The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“So…” Mario gestures towards the row of stalls to his left in a silent request for me to take a seat and then uses the heel of one of his battered and weathered hiking boots to close the locker room door.

This is the first time I’ve seen him dressed down; jeans and a black and gold Steelers sweatshirt instead of rocking a five thousand dollar Armani suit, Bruno Magli shoes and an Italian silk tie. He also very rarely comes to the practice rink; he prefers to pay the team visits at the Mellon because of his on site office and he’s a regular fixture up in the owner’s box on game nights. This is personal; he’s taken time out of his schedule and is using up one of his rare days off to come and see me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous; if his out of character trip to Southpointe doesn’t make me a little bit anxious and a tad more worried. And as I take a seat on the bench in front of newcomer Chris Kunitz’ stall, I’m taken back to nearly thirteen years ago when my brother Francis -both of us alter boys at the time- and I had gotten caught breaking into the rectory office at our family’s parish because we’d been hoping to get our hands on some of the holy wine. We’d been busted by the church custodian; he’d caught us just as we managed to successfully pick the lock on the door with a bobby pin of our mother’s we’d brought from home and he’d immediately hauled us both into office and had promptly called both the priest and our father.

At this moment, as he slowly paces in front of me with his hands shoved the pockets of his jeans and sheer disgust written all over his face as his eyes burrow into the top of my head, Mario reminds me of my dad. I feel as if I’m twelve years old again; sitting on a tattered and weathered orange vinyl chair in the janitor’s office, dragging the toes of my runners along the scuffed hardwood floor below and trying my best to cover up my nervousness with a brave, manly front. The ‘Magnificent One’ is intimating even as he approaches his mid forties; a tall, bulky presence with piercing eyes and broad shoulders and monstrous hands. And I suppose I deserve to feel this way; I deserve to be slightly unnerved and worried about my future.

“So…” I echo, and immediately feel like an ass for doing it when my boss gives a derisive snort and shakes his head in disdain. There’s always a time and a place where it’s a good idea to keep your mouth shut; to shelf all of your sarcastic comments and witty one liners. And if I value my spot on the team and I hate the idea of toiling down on the farm, this is when I should definitely just button the fuck up.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Mario says, and I can by tell by the irritated tone to his voice that he’s not even going to bother trying to sound sincere. He isn’t in a celebratory mood in the slightest; he’s pissed off and he’s looking to defend Sid’s honour. He’s disgusted by my behaviour; he’s been looking down his nose at me since he’d found out from his ‘adoptive’ son that I’d been the mastermind behind the downfall of his already rocky and fragile relationship. I know it’s a shitty fucking thing that I did; I’m willing to accept my share of responsibility for breaking Sid’s precious, innocent heart.

But I’ll be fucking damned if Mario Lemieux -the same player who’d once found himself caught up in the whole ‘Rick Tocchet date rape scandal’ many years ago- is going to paint me as the devil incarnate. It’s hard to take criticism from someone who, along with some of his equally as intoxicated teammates, had taken some random girls back to their hotel room after a night of partying on the road, despite the fact he’d had a pregnant wife at home. So as far as piss poor judgement and lack of common sense are concerned, he’s got a lot of fucking nerve pulling his ‘holier than thou’ bullshit with me.

“Really?” I ask, glancing up at the Pens’ owner and chairman of the board as he stands before me, a smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I haven’t heard a damn thing. Who’s the happy couple?”

“I’m warning you, Max. Don’t…”

“You’re not warning me about anything, Mario. What goes on in my personal life is just that. Personal. It’s not causing any problems around here, is it? I’ve kept my mouth shut about Em for five solid months; I haven’t talked about her, I haven’t rubbed it in Sid’s face that we’re together, I haven’t mentioned the fact that she’s my wife or even worn a wedding ring around here. I don’t see why it has to cause a big old thing now that word is out.”

“It caused a ‘big old thing’ five months ago when you showed an incredible lapse of judgement,” Mario informs me. “It caused a rift in this dressing room that still isn’t fully repaired. Do you have any idea what this is going to do to certain people? The problems it’s going to cause?”

