Pull Me Through

The sun is barely peeking through the slats of the California shutters that cover the bedroom windows when my sleep is disrupted. Torn from one of the most enjoyable and peaceful rests I've had in a long time by the distinct sound of purring and the sensation of tiny paws kneading my chest. I'm worn out both physically and emotionally. The stress of moving and the uncertainty involving my future has finally caught up to me. The travelling back and forth between Vancouver and Montreal in order to get the deals worked out and all the necessary papers signed, having to find a house and secure a mortgage and not only fill the place with brand new furniture and appliances, but have the renovations and repairs completed in time for the move in date. There had been the weeks spent packing all of our personal belongings, the difficult decisions surrounding my career and if I really wanted to stay in Vancouver.

I had loved it there; the fans were incredible, the ride to the Stanley Cup Final had been (despite the lapses of good judgement on my behalf and the injuries and fuckery courtesy of either side) exhilarating and Vigneault and the rest of the management and my teammates had done wonders for my confidence. But the game seven loss had been one hell of a blow. The worst I'd ever experienced in my entire life. It had sucked all the energy and the desire right out of me. Seeing Mason Raymond go down like he had...knowing all of the injuries our boys were battling...feeling the enormous amount of pressure that had been placed on us by not only the city, but practically the entire country...it had left me not only filled with the most painful, tremendous sense of disappointment, but the utmost disgust in myself. I couldn't help but think that I could have done more. Less yapping and trolling bullshit and more producing. There were times I'd let my temper and my old behaviour creep up in the heat of battle and I'd embarrassed myself, my team and the fans. I loathed that side of me. I hate the fact I can never seem to fully break free of that kind of nonsense. And for a couple of weeks following the loss I'd dwelt on that. I'd tortured myself not only with 'what if's', but I'd forced myself to relieve the pain I'd felt watching the Bruins reign victorious on our own ice.

“I don't see how you can honestly believe that any of this is your fault,” Sammie had said, when I'd found myself immersed in yet another long, drawn out period of self loathing. She'd finally gotten tired of being on the receiving end of my bad moods and she'd done what she's best at. Dishing out a heaping tough love laced with an ounce of compassion and a sprinkle of bitch. “So you made a couple of bad decisions. Who doesn't? You did what you could do, Max. You're not superhuman. You're just one person. It just wasn't meant to be this year. I know it hurts like a bitch right now. I know you feel like shit. But it's going to feel better. One day you'll wake up and you'll realize 'hey...I did my best' and it won't hurt so much.”

She'd been right of course. She has the uncanny ability of always being right. Although I'd never admit that to her. Telling a woman that she's constantly spot on about things is relationship suicide. The end of any and all masculinity. She firmly has your balls in her possession and you don't stand a chance at ever getting them back. You'll never win another argument for the rest of your days. And I'd rather hold onto even the smallest bit of my self respect. Even if it means arguing until I'm blue in the face about something even though I know I'm dead wrong.

At the time it had seemed as if the pain of the loss would never subside. Or the disgust I felt for myself. Yet within the span of a couple of weeks, things began to feel better. Other, more pressing things filled up my life and I no longer had the chance to second guess the decisions I'd made in the series or sit and dwell about some of the stupid behaviour I'd allowed myself to fall victim to. Hockey was over for the season; lockers were cleaned out and a final team dinner held and the last of media responsibilities attended to. Everyone quickly scattered after that; summer vacations to tropical destinations, camping excursions, flights home. Personally, my life had taken a drastic turn. Within a span of a month and half, I'd gotten married (a decision that may have been spur of the moment yet I knew I'd never, ever regret) and found out that I was going to be a dad. Not in that order. And while Vancouver had presented me a more than gracious offer to retain my services, there had been too many painful memories to keep me anchored on the west coast. The city was beautiful and the people amazing and it was a hockey town that rivalled only Montreal in terms of passion and heart, but in the end I'd opted to try my chances at the free agent market and the Habs had come calling. It was for considerably less money, but in the end the need to get out of Vancouver in order for Sammie and I to start anew had overridden the financial benefits. We knew we'd never fully be able to move on if we stayed. If Kesler was always in our face, reminding us of not only the pain he'd inflicted on Sammie five years ago, but of the sick and twisted game that they'd both played. We were having a hard enough time trying to get over things. Not enough for us to ever walk away from each other, but enough that it brought on nasty fights and found me struggling to regain my trust in her. Getting away had been a necessity. I honestly don't know if we would have survived if we had have stuck around in Vancouver.

