The Man Who Can't Be Moved

In the midst of all the anxiety, excitement and the unbelievable pressure surrounding game seven of the Cup final, I’ve managed to find the perfect escape; a warm, safe place to retreat to and where I can momentarily forget about the daunting task that lies ahead and the enormous expectations riding on the shoulders of every guy on our team. Nothing else exists outside of this hotel room; it’s just me and my girl with the curtains closed and our naked bodies pressed tightly together and our rhythmic breathing and the beating of our hearts the only sounds within these four walls. The old Max never would have been able to get naked with a woman and not expect anything illicit to go down; he would have jumped on his little flavour of the month before she even managed to peel off all of her apparel.

The new Max has learned the true meaning of intimacy; it extends far beyond the actual sex and transforms it into something pure and incredible that involves both physical and emotional closeness. Whatever selfishness I’d once possessed when it came to sex had all been stripped away the second the doctor had both announced that it was no longer considered a safe activity as far as the babies were concerned and Em had complained that it was just too damn uncomfortable for her. No guy wants their wife to be crying during the entire act; no one wants to be riddled with guilt because you’d hurt her instead of making her feel good. I hadn’t needed to be told by the OB that we needed to quit sex cold turkey; I’d willingly surrendered to the fact that I wouldn’t be getting laid for what seemed like a painfully long time and I’d accepted the realization that I was either going to be recipient of a lot of hand jobs or I was going to have to get used to a lot of self gratification.

I suppose that this is just another example of how I’m growing up; I’ve come along way in the past nine months since Em and I had gotten together; I’d ditched my previous lifestyle and effortlessly made the transition from a ‘many woman man’ to being perfectly content and comfortable in a monogamous relationship. I haven’t had any second thoughts about getting married so quickly; I’d jumped into the marriage and the ‘happily ever after, always and forever’ pool without hesitation and I’ve never once regretted it or questioned my sanity. It’s the happiest I’ve ever been in a long time. I’d never been with a woman that I hadn’t tired of after a couple of dates -using the word ‘dates’ extremely loosely- and I certainly never have been with anyone that I could imagine spending the rest of my life with. I had legitimately thought that I’d be a bachelor forever; I had decided to relegate myself to living that life because I simply didn’t trust any woman enough to just hand my heart over to them. I’d been hurt in the past and it had fucking sucked; I’d been crushed and stomped by my first love -although now I can honestly say that love when I was fifteen comes nowhere close to the love and adoration I feel at twenty-five- and I’d sworn that I’d never, ever again put myself through that torment.

And then along came Emma-Leigh Kennedy.

I won’t lie. Despite the fact I’d spent nearly the entire course of the Christmas party letting on that her incessant flirting, blatant sexual innuendos and the fact she rarely left my side got on my nerves, the fact of the matter was that I’d been more than ready, willing and able to fulfill every one of her sexual desires. And regardless of what I’d told her months ago when she’d admitted to her plan as a teenager to have me -at just shy of twenty three- to be the one to take her virginity, I would have gladly given her a night to remember. However, I’d kept my hands to myself -for the most part- and my dirty thoughts and wants well contained thanks to TK not only shooting me evils the entire afternoon, but warning me to keep my dick in my pants unless I wanted to find myself immersed in a world of hurt. He’d also told me that he’d all but promised her to Tanger; he was -in Tyler’s opinion- a decent, trustworthy, respectful guy that was legitimately interested in her as more than just a booty call.

But while her brother had had his hopes sets on a love match between her and ‘prince charming’, Em had had ideas all her own.

“My brother and I are on two totally different pages,” she’d informed me, our bodies pressed tightly against each other -her ass tucked snugly into the front of my jeans- as I leaned over her, my hands firmly gripping her wrists as I tutored her in the finer art of putting as we played mini golf. “He wants me to be with a good boy. Me? I want a bad boy. A very, very, very bad boy.” And she’d punctuated the last six words by rubbing her ass against my crotch.