“By certain people I’m assuming you mean Sid. Considering he’s the only one that would be remotely affected by the fact that Em and I are married. Do you really think anyone else cares? Do you really think that any of the other guys are going to give a shit? A few of them might get on my ass about it and give me some grief, but at the end of the day it’s none of their goddamn business. Just like it’s none of Sid’s and it’s none of yours. Aren’t you always the one that’s going on and on about not bringing personal crap into the locker room?”

“You brought the crap in here five months ago,” he reminds me. “You caused all of the tension and the drama when you decided to…”

“I shouldn’t have let things go down the way they did,” I admit. “I did a shitty fucking thing to Sid and I wish I could take it back. I wish I could go back in time and change the way I dealt with things. I should have stopped myself before things got too out of hand and I shouldn’t have let things happen between Em and I before she had a chance to break it off with him. It was a pathetic, douche bag thing that I did. But I can’t take it back and I certainly don’t regret getting mixed up with her. I just regret handling things the way I did.”

“Well isn’t that big of you,” Mario retorts.

“I’ve apologized a million fucking times,” I say, and give an exasperated sigh. “I went to that therapy appointment and I sat face to face with him and I said I was sorry until I was practically blue in the face. Do you want me to tell you that it was all my fault? That I’m the only one to blame for the entire mess? That I’m the only guilty party in all of this? Fine…” I throw my hands up in surrender an stand up. “…I’m the sole one to blame for what happened between them. I held a gun to her head and made her sleep with me; I forced her to break up with Sid to be with me. I’m the only one that’s ever made a fucking mistake. Sid’s the second coming of Christ and can do no wrong and I’m the spawn of Satan and the proverbial fuck up. Are you happy? Can I go now? ‘Cause I have a practice to get to and…”

“We’re not done here,” he says, and jams both index fingers into my shoulders and pushes me backwards, my thighs making contact with the bench before I drop back down into the seat.

Suddenly it’s all very clear to me. This isn’t about a boss trying to keep the moral fibre of his business in tact; he isn’t concerned with improving employee moral or keeping the drama from entering the locker room. This is personal for him; he’d taken over the role as Sid’s protector, mentor and father figure the day the kid had moved into his home and the only way he can defend Sid’s honour is to personally attack me and stick his nose in my shit.

“Do you always get this involved with all of your players’ personal lives?” I inquire. ‘Cause this seems a little uncharacteristic for you, Mario. This seems a little…I don’t know…it seems a little personal. You didn’t get this pissed off when Geno and Staalsy were sharing a girl. So why are you getting all up in my face over what I do with my life?”

“What you did was destructive for the team,” he informs me. “What you did was…”

“What I did was completely fucked up. I’ve already admitted to that. But I love my wife, Mario. I don’t regret getting mixed up with her and I don’t regret marrying her. And this isn’t about the team. This is about the fact that you love Sid like he’s one of your own kids. And I totally get that, okay? I totally get that he means a lot to you and that he’s one of the family. But what parent gets this invested in their real kids’ personal lives? What father sticks his nose this far into their business? Especially when they’re twenty one years old. I get that you’re pissed off at me and I get that Sidney wishes I’d drop off the face of the earth. But I’ve already apologized and if you’re waiting for me to get down on my hands and knees and kiss his ass…”

“What I’m waiting for is for you to say something without having a massive fucking chip on your shoulder while you’re doing it,” he snarls. “What I’m waiting for is for one ounce of sincerity to come out of your lips. Because you’re saying all the right words Max, but I’m not buying a fucking cent of it. I kept you around here when all of this bullshit went down; I gave you the benefit of the doubt when everyone was telling me to cut you loose. And just when I was ready to give in and ship you off somewhere else, do you know what happened? Do you know who stuck his neck out for you? Do you know who saved your sorry ass?”

“No. But I bet you’re doing to tell me so that you can gloat and tell me to go and kiss their ass,” I respond.

