol, he’s still at a vulnerable, fragile stage. And I can tell by the look on his face that he’s ready to tear Cookie a new asshole.

“You need to just shut up,” Sid orders from across the room. Cookie’s comment has hit a little too close to home for our captain’s liking. And it’s the first time I’ve ever been thankful that he actually has history with my life.

“You’re actually defending them?” Cookie asks incredulously. “Guy that killed your kid and the douche that stole your girl? You’re actually sticking up for them?”

“TK didn’t do anything wrong,” Sid replies. “It wasn’t his fault that we lost the baby. And Max…” he sighs heavily and gives a shrug, “…it’s all water under the fucking bridge now. Let it go, alright? I’m sick and fucking tired of you always bringing it up. I’ve gotten over and I’ve accepted it; I don’t want to hear it over and over again from someone who shouldn’t be sticking their fucking nose in it in the first place.”

“I can’t believe that you’re actually…”

“I said shut the fuck up!” our captain bellows; his voice echoes throughout the room and his sudden outburst causes every pair of eyes zero on in him. “It’s none of your business, Cookie! Worry about your personal life, alright? Stay out of mine and stay out of Max’s. No more of these bullshit smart ass remarks and degrading comments about his wife! It’s over! Grow up and get on with your life! And if you so as much even ruffle a fucking hair on Max’s head…”

“Alright…alright…take it easy…” Cookie holds his hands up in surrender. “…had I known that you and Max rekindled your bromance and were back to fucking each other up the ass every night…”

“You’re hopeless,” Sid sighs in exasperation, stands up and shoves his feet into his Crocs. “And a total fucking waste of my time,” he adds, and retreats for the relative sanctity of the stick room where Orpik is currently belting Clearance Clearwater Rival tunes at the top of his lungs.

“I need to grab some air,” TK mumbles, as he jumps to his feet, snags a bottle of Gatorade and his cell phone from the top shelf of his locker and then heads for the door.

He’s nearly out into the hallway when he abruptly changes his mind, turns briskly on his heel and makes a direct beeline towards Tanger. I’m expecting the worse; a blind side punch to the side of the defenceman’s head as he stands in the middle of the room with his face buried in a towel as he mumbles profanities in both French and English and vainly attempts to wipe away all of the shaving cream. TK and Tanger have barely spoken two words to each other since Peyton had the hooked up with the latter; both Coach Therrien and now Disco Dan have been keeping them on separate shifts and their lockers are as far away from each other as possible. And I can tell by the startled, worried look that crosses Flower’s face that he’s thinking the same thing I am; TK’s about to commit a very grizzly murder right before our very eyes and leave Peyton a very young widow.

“Tanger…” TK begins in a shaky voice -I can’t tell whether it’s pure, unbridled anger or genuine hurt over the fact that his once extremely close friend had poached his girl- and nudges the man in question in the bicep with his elbow. “Look…” the kid from Sault Ste Marie begins, as Tanger glances up from his towel. “I just wanted to say that…I don’t know…I guess I just wanted to say congratulations…”

Tanger glances down at the hand offered to him and then gives a slow, appreciative smile before shaking it.

“You’ve got an amazing girl there,” TK continues. “Make sure you treat her right, okay? Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

And with that he tousles our teammate’s hair and abruptly leaves the room.

“Maintenant que c'était bizarre,” Flower declares. “What was that all about?”

Tanger shrugs and returns to towelling shaving cream from his hair.

“Maybe he’s drunk,” our goalie jokes. “Maybe he’s fallen off the wagon and…”

“He’s fucking trying,” I growl, feeling suddenly protective of my brother in law. He’d far surpassed being just a teammate and a friend and despite my lingering anger for what he’d done to Em and Peyton, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s family and family help each other and defend one another. “He’s dealing with his shit and trying to make up for what he’s done,” I continue, as get to my feet and snagging a pair of Pens sweatpants from the compartment under my bench, slip both them and a matching windbreaker over top of my underarmour and then shove my feet into a pair of flip flops. “Give the guy a fucking break for once,” I implore, and grabbing a bottle of water from the top shelf of my locker, head for the door. “Everyone deserves a second chance, non?”

Both Tanger and Flower shrug in response and shaking my head in dismay and giving a derisive snort, quickly follow after my brother in law.

**********

“You realize you just need to take it from the source, right?” I inquire, as I join TK at the end of the one Mellon Arena’s shipping and receiving docks; he sits with his legs dangling over the side and his eyes are riveted on his cell phone as he sips almost pensively at his Gatorade. “I mean, no one could possibly ever take Cookie seriously,” I add, as I take a seat beside my brother in law. “The guy’s like three quarters of a load short of all his marbles.”

“Lot of truth to what he was saying in a way,” TK reluctantly admits. “I mean, it was my fault that Em and Sid’s baby died.”

“That was no one’s fault,” I argue, even though I don’t necessarily believe it.

