Blah Blah Blah

Everything about that day was perfect. The smell of the air, the colors of the changing leaves, the sun shining bright above our heads. It was flawless. I had on the dress of my dreams, hugging every curve and falling exactly in the right places. My hair was in long cascading curls and my hands were trembling. I was nervous, but it was the best feeling I had ever experienced in my life. I was going to be his wife.

The thought alone had made me want to rush into the church in my pajamas and messy hair, ready to say our vows and kiss that man on his lips, but I refrained. I let them transform me from Leah, the boring NHL girlfriend, to almost Mrs. Patrick Kane, the weirdly beautiful woman who could not stop smiling like an absolute idiot.

To think that this day had arrived bewildered me. It seemed like yesterday that I was sneaking around my boyfriend’s (at the time) back, in order to be with Patrick. With that mistake alone, I could have potentially ruined my life forever. Hell, I don’t know why karma hasn’t kicked my ass yet. Brent Seabrook was a man of great things, a perfect man, and he would drop anything for me. He was my boyfriend, my other half, the love of my life- and he was also Patrick’s teammate. That affair was nearly lethal, and though I wished to take it back numerous times just so I could spare everyone the pain and humiliation, I would never do it. We all came out with a happy ending, the three of us, so my mistake was the beginning of a fairytale ending.

I walked down the aisle, passed our family and friends and straight towards the man of my dreams. I noticed the instant smirk that spread on his face when he saw me. I couldn’t help but shake beneath all the eyes, and let my vulnerability shine through and allow tears to escape down my cheeks. I never thought I’d be the crying bride- ever.

Our honeymoon was flawless and the next four years of our lives were perfect. Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Kane. The media still hated me, as did most of the fans, but it’s easy to stop caring about that when you have his hand in yours and they don’t. His opinion was the only one that mattered, regardless of the pain of the words, and the hatred, it all came down to him and I… and he loved me.

[xxxxx]

“Mommy!”

Sighing, I glanced into the living room of our spacious home to look at my three year old son. His big, sparkling blue eyes were already eagerly looking up at me. As irritated as I was that I couldn’t manage to finish this article for the magazine that I worked for, I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his baby blues, and that goofy grin he always wore.

“Yes, Levi?”

“Look what I drawed!”

Sighing, I got up from the table and walked towards my son. I sat down on the leather couch behind the small table he was busily working at. His crayons and paper were scattered everywhere, but as long as he was occupied and there was no whining- the mess meant nothing to me. I looked down at the white sheet and instantly recognized what I saw. There was our house and our driveway, and in front of it were tall trees (which we didn’t actually have), and our dog Mickey. A few feet away from Mickey stood Patrick, in his Blackhawks jersey, and me beside him. We were holding hands. Then there was Levi, who was holding a hockey stick. It was cute, his best work yet.

“Wow, Lev,” I smiled, brushing the top of his head with my hand, “That’s really good.”

He looked up at me and beamed, making my heart flutter, “Fridge mama?”

“Of course!” I said excitedly, watching his eyes light up as he ripped his drawing out of my hand and barreled into the kitchen, sticking it underneath a magnet.

I glanced up at the clock and realized it was nearing one, and Patrick should be home any minute. It didn’t matter to me that Levi hadn’t napped, and that he was going to turn into one unruly child (a temper, and personality, like his father), I knew Patrick would want to see him, and that was the only thing in the world Levi would want. Their relationship meant more to me than the stress of dealing with a rowdy three year old.

I heard the door click open and listened for the footsteps. I could hear him coming, but no matter how fast I tried to get to him, I knew somebody would get there first. Suddenly, I could hear the pitter patter of his bare feet running down the hardwood floor to meet his father.

“Hey, little man!”

“Dad!”

Smiling, I leaned into the cushions and listened as they came closer. I glanced down the hall as they turned the corner, Levi in Pat’s arms, Pat’s eyes looking for me. I smiled lightly at him and he grinned back, as Levi talked a mile a minute in his ear.

“I drawed a picture of me, you and mama!” Levi told him excitedly, gripping the collar of his coat, “It’s on the fridge!”

“Let’s check out this masterpiece, Donatello!” Patrick said, placing our son on the floor and following him into the kitchen.

Rolling my eyes, I leaned back, “Wrong ninja turtle!”

After a few minutes, and after the excitement of Levi’s drawing wore off, I let Patrick put him down for a nap. Ten more minutes after that, I was still in the same spot, too tired to even attempt to clean up the mess he made. Patrick came downstairs, in his t-shirt and jeans. Pouting, I stood up and walked towards him, letting him laugh quietly at my exhaustion as he took me into his arms. I buried my head in his neck and let him rub small circles on my back.

“You tired, baby?” He whispered.

I sighed, “I’m exhausted.”

“Was he good today?” He asked, knowing that Levi had developed an attitude that the both of us had pretty much doomed him with.

“Yeah, he was happy,” I smiled, looking up at my husband, “I love that kid.”

Patrick kissed my lips lightly and nodded, “We got lucky.”

“How was practice?”

Patrick kissed my lips again and shrugged, not letting me ask more. I smirked as his hands trailed up my shirt. Levi was upstairs, sleeping soundly and he’d be out cold for an hour or two. Twenty three years old, with a three year old son, didn’t mean I still wasn’t young.

I still loved every minute getting frisky with my 88.

I seperated from him for a second and whispered, "By the way, it's Micheal Angelo."