“Sidney was the one that convinced me to keep you around. He was the one that went to bat for you! Who went on and on about what a team player you were and how hard you worked each and every night and how our team is better because you’re on it busting your ass each and every shift! He could have easily thrown you under the fucking bus! He could have easily told me to get rid of you! He had every right to toss you out of here like yesterdays trash! And he didn’t! Instead he sucked it up and pulled up his big boy pants and talked about how much he loved playing with you! So why don’t you show him the same respect, pull up your big boy pants and tell him to his face about you and Emma-Leigh. Why don’t you…?”

“I’m supposed to just bow down to him because he talked you into keeping me here?” I ask incredulously. “I’m supposed to go to him and sit at his feet and tell him how grateful I am? Are you kidding me? He’s not some fucking angel, Mario! I know I fucked up pretty bad and I know he’ll probably never forgive me for that. But that’s my bed and I’m sleeping in. And I sleep in it pretty goddamn comfortably.”

“He deserves to hear it straight from you,” Mario remains adamant. “He deserves even that small ounce of respect, don’t you? You really want to redeem yourself around here? Do you want people to respect you again? See you as a man instead of a chump? Because that’s what you are, Max. Walking around here all self righteous, never owning up to your mistakes, trying to pin the blame on the person you all but fucking blindsided.”

“I don’t blame him,” I argue. “I don’t blame him for what I did. But he pushed her away. He sent her back here. He was the one that saw her as a burden; as some nuisance that he could send away to have fixed and polished up and looking picture perfect for when he wanted to claim her. That was his mistake. Not mine.”

“You could have said no. You could have backed away when Emma-Leigh came to you. You could have taken the high road and let her end things with Sid before you got involved with her.”

“She wasn’t in her right frame of mind!” I exclaim. “She was depressed and she was hurting and she needed someone! She needed someone and I was there and…”

“And you took advantage of the situation,” Mario finishes for me. “You knew she was hurting and you knew she was vulnerable and you capitalized on that. You saw your opportunity and you took it and…”

“No,” I shake my head. “No. She came to me. She came to me willingly. I never took advantage of her and I never forced her to do anything she didn’t want to. She chose me. Plain and simple. She wanted me and not him. It would have happened, Mario. She would have broken up with him and came to me. I was the one she wanted. I was the one she…”

******************

A loud knock comes to one of the two heavy metal doors that lead into the dressing room and both Mario and I glance over as it swings open. My heart sinks straight into my stomach when Sid pokes his head inside; his helmet pushed up onto his forehead, his cheeks flushed and his chest heaving from exertion and sweat dripping from every possible pore. From the time he puts on the first piece of gear, that kid is operating at full throttle; always showing up at the rink ready to compete whether it is a game or just a practice, always putting everyone else to shame with his admirable work ethic. Being on the ice is the one thing that truly makes Sid happy; where he’s most comfortable. And it was hockey that he sought solace in when Emma-Leigh walked out of his life; the one thing that -after several weeks- brought a smile back to his face and a twinkle to his eye.

Both of which rapidly disintegrate the second he sees me sitting in the locker room. I know he hates me; that it makes him physically sick to be in such close proximity to me. Months ago we’d ceased being friends and became nothing more than co-workers, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him outside the rink.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Sid asks, addressing Mario who’s now making his way towards the door. I can’t believe the fucking bastard set me up. That he’d stoop that low in order to make life easier on his golden boy. Whatever happened to taking shit like a man? With accepting that life is full of disappointments and you can’t always get what you want?

“Actually, Max wants to talk to you,” Mario replies, and then shoots me a tight lipped smile over his shoulder. One that clearly lets me know that I better watch my fucking step and play by his rules. Or else. “Don’t you Max,” he adds. It’s more a statement than a question.