I’d briefly considered in saying ‘fuck it’ to the remaining hours in the Christmas party; it had crossed my mind to just toss that putter aside and drag her out of the place and back to my apartment. I’d been more than willing to show her just how bad I could actually be and I probably would have acted on it if TK hadn’t been ten feet away giving me a look that clearly meant he was about to tear me a new asshole. So instead of taking little Emma-Leigh back to my place and showing her how a real man got business done, I’d jumped away from her as if I’d both been scalded and seriously offended and disinterested. And then had retreated to the nearest public washroom to splash cold water on my neck and face and to get my hard on under control.

And now, three years later, here we are. Married for nearly seven months and a mere four weeks away from the arrival of our first and second child. God certainly does work in mysterious ways.

The last four hours have been nothing short of pure heaven. TK and I had picked Em -accompanied by not only Helga but Audrey and Kelsey as well- up at the airport and then my wife and I had retreated behind the closed door of her hotel room; kicking out the nurse for a few hours so we could indulge in a little private time. The sex -if you can call it that- had been exactly what the doctor had ordered; it had worked wonders to unravel my tightly wound nerves and had stripped away not only the anxiety and pressure that the entire team has been under since the moment we’d won game six, but had successfully made me forget about the tremendous pain radiating from the nape of my neck all the way to the tips of my fingers. I’d even managed to fall into a deep, comfortable sleep; proper rest has been hounding me for the past few weeks as playoffs progress and the twins’ due date grow closer. I’d found an escape in the midst of all the madness; my entire body and mind lulled into a sense of comfort by the sensation of my wife’s bare skin pressed against mine and the intoxicating scent of her hair as my face lies buried in her silky tresses.

******

“Max…” my name escapes her lips in the midst of a tiny giggle as she rests on her right side in front of me. Initially I wonder if she’s talking in her sleep; it’s a near constant occurrence and I’ve gotten used to not only the typical nearly incoherent mutterings, but the often animated spiels she launches into. “Max…” she giggles even louder and I raise my head and glance over her shoulder just as a broad smile tugs at her lips. “You have to feel this,” she says, then curls all of her fingers around my middle one and then moves my hand from its resting spot just above her belly button to the side of her stomach. “Can you feel that?” she asks, as I lay my hand on her belly; a smile spreading across my face at the feel of the tiny foot pressed against my palm and the perfect outline of the heel and each toe.

“I don’t know who that is,” Em says. “But he’s got big feet.”

“Well you know what they say about a guy with big feet,” I grin, as I graze a heel along her shin. “And big hands,” I add, as I hold mine out for emphasis.

“It means their feet and their hands are making up for other parts that aren’t as fortunate?” she teases, and then laughs when I sigh in exasperation and nip at her shoulder. “I’m just kidding,” she assures me, and lightly drags her nails over each of my fingers and then smoothes the pad of her index digit over the smooth surface of my wedding band. “Your parts are more than impressive,” she praises.

“Off the hook,” I toss out a few appropriate words. “Extraordinary…colossal…”

“Okay now you’re just coming dangerously close to me laughing at you,” she retorts, and then heaves a long, drawn out and exhausted sigh as she rolls over onto her back. The last couple of months have been extremely difficult on her; she’s constantly fatigued and afflicted by an aching back and swollen ankles and she finds it hard to feel the slightest bit comfortable for even just a few minutes. And while she bitches incessantly about the weight she’s put on and the discomfort she’s in, I find her insanely beautiful. And witnessing her struggles with her illness and then being there for her during those dark, worrisome days where we’d been in danger of losing the babies has helped me discover a whole new level of respect for her. She’s stronger -both physically and emotionally- than she gives herself credit for.

“I am so tired of not being able to see my feet,” she laments, as she tucks her chin into her chest and looks down -or at least attempts to- at her toes as she wriggles them. “Do you know how dehumanizing it is to have to rely on someone to tie your shoes?” she inquires. “Or to have them have to help you into the tub?”

“I know that despite the fact you do a lot of bitching and moaning, when it comes to being pregnant you actually enjoy every minute of it,” I reply. There’s no way she can deny it; I see the way her eyes sparkle and her entire face lights up when people -even complete strangers- ask questions about the babies and seek permission to touch her belly. As uncomfortable as she is, she loves being an expectant mommy. Most likely because she -both of us, actually- realize just how much of a blessing our boys really are.

