The Man Who Can't Be Moved

APRIL 26TH, 2009

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It’s damn good to be home.

Last night’s game in Philly had been both physically and emotionally exhausting; the series against our arch enemies had been nasty and brutal from the second the puck hit the ice on the opening face off six games ago. It had been an excruciatingly long battle from start to finish; we’d busted our asses and the majority of us had shed our fair share of blood, sweat and tears in the pursuit of victory. Personally speaking my knuckles are swollen, bruised and scraped courtesy of my first period tilt with Daniel Carcillo and a constant ache had buried itself deep within my shoulder the last regular game of the season; the throbbing is relentless and the bouts of numbness from the nape of my neck to the tips of my fingers are happening several times a day. Yet despite my aches and pains and an all consuming fatigue like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, I’m hyped up from my team’s victory and our subsequent entrance into the second round of the playoffs and instead of hanging around the City of Brotherly Love for the team plane to leave in the early afternoon, I’d instead convinced Disco Dan and Mario to let me take a six in the morning flight back to Pittsburgh -citing my wife’s twentieth birthday as the source of my desire to get home as soon as possible- with Flower and Tanger.

The entire house is shrouded in silence when I finally make my through the front door at quarter to eight; there’d been no delays with the flight and we’d managed to make it out of baggage claim in record time and had piled into a single cab that would take Flower to UPMC to visit Vero and his three day old triplets, Tanger to his place in Mount Lebanon and finally me to my former funeral home in Fox Chapel. And as I toe off my shoes and leave them in a sloppy mess in the middle of the foyer and I reset the alarm on the security box mounted next to the door, all I can think about is hauling ass upstairs to bed; I want nothing more than to just collapse and stay there for several hours with no disruptions. I just want to lock myself in the room with my girl and do nothing but sleep; I just want to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair and find myself lulled to sleep by the warmth of her body and her soft, rhythmic breathing. Being away on road trips as a newlywed has been a bitch; I’d never thought that I’d miss her as much as I do and that I’d be such a miserable bastard because of all the miles separating us. I’d never felt that way about a woman before; I’d never gotten myself ‘attached’ the point that I actually missed them when I was away and where I couldn’t wait to see them again. Em on the other hand is my entire world; she’s my best friend, confidant, lover and the mother of my unborn children. And when I’m away I anxiously count down every second and every passing day until I see her again.

Although I’d never admit all of that that to anyone but myself.

Shedding my suit jacket, I hang it on the end of the banister at the bottom of the stairs and then heave my luggage - nothing more than a carry on and a duffle bag marked with the Penguins’ logo; my equipment will arrive in the city along with the team in the afternoon- up onto my good shoulder before heading up to the second floor. The place is extremely old; the wooden floor boards creak under my feet and buckle slightly under my weight and the sounds seem deafening amidst the eerie silence that blankets the entire house.

The door to the main guest room -almost as large as the master suite and equipped with an ensuite bath- is propped open with one of my mother’s slippers; my parents have been staying with us since the operation six weeks ago while my brother Frank keeps an eye on their place. It’s comforting to know that they’re here in case Em needs someone; there’s always the lingering fear that a previous unseen complication from her surgery will cause problems with the babies and knowing that she isn’t alone makes it a little easier to be out of town. We have ten weeks to go before the scheduled c-section in the middle of June that will bring our boys into the world four weeks early. Despite Em’s disappointment that she wouldn’t be able to try her hand at either water birth or a ‘non medicated’ -I’d told her that she was insane on both counts- -we’ve decided that delivering them through ‘unnatural’ means is less of a risk for Em; the OB is worried about how weak her uterus may be from not only the cyst removal, but the presence of fibroids and the scar tissue that had been left behind from what she calls ‘the most horrific D and C I’ve seen’ after the miscarriage back in September.

It’s the first summer where I won’t be returning back home until at least the beginning of August; I’ve always gone back to Montreal as soon as the season ended and stayed until the day before training camp started. This year there’s a whole other list of priorities I need to tend to before I can even think about kicking back and relaxing back home; I have my own surgery in the middle of July and we can’t travel too soon after the boys are born in case they need to stay in the NICU and we certainly can’t be taking them on a trip until we have the paediatrician’s permission.

“The time has come when you finally realize that life isn’t just about you anymore,” my father had mused when I’d dared to bitch about the chance to my usual off season plans. “This is where you’re slapped in the face with the reality that the world does not revolve around you.”