Now, without the constant reminders and the black cloud hanging over our heads, we're able to concentrate on each other. On creating a new life together. Getting used to being husband and wife and enjoying not only our newlywed stage, but our journey into parenthood. The baby certainly hadn't been planned and I admit there's been many moments of panic...many moments of questioning whether or not I'd been even half a decent of a parent...but I haven't once wished it never happened. Maybe that I could slow things down a bit and catch my breath and that Sammie and I could actually enjoy it being the just the two of us for a little while. We've come so far and gone through so much in such a short period of time. Finding each other and then losing one another just as quickly, reconciling and battling through all of our issues. It's only been six months since we first met and yet here we are; married with a little one on the way. A year ago I was still partying and sowing my wild oats all over God's creation. Now I'm someone's husband and I'm going to someone's father. Living in West Island ( a suburb of Montreal) in a house that's worthy of being in Home and Garden magazine with a yard big enough for an entire starting line up of kids. A place that's close to schools and libraries as opposed to strip clubs and bars. Sharing a bed with the same woman night after night. For the rest of my life. Playing 'daddy' to a hyper black lab puppy and a mangy runt of a kitten my wife had begged me to let her take in when she'd found it hiding under our porch.

And speaking of that ungrateful little shit...

******

Cracking open my weary eyes, I find myself in a stare down with Alfalfa. A barely two pound grey tabby that had gotten his monicker because of the tufts of hair around the base of his ears and on the top of his head that stick straight up in the air. He fits in the palm of my hand and wears a tiny blue and white polka dot bow tie around his neck as opposed to a collar. “Very gentlemanly...very suave...very French,” my wife had declared, as she fastened the ridiculous accessory around the poor thing's neck. Four mornings ago, she'd caught him rummaging through our trash for scrap pieces of food and he'd taken off underneath the porch when she'd tried to capture him. Naturally, I'd been recruited to save the day; her tears and her blubbering about him 'starving to death' if we didn't help him had been enough to talk me into crawling under the front of the house (using a can of tuna) to lure him in. I hadn't come out of the ordeal unscathed. I'd been covered in claw marks and bites and had had to endure rabies shots and a heavy dose of antibiotics. But seeing that smile on her face as she cuddled and kissed that tiny kitten in the vet's office after he'd been given a clean bill of health and the way she'd looked at me is I was the most amazing man on the planet...some kind of hero...had made the agony worth it.

So had the never ending supply of gratitude sex she'd showered me with.

Now the little shit won't leave me alone. He follows me around the house, trips me up because he's always underfoot and has adopted my clothes and my pillow as his favourite sleeping spots.

“What?” I snarl, and he presses the end of his tiny, wet nose against mine and proceeds to rub his face against my lips. “What the fuck do you want, you little shit? You have any clue what time it is? You're worse than a goddamn baby. It's not like you need someone to feed or you to let you out to take a shit. You've got food and water downstairs and a litter box in the next room. Go and use it and leave me the hell alone.”

Alfalfa gives a high pitched mewing noise, a blink of his eyes and then settles himself down on my chest; curling himself into a tight, content ball and tucking his head underneath my chin.

“What in the fuck is this shit?” I mumble, heaving a sigh of exasperation and then turning my eyes towards the intricately carved cove ceiling.