Mario doesn’t give me the chance to respond. He simply claps Sid on the shoulder, steps around the young captain and then disappears out into the hall. The click of the door as it closes is nearly deafening as a heavy, awkward silence immediately descends on the room, and we both avoid making eye contact with each other as Sid heads across the room, snagging a bottle of water from one of three coolers full of cold drinks before retreating to his stall, grabbing a fresh towel off one of the hooks and plopping heavily down onto the bench.

Neither of us utter a word as the sounds of teammates practicing a mere seventy five feet away -skate blades slicing into the surface of the ice, the smack of pucks against the boards, the rattle of the glass as someone takes a hard hit, boisterous laughing and good natured teasing and an endless string of profanities in English, French and Russian- filter down the corridor and trickle into the room. Sid busies himself with removing his helmet and using the towel to vigorously dry his face, forehead, neck and hair while I pick at the frayed edges of the surgical tape Petr Sykora had told me to wrap around my wedding ring -a trick he’s been using for years- to keep it from getting scratched.

“So Em’s back in town?” Sid breaks the silence first. His voice is low and even; he’s launching into ‘Sidney Crosby robot mode’, pretending that there’s cameras and microphones shoved in his face because the façade prevents his emotions from getting the better of him. I refuse to believe that he feels nothing; that it no longer bothers him that Em and I are together and that he still doesn’t have even the slightest amount of feelings towards her.

“She got home late yesterday afternoon,” I reply.

“Must have drove her nuts to fly by herself,” he muses, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You should have seen her on the flight to Halifax when we went to visit my folks. Every time there was even the littlest bump she’d freak right out. And man, if she didn’t like the look of someone and thought they were acting sketchy…”

“She’s got a bit of ‘underwear bomber’ paranoia,” I grin.

“Just a bit,” he manages a light chuckle, drapes the towel around his neck and then twists the cap off of his water and downs half of it in one swallow. “So she’s doing good?” he asks, careful not to allow even the slightest hint of interest or genuine concern mar his tone or glitter in his eyes. I’m sure he’s doing it more for his own benefit than mine; it’s easier to remain indifferent if you pretend to feel nothing.

“Hundred times better than when she left,” I confirm. “You probably wouldn’t even recognize her. She’s a totally different person; inside and out.”

“TK told me that she was in some kind of rehab place or something like that,” Sid casually fishes for information; he knows he’s not going to be easy to get it out of me.

“It’s like a hospice,” I say. “For people with mental illness. They only take a couple dozen patients at a time. They get one on one care from a therapist and they’re put on strict curfews and diets and their meds are monitored and played around with until doctors come up with what works best. She was there for a month and a half and then had to be released into someone’s care after she graduated. She was living with my brother Frank and his family.”

“Place like that must have cost you a fortune,” Sid remarks. “Especially if she stayed that long.”

“Cost doesn’t matter,” I shrug off the mere suggestion. “It was what was best for her; it was what she needed. I would have gone completely bankrupt and I would have lived on the fucking street if it meant getting whatever she needed to make her better.”

“Well that’s all that really matters, right? All that every really mattered was making sure she got the help she needed. I guess it just took a bigger man than me to make that happen.”

Oh here we go. Here comes the Sidney Crosby pity party.

“Look…” I issue a heavy sigh and removing my own helmet, sit it on the bench next to me and use my forearm to wipe sweat from my forehead. “I don’t really know what it is you want from me, Sid. I don’t know what you want to hear or what you want me to say or what…”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he interjects. “I think you’ve already said and done enough, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry, alright?” I finally glance up and across the room at him, our eyes making the first solid contact in months. “I’m sorry that things went down the way they did. What I did to you was shit; I was a fucking bastard and it was a disgusting, unforgivable thing that I did. I shouldn’t have let things happen between Emma-Leigh and I until after she broke things off with you. I’m sorry that I fucked you over like that. But it happened and I can’t take it back. No matter how much I want to.”

He nods slowly as he allows my apology to sink in.

“But I don’t regret getting mixed up with her,” I add. “I don’t regret that she chose me over you. Sometimes I wonder why she did. ‘Cause God knows that I don’t deserve someone like her.”