I almost told him that I’d realized that the day that I’d picked her up at the airport on her return from her disastrous day in Nova Scotia. That my world had officially started revolving around her -despite my initial protests and my determination to not ‘piss in another man’s front yard’- the second she’d grabbed me alongside of my SUV and kissed me with all the strength she had in that tiny little body of hers. I’d known then and there that I wanted her as part of my life; she’d rendered me both speechless and breathless and had made my head spin and my insides flutter in a way that no woman had ever done. At that moment I’d known that I had to have her. And that regardless of how hard I fought it -more for Sid’s sake than my own- I’d eventually give in and not even feel the slightest pinch of regret.

Letting myself into the master bedroom, I close the door softly behind me; Emma-Leigh’s fast asleep on her left hand side, one of the throw cushions from the love seat in the sun porch off of our bedroom tucked between her legs to support her rapidly expanding belly -she’s already put on forty five pounds- and both of her arms wrapped securely around my pillow. She’s breathtakingly beautiful; her face is chubby and possess a constant unexplainable glow and her hair has darkened and thickened and is fanned across the crisp cotton sheets. She complains constantly -although there’s no denying that proud smile that spreads from ear to ear when she talks about the babies or even a total stranger asks (and receives permission) to touch her belly- that she’s fat; her ankles are swelling and her back is aching and she’s still hounded by near incessant heartburn and bouts of vertigo. Yet to me she’s nothing short of incredible; her hips are fuller and her boobs are bigger and she’s all woman from head to toe.

“Keeping a good eye on mommy, boys?” my voice is just above a whisper as I pose the question to Cooper and Todd as they raise their heads and bat their sleepy eyes at me from where they lay curled up alongside of Em; their warm bodies wrapped around each other and tucked into the small of her back. “You two making sure that things are okay?” I ask, as I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it and my dress shirt on top of the cedar chest that sits at the foot of the bed. “Being the men of the house?”

“It’s like you’re not even gone,” my wife mutters, causing me to give a small start. “They’ve got just as much hair as you do, their kisses are just as sloppy and their morning breath is nearly as bad.”

“Do they get as excited as I do when you rub their bellies?” I inquire, as I peel off my socks, make short work of my belt and the zipper and button on my dress pants and let them drop to my ankles; folding them neatly and then placing them on top of my other clothes.

“I thought your magic spot was right behind your left ear,” she replies, and gives me a soft, sleepy smile as I lean over the bed to drop a kiss on the top of her head before plopping down on the edge of the mattress and removing my watch. “What are you doing home so early?” she asks, and I can’t help but shiver from head to toe when her fingers drift up the rear of the wife beater I’d worn under my shirt and she skims her nails across the small of my back. “I thought you guys weren’t leaving Philly until after lunch?”

“I took a commercial flight home with Tanger and Flower,” I reply, dropping my watch on the nightstand and then tilting my head to the left and then to the right in a vain attempt to relieve some of the tension sitting square in the nape of my neck. “I wanted to get home early. Surprise the birthday girl. So…” leaving my wife beater and my boxers on, I stretch out alongside of her, roll over to face her and press a kiss to her lips. “…surprise.”

“Mmmm…” she lays a hand on the back of my head and draws me into her for another kiss; longer and deeper and just enough to get the ‘home fires burning’. “…what a lovely surprise,” she murmurs against my lips.

“How’s the boys?” I place the side of my head on her pillow and resting my forehead against hers, placing my hand on the side of her stomach. “They’re okay? Everything’s going good?”

“They had a very exciting night watching the hockey game with mommy and grandma and grandpa,” she says, and lays her hand over mine. “Your dad was giving them play by play in French and every time any of us would get all worked up over something they’d start kicking like crazy. And they went totally nuts when I started freaking out over you unleashing your inner Mike Tyson. Your mom thinks I’m insane…” she giggles. “…I was a woman possessed; yelling at the television and punching along with you.”

I can’t help but laugh at the image I’ve created in my mind of my heavily pregnant woman sparring with an invisible opponent and screaming profanities at the television. “I can only imagine what you were calling Carts,” I grin.

“All the more reason your mom thinks I’ve been taking over my some evil spirit. She said she’s never, ever heard language like that from a girl. That I swear like a dozen drunken sailors.”

“Wait until I tell her you can both swear as good as any man and drink me under the table,” I tease. “And just so you know, I didn’t actually expect to win that fight. I just figured since I fucked up and caused the turn over for the first goal and then they kept scoring and scoring and scoring…”

“You did it to rile up the team,” she finishes for me. “You did it to light a fire under their asses.”

“It worked didn’t it? Pretty good plan, huh? You notice how they came right back? I took one for the team. I took my beats and look what happened. On to the next round. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know. I’ve got some brains upstairs to come up with a plan like that. And Carts was crazy enough to go along with it. He wasn’t going to say no. You proud of me or what? That I actually thought of that?”