It's not that I hate cats. I've got nothing personal against them. My mother is a cat person and I'd grown up constantly surrounded by the damn things. I just don't see the appeal. They spent ninety percent of the day sleeping, don't come when they're called and certainly don't provide you with the same kind of companionship and enjoyment as a dog does. I'm like the vast majority of men; a dog lover. And in some strange twist of fate, a mangy kitten that makes me sneeze and leaves hair all over my clothes wants to be my best friend while the puppy I'd specifically bought for that role, has taken a shine to Sammie. Who is terrified of dogs. Etoille de la nuit (also named by my wife) refuses to leave her side. And is currently snuggled up against the small of Sammie`s back as she sleeps soundly on her side next to me.

`What is wrong with you?” I ask the kitten, rubbing two knuckles against the top of his head. “Why won't you leave me alone? Why do you always come to me? Why do you even like me? Don't you realize I'm an asshole?”

“Especially in the morning,” Sammie mutters, and rolls over onto her back. Sensing impending doom, the dog immediately snaps awake and scurries to the end of the end of the bed. Sitting down on his haunches and watching us -more like just me, he has a strange sense of possession over his mistress and hates when anyone gets too close to her- warily with those huge dark eyes. “It's worse in the morning. Because then he's a grumpy asshole as opposed to just being a plain old asshole.”

“Hey!” I protest, and she scoops the kitten off my chest. “You love me.”

“Just on days that end in Y,” she says with a wink, and rubs the end of her nose against Alfalfa's face. For the next couple of minutes she showers the mangy runt with kisses and affection and talks to it in a tiny, squeaky little voice that never fails to make me grin. Oddly, the attention she shows that damn kitten makes me feel strangely inadequate. The only thing that saves my pride and doesn't let me become legitimately jealous and the fact he hates it. He squirms and mews the entire time and tries his best to escape. “Well fine...you ungrateful little fuck,” she grumbles, and leans over the side of the bed to place the cat on the floor. “...if that's the way you're going to be, no more sleeping on the bed for you.”

“Put him in the garage or the basement,” I grumble, and she reaches behind her to slap me on the shoulder and gives me a 'tsk-tsk'. “It's probably your morning breath,” I tease. “It's enough to choke a horse on the best of days.”

“Don't make me castrate you,” my wife retorts, and rolls back over onto her back. She grimaces immediately, one hand covering her mouth and the other falling on her stomach. When the extreme nausea and incessant vomiting began a couple of months ago, we'd immediately put the blame on all the stress inhabiting our lives. When the dizzy spells crept up and she finally admitted she'd missed two periods, we'd realized we may have a legitimate problem on our hands. The sickness is so bad...so intense...that she has to keep a bucket on the floor next to the bed and a package of crackers and a bottle of water within reaching distance. Twice she's been admitted to the hospital for dehydration. Something I don't want to have to go through again. “You've done enough damage. You and your spawn.”

“Sammie...come on. Your suffering is in no way all my fault. It takes two, remember? You could have said no that night.”

“The first time or the three times afterwards?” she asks, and reaches for a sleeve of crackers on the nightstand.

“It was four times afterwards,” I correct. “Five times in total. I could have gone a couple more times but I wore you out. You couldn't take any more. I was too much for you.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” she growls. “And please don't troll me this early in the morning. Or at any time of the day. Under normal circumstances, I can take your shit. But these...” she bites into a cracker. “...are far from normal circumstances.”

“This...” I pat her gently on the stomach. “...is my best trolling job ever. Knocking you up? That was an epic troll.”

“I will punch you in the face,” she warns.

“I am just saying...” I hold my hands up in surrender. “...and this wouldn't be happening if your birth control didn't fuck up.”

“You were the one that forgot to wear a condom,” she counters.

“I didn't forget. I just didn't want to wear one. And you were the one that told me that there was no way anything can go wrong. That your birth control was like Fort Knox. Well if the security at Fort Knox is a crappy as your birth control...”

“Maxim...please!” she cries, and repeatedly pounds her heels against the mattress. “Stop! I know you love to get a rise out of people, but...”