I find it hard to buy the doctor’s explanation that the miscarriage would have happened sooner or later; it happened at that particular point in time because TK had been fucking tanked and nowhere near in his right mind and had pushed his sister in a fit of rage. Had she not fallen, she wouldn’t have lost the baby. Not on that night, anyway. So in a way, it is all his goddamn fault.

“The doctor already said that you didn’t cause it,” I continue. “That no one caused it. It just happened, you know? It was just a coincidence. One had nothing to do with the other.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he grumbles.

Yeah…me and him both.

“You can’t go through the rest of your life hating yourself for it,” I say. “You can’t go through life beating yourself up over it, Tyler. It happened. There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s not like any of us can go back and time and change it all. Live and learn, right? No sense dwelling in the past.”

“I fucking pushed my sister and she had a miscarriage,” he hisses. “How the fuck can I not dwell on that for the rest of my life?”

“Because your sister loves you and doesn’t want you to. Because she’s willing to make things right between the two of you despite what happened. You think that’s easy for her? You think it’s easy for her to just forget about it? She’s busting her ass to make amends and you owe it to her to let shit go. She’s willing to move on, right? Give her that, would you? I think you owe her that much.”

He nods in agreement and then sighs heavily and begins absentmindedly picking at the label wrapped around the plastic bottle clutched tightly in his hands.

“But I’m warning you now…” I swallow a mouthful of water and lower my voice to a menacing tone. “…you ever hurt your sister again, I won’t twice about handing you your ass. I will fucking bury you, understand me?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, and we lapse into a long period of slightly awkward silence as my threat hangs heavily in the air and TK continues to beat himself up internally over what he’s done.

I doubt he’ll ever be able to forgive himself and I know he’ll spent the rest of his life losing sleep over what he feels had been his role to play in not only his sister’s miscarriage, but the pivotal breaking point in her bi-polar. In a way, that’s the only good thing that had come out of the loss of the baby; Em had finally snapped completely and it had made it easy to get her a diagnosis and secure the treatment that she so desperately needed.

“She’s been like this for a while now,” TK suddenly breaks the silence. “Em. She’s been sick for a really long time. It started her first year of high school and just got worse. She used to be really happy and hyper one minute and the next she’d throw these wicked, violent tantrums and threaten to do all kinds of crazy shit to herself. And then she’d burst into tears and either cry herself to sleep or be as good as new in a few minutes. Like nothing ever happened.”

“It’s all part of it,” I say. “All part of the illness.”

It’s been a huge learning process for me; I’ve had to become an expert on the signs and symptoms of manic episodes compared to depressive ones and I’ve had to teach myself to be more patient and tolerant. The old Max never would have dealt with this shit; he would have been out the door the second Em threw her first ‘fit’ and he never would have looked back. Women hadn’t been worth that kind of trouble and I’d had enough females ready, willing and eager to fill my bed without having to put up with the kind of shit that Em’s capable of handing out. The new Max is a gentler, more compassionate one; I love her to the ends of the earth and I’m able to look past the crazy mood swings and the vicious things that tumble from her mouth simply because I know that’s not her. That’s not my Em.

“Our parents used to keep telling her that it was just a stage. That she’d ‘grow out of it’. And it seemed like she did when she moved away to university. It was like getting away from them made things better, you know? Not that that’s hard to believe. My parents are enough to fuck anyone up. I mean, look at me. Look how bad I fucked my life up.”

“Things are never as bad as they seem, Tyler. Shit could always be worse. You’re doing fine. You’re going to therapy and you haven’t touched booze in a few months. That’s a pretty damn big feat if you ask me. Not to mention you met Kelsey. You seem pretty crazy about her.”

“Yeah…” a smile finally cuts through his doom and gloom. “…I am.”

“And that was a huge fucking thing you did back there in the dressing room,” I add. “That whole thing with Tanger? That was fucking epic. It took a big man to do something like to. To wander up to the guy that poached your girl and congratulate him like that. Not that you didn’t deserve to lose her in the first place…”

“I regret it every day,” he admits. “I think about it all the time. How I treated her and never appreciated what I had right in front of me. Peyton was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me and I shit all over her and took her for granted. And you’re right. I did deserve to lose her.”

“Quit dwelling on the past, Tyler. It doesn’t do you any fucking good. You can’t change what happened. All you can do is forgive yourself and get on with your life. ‘Cause you can spend your entire life looking for absolution from other people and never fucking get it. Why drive yourself nuts like that?”

“Absolution…” he smirks and takes a sip of his Gatorade. “…now there’s a fancy word for a hockey player.”

“Your sister’s rubbing off on me,” I reason with a shrug. “And trust me, I know all about regrets. I’ve got enough of them to last me a lifetime. I think the wisest thing I ever heard, was something that was printed on this No Fear t-shirt I used to own back in the day.”

“Which was?”

“Nothing is more painful than regret,” I quote.

I honestly believe that no truer words have ever been spoken.