“Busted,” she says with a dramatic pout and then gingerly rolls over onto her side to face me. “You know me way too well.”

“Better than you know yourself sometimes,” I confirm, as I lean in to press a kiss to her forehead and then lay a hand on the side of her tummy. “Pretty soon,” I assure her. “Four more weeks and it’ll all be over.”

“Is it wrong that in this strange and twisted way I don’t want it to be over? That I just want to keep in them in there? Just have them stop growing and me stop gaining weight and just let them live happily ever after in there?”

“If you like being pregnant so much, I am more than ready, willing and able to knock you up as much as humanely possible,” I chide.

“It’s not about actually being pregnant,” she explains. “It’s more about keeping them in there where they’re safe and sound. Sheltered from the big, bad outside world. If you really think about how corrupted and warped the world is these days, it’s almost a form of child abuse to bring babies into it.”

“The world may be corrupted and warped, but it doesn’t mean our kids will end up that way,” I point out.

“And then there’s the fact that once they’re out of me, the situation becomes insanely real. You realize that we have to bring them home, right? A few days after their born! You realize that from that moment on everything changes? Feedings every three hours, endless amounts of dirty diapers, lots of barfing, lots of crying.”

“So in other words, minus the diaper part, it’ll be like putting up with you for the last few months,” I tease.

“Maxime…” she narrows her eyes and glares at me. “…don’t make me hurt you. I’m being serious here.”

“Em, you’re starting to go through that whole self doubt shit the psychiatrist said would happen. Remember how he warned us about that? How once you got closer to your due date you’d start second guessing everything? I know what it’s going to be like when the babies finally get here. I’m ready for it. It’s all I’ve been thinking about and wanting from day one. To get to see them and hold them. It’s going to be a lot of work…” I shrug. “…I’ve never been afraid to bust my ass. And besides, aren’t you excited about finally getting to see them? To see what they look like?”

“Yeah…but…” she chews nervously on her bottom lip and fidgets with the religious medallions that dangle from the platinum chain around my neck. “…I’m worried,” she admits. “That I’m going to be exactly like her.”

“Your mother?”

She nods. “I’m scared that I’m going to turn out to be exactly like her. How can I not become that way? It’s not like I had any other motherly type role models to learn from. I don’t know anything else other than how she’d treated me. How she still treats me.”

“You are nothing like her, Emma-Leigh. Not even close. The only thing that’s going to happen to you because of the way she was as a mom is that you’re going to be the complete opposite. You’re always trying hard to prove that you’re not like her. Why would you suddenly become like that just because you have the babies? Trust me…” I place a kiss on the tip of her nose. “…you’ll never be anything like her.”

“And then I worry about being an epic fail as a mom,” she frets. “I keep thinking about how I might leave them somewhere or forget to feed them or…”

“Emmy-Lou…come on…” I chuckle. “…you’re just being irrational. None of that is going to happen.”

“Aren’t you the least bit worried?” she asks. “Isn’t there anything that freaks you out?”

I take a few minutes to consider the questions. Unlike her and TK, I’d been raised in an incredibly stable, healthy environment; my family had never had a lot of money and my parents had always busted their asses and worked their fingers to the bone to provide for me and my brothers. And I’d always had great male role models to pattern myself after -my dad, grandfathers and numerous uncles- once I was ready to get married and have a family of my own. But there’s still a small part of me that doubts my abilities as a decent husband and father.

“The only thing I really worry about is not being able to be the kind of father I want to be,” I confess. “I worry that ‘cause I’m gone so much I won’t be able to be the way I want to be in their lives. That I won’t have the time to be with them the way I want to be. And that they’ll grow up and hate me ‘cause I was away so much. You can only spend so much time with your family during the season and summer doesn’t come close to making up for it.”

“They’ll understand that hockey is a huge part of your life,” Em assures me. “That outside of them it is your life. It’s what pays the bills and puts a roof over our heads and food on the table. They’ll understand that, Max. Being a good dad isn’t about how much time you spend with them. It’s about what you do during the time you do have with them.”