“You’re not just insanely sexy but also phenomenally brilliant,” she gushes, pressing a kiss to the space between my eyes before pulling back to examine my black eye -an old injury that I’d sustained before the fight with Carcillo- with gentle fingertips. “I’m just glad he didn’t mess up your face,” she teases. “I mean, one black eye is sexy. But two? Or a broken nose?” she shudders at the thought.

“Can’t mess up this nose more than it already is,” I smirk. “It’s not exactly a thing of beauty.”

“I think it adds character,” she says. “And I just have to say, between you dropping the gloves and going all alpha male and your whole ‘shhhh’ thing at the crowd? Well let’s just say it all did something really funny to my insides.”

“Something funny, huh?” I wriggle my eyebrows suggestively and then slip my hand between our bodies. “Something funny as in funny ha-ha or something funny as in something funny.”

“Definitely not something funny ha-ha,” she says, and then frowns when I manage to get my hands under the pillow and between her legs. “But it was something funny at the time,” she reluctantly admits. “Now had you gotten home right after the game, maybe…”

“You’re evil,” I sigh in exasperation and remove my hand from under her pyjama top.

“I’m sorry…” she sighs and kisses me softly. “…as much as I find you the sexiest man on the planet and just hearing you talk the slightest bit of French to me still never fails to makes me wet, I’m exhausted. Legitimately exhausted, baby. Not to mention I feel like a beached whale and probably look like one too.”

“You’re beautiful,” I assure her. “Insanely beautiful. And you know what? Despite my legendary status as always being ready, willing and able? I don’t even think I could get it up with a crane. I’m worn out, baby. Totally fucking worn out. I need sleep. I crave it. But…” I press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “…maybe once I get my second wind we can watch replays of last night on Sports Center and you’ll get that funny feeling again and we can act on it.”

“It’s my birthday,” she reminds me.

“And I’ll be very, very, very nice to and spend hours doing something you like a whole hell of a lot. Better than any cake or presents.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” she teases. “Your mom made me a triple layer chocolate sponge cake with vanilla icing. I don’t even know if your…goodies…can beat that.”

“Please, my goodies are better than any junk food. I don’t care what your hormones and your weird cravings say. And trust me; second I wake up this afternoon? I’m kicking my parents out of the house and me and you are celebrating going to the second round of the playoffs. The kind of celebrating that involves both of us naked.”

“Promises…promises…” she yawns, and resting her forehead against mine once again, places her hand on the back of my head and lightly massages my scalp with her fingertips. “Did I tell you that I’ve put on forty five pounds already?” she asks.

“You told me five times on the phone yesterday,” I reply.

“Yeah? And did I also tell you five times on the phone yesterday that I hate you for turning me into a double wide?”

“You hate me?” I pout dramatically.

“No…” she giggles, and kisses my puckered lips. “…not really…”

“You get silly when you’re tired,” I inform my wife, and then yawn noisily myself and close my eyes.

“I went to see the triplets yesterday,” she announces after several minutes of silence pass and sleep begins to claim me.

“You also get very chatty when you’re tired,” I complain.

“They’re so tiny, Max,” she gushes. “So tiny and so beautiful. They look exactly like Flower, too.”

“How can they be beautiful and look exactly like Flower? Isn’t that like using a…a…a….” I struggle to find the right word.

“Oxymoron?” Em suggests.

I open my eyes and scowl at her. “What are you calling me a moron for?”

“I didn’t call you a moron, you moron. The word you were looking for was oxymoron. It means when you take two words and you use something to describe that doesn’t make sense and…” she waves off the entire conversation. “…forget it. I’m too tired and too uncomfortable to get into a tutoring session right now.”

“The tutoring can come later,” I grin. “Maybe you’ll even be nice to me and get out that cute little plaid skirt that you own. You know, the red and black one that barely covers your ass and…”

“Are you kidding me?!” she laughs. “That’ll never fit! The only thing plaid that would fit me is if we sewed five table cloths together! Look at me! I’m huge! Massive! I’m…” she gives a sudden gasp as a series of strong kicks attacks the right side of her stomach. “…did you feel that?” she whispers, as if talking too loud will ruin the moment. “…you must have felt that…and that!” she winces when an even stronger kick nails the spot underneath my palm. “I don’t know who that was, but man…bending it like Beckham in there or what? That’s cause they hear your voice. They know daddy’s voice already.”

“They know who’s boss,” I declare, and then chuckle as Em rolls her eyes. “It’s amazing,” I breathe, as the babies squirm and move inside of her and we relish every second. “So amazing. It’s…I don’t know…better than anything I could have ever imagined.”

A gentle smile curves her lips and she leans in to kiss me softly. For several minutes we lie in complete silence; eyes closed and foreheads touching as we revel in the movement coming from inside of her.

Enjoying every possible second with our little miracles.