“You're pretty good at getting a rise out of people too or you won't be in your predicament,” I chide, and she digs an elbow into my ribs. “Okay...okay...I'll leave you alone. Maybe one day you'll go back to the old wake up calls you used to give me. You remember those, right? How you used to ease my suffering?”

“I'll use your suffering by cutting your dick off altogether. And then you won't have to worry about morning wood anymore. Now would you please just leave me alone? Let me suffer in peace? Go and take care of yourself if you're that desperate.”

“How do you know that blow jobs aren't the cure for nausea? How do you know that my cum doesn't have some kind of miracle chemical in it that will cure all your sickness?”

“I don't care if your spunk suddenly tastes like cookie dough ice cream,” she retorts. “If you're that desperate...” she jerks her head in the direction of the bathroom.

“I'm married, I shouldn't have to resort to flogging the bishop. I'll just wait until you're feeling a bit better and you can do a little something-something for me. Don't I always return the favour?” I love teasing her. Like she says, I enjoy getting a rise out of people. On and off the ice. And in her case, in the bedroom.

“I think you need to stop before you find yourself sleeping in the guest room until well into your seventies,” she warns, and I finally surrender; placing a kiss on her temple and the corner of her mouth before rolling onto my side and tucking myself tightly against her. Burying my face in the crook of her neck and laying my hand on her swollen stomach.

It's moments like this that make you treasure the off season the most. These quiet mornings with the sun streaming into the room and the breeze trickling through the open windows. When you have no problems or worries nagging at you. The hockey season is long and tiring and filled with prolonged absences. You're with your boys...your second 'family'...more than you're with your own. And it makes you treasure and appreciate your loved ones.

“We have so much to do,” Sammie laments. “We still have so much unpacking.”

“So?” I shrug. “It'll get done when it gets done.”

“We're lazy. Unbelievably lazy.”

“It's all the sex. You keep me locked up in the bedroom. I don't get a chance to do anything else.”

“You're complaining?”

I lift my head from its resting place and grin up at her. “Trust me, I have no complaints whatsoever.”

She presses a kiss to the end of my nose, followed by lips. “We really should have had most of it done...if not all of it...before our guests came today.”

“None of my friends or my family are going to give a shit,” I assure her. Although I am slightly nervous about meeting some of her relatives for the first time. They all know that we're married and having a baby; Sammie had made the appropriate phone calls and emails and had spent hours attempting to explain to her grandparents and father just exactly how we met. And what made us decide to jump into such a serious commitment so soon. She says that they're accepting of things (if not a little creeped out about how we'd met and worried about her sanity for marrying someone she'd only known for a couple of months) and that they most likely won't grill me about things. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't expecting her dad to hand me the 'break her heart and I break your face' speech.

“You know my grandmother is going to be all over you, right?” she combs her fingers through my hair and rests her chin on the top of her head. “She's going to go on and on about how pretty you are. Probably squeeze your biceps or your pecs a million and one times. Talk about how adorable it is when you smile and how you have the cutest little dimples. And if she's grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary and staring at you while talking in Italian, she's in love with you.”

“She's got exceptional taste,” I declare. “Guess that's where you got it from.”

“You're a conceited bastard, you know that?” Sammie inquires, and then huffs in exasperation when I nod in agreement. “Yet somehow...beyond my own comprehension...it's strangely sexy.”

“Nothing strange about it. You like cocky boys. Especially one that know how to use their big c...”

“You're an insufferable shit,” she says. “Maybe one day, I'll actually understand why the hell I put up with you.”

“Same way I put up with you. Love. Lust. The whole nine yards. Face it Sammie...” I press my lips against hers. “...you'd go crazy without me.”

She doesn't respond. At least not with words. Instead she kisses me feverishly, pushes me onto my back and straddles my torso. “Good morning, she drawls, and proceeds to peel her pyjama top over her head.

Definitely a good morning. Best start to a day I could ever ask for.