“You got that right,” he mumbles, and finishing off his water, tosses the empty bottle in the direction of the nearest recycling bin.

“But I love her,” I continue. “I love her and for some unknown reason she loves me. And I’m not going to say that I regret falling in love with her. Just like I’m not going to ever give her up just to make you happy. I’m not going to walk away from her just to make things better between us.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved with her in the first place,” Sid says. “Even if she did break up with me, you never should have just jumped in and taken my place. Of all the women in the world, Max. Of all the girls in that little black book of yours and of all the hook ups you’ve had, why did you have to add Em to that list? Couldn’t you just have said no and walked away from her? Couldn’t you have just found someone that wasn’t my ex? Why her? Why’d you have to pick her to fall in love with?”

“I didn’t choose her, Sid. This whole thing…” I rake a hand through my hair and attempt to explain. “…this whole thing was just bigger than me. Bigger than all of us. I didn’t choose to fall in love with Em. I just did. In the same way she just fell in love with me. And I could say I’m sorry a million more times but it wouldn’t mean I mean it more. I am sorry for what I did to you. But I’m not sorry for loving her.”

“Same way you’re not sorry for marrying her and hiding it from everyone?” he challenges.

“How’d you…”

“I’ve known for months now,” he informs me. “I’ve known since Christmas Day. Her dad called me at my parents’ place; wished us a Merry Christmas and then dropped the fucking bomb on me. Said that you guys had gotten married the night before and he didn’t think it was right that it was being kept from me.”

“Em’s dad despises me,” I readily admit. “But I find it hard to take criticism from a guy that all but whored out his six year old daughter to a friend of his and then told her to keep quiet about it. Don’t get me fucking started on him, Sid. Because I’d strangle that asshole with my bare hands if I could.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “What do you mean ‘all but whored out his six year old daughter’? What…?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know. Don’t sit there and act like she never told you. You guys were sleeping together for Christ sakes. Don’t try and tell me that she never mentioned it to you.”

“Mentioned what?” he inquires. “Emma-Leigh never mentioned anything about something like that happening to her. I know that her family is pretty fucked up, but…”

“You honestly didn’t know?” I ask, dread immediately filling me as I realize I’ve just violated my wife’s confidance.

“Does it sound like I knew? I had no idea that something like that happened to her and I…”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I interject, anxious to change the subject. “Why didn’t you come to me and tell me you knew? About me and Em being married?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I guess I just figured it wasn’t my place. You weren’t mentioning it to anyone else so I figured there must be a reason. I wasn’t going to tell everyone. I wouldn’t do that. Even if I do have all the reason in the world to fuck you over. I’m not going to pretend that I’m happy about it and I hope you don’t expect me to congratulate you. Because I don’t think I can…”

“I don’t expect anything from you, Sid. I just wanted you to hear me out. I wanted to tell you to your face. I just wanted you to hear that I was sorry. Legit sorry. I just wanted you to realize that I never meant for things to go down like they did. I should have handled it better. I wish I did. But I can’t go back and I can’t change it and I’m certainly not giving her up. I love her too much.”

“This doesn’t solve everything,” he says. “Between me and you. Just because I accept your apology doesn’t mean I’m ever going to forgive you. We’re just teammates now, Max. That’s it. And I don’t know if you thought telling me all this would change that or if you thought…”

“I just wanted you to hear it from me,” I tell him, and then slip my helmet back onto my head and stand up. “I figured after everything wrong I did, I might as well do something right.”

“I appreciate that,” he says sincerely, and stands up as well. “And maybe one day things will be better between us. Maybe. But right now…well honestly? Right now it still hurts too fucking much to ever think about being friends with you. To even think about ever trusting you again.”

“Maybe is better than nothing,” I conclude, and then head for the exit. “Now is this done?” I ask, as I yank open the door. “This whole ‘me, you and Em thing’? Is it over?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see about that,” he replies.

Something tells me that as far as Sid is concerned, whatever he still feels for my wife is far from over.

He still remains a threat.