“Yeah?” I run the tip of my finger down the bridge of her nose before tapping it against the tip. “That’s pretty profound even for you. Where’d you hear that? Oprah?”

“Doctor Phil actually,” she grins. “And it’s entirely true. As long as you make the time you do have with the kids memorable, they won’t have this hate for you that you’re so worried about. But I have to admit…” she press a chaste kiss to my lips. “…it’s nice to see this side of you. It’s a relief to know that despite how cocky you come across…”

“Confident,” I correct her. “Not cocky. There’s a huge difference.”

“…that there’s this small part of you that doubts and questions yourself. Which means if worse comes to worse, we can both be epic fails as parents.”

“Never going to happen,” I declare. “I think between the two of us we can manage to raise a family without screwing them up completely.”

“Hmmm…it kind of scares me when you use the word ‘family’. How many kids to you actually think I’m going to have?”

“I don’t know…four?…half a dozen? What…?” I laugh when both her eyebrows shoot up. “I’m French Canadian, Emmy-Lou. French Canadians have big families. My mom had to stop for medical reasons but had she not had to? She gladly would have popped out more kids. I have to have a big family. It’s just the way it is. I’ll be an epic fail for sure if I don’t.”

“Do puppies and cats count as dependants?” she inquires, as I lean in to kiss her softly before flopping over onto my back and reaching for my watch as it lies on the bedside table. “Do you think your family would consider them Talbots? ‘Cause if you want to get technical, that is the last name on Copper and Todd’s charts at the vets. So…”

“Offspring as legitimate spawn,” I reply, as check the time and then toss my watch back onto the table. “As in humans. Not puppies or cats or goldfish or hamsters.”

“Well then maybe you’ll have to have your offspring with me and someone else,” Em grumbles. “Because I seriously don’t think I can go through this again. I love you to the ends of the earth, Max. But I’m not willing to do this half a dozen times for you. For any man. So maybe you need to go and find yourself a nice baby momma that’s willing to pop a few kids out for you.”

“No other baby momma,” I insist, as I run my hands over my weary face and then toss the sheet off my naked body. “Just you. Only you. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news…”

“Can’t we just call your family and tell them that we’re not coming for dinner?” she sighs in exasperation, and then holds out a hand for me to help her up. “Do they not realize that I don’t like to share? That once I get you alone they’re shit out of luck? That I just want to tie you to the bed and use you and abuse you to my hearts content? Oh God!” she cries in protest and attempts to push me away when I lean over the bed and smother her face with kisses. “That beard! Please don’t! You’re going to make my skin go all funky! Have you seen the mess you’ve made of the insides of my thighs?”

“You weren’t bitching at the time,” I remind her. “And I promise that I’ll shave first thing tomorrow night. Win or lose. Seeing as you already let the Unabomber rub his beard all over your naked body…”

“And you say I never do anything nice for you,” she grumbles, as I take a hold of her hand and wrap my free arm around her waist and then assist her to her feet. “You know, you can be a real sweetie when you want to be.”

“And what am I all the other times?”

“Insufferable at best,” she teases. “I merely tolerate you.”

“You love me, Em. Lumberjack beard and all.”

“I do,” she agrees, and then perches on her tip toes, curls her arms around my neck and kisses me softly. “I love you regardless of whatever happens tomorrow. You know that, right? You know that it doesn’t matter to me if you win, right? I mean, it sure as hell would be nice to have a Stanley Cup champion go down on me, but…”

“And you say my mind s always in the gutter,” I grin.

“My mind is always there it seems. It’s even there right now. And you know what it’s doing there? What it’s thinking about?”

I shake my head.

“How about you follow me into the bathroom and find out?” she suggests, and then pecks my cheek and waddles towards the room in question. “Just give me about a half hour head start to get there,” she mutters.

“You’re beautiful, Emmy-Lou,” I praise as she disappears into the ensuite bath. “Insanely beautiful.”

“I’m a whale,” she retorts, and then pokes her head into the room and flashes a brilliant smile. “But thank you. Now are you coming to get your treat? Your little extra incentive to bust your ass tomorrow night? Come on Superstar; come show me what separates the men from the boys."

I certainly don't need to be asked twice.