Pull Me Through

“You know, this is a sure sign that hell is going to freeze over,” Georges Laraque (or 'Big Georges' as Sammie calls him) declares, as our little group of current and former Habs hang out poolside. Some sprawled across lounge chairs with their arms resting along their foreheads or their ball caps pulled down over their eyes, others stretched out or sitting cross legged on the deck. And all surrounded by empty beer and Crown Royal bottles, red plastic cups and shot glasses. “You? Married with a kid on the way? That's the first sign of impending doom. Armageddon. I never saw it coming. Not in a million years.”

It's approaching one in the morning and while the guys with families and my in laws and their little ones have either long departed or called it a night, the party continues on. What had started off as a simple barbecue and a chance to reconnect with some of my Montreal boys has turned into something straight off a college campus; beer pong, keg stands, people stripping off their clothes and jumping into the pool (including the relatively conservative Mike Cammalleri who'd gotten right down to his birthday suit and did a canon ball off the roof of the garden shed) and two visits from the cops. Although we'd heeded the warnings to keep the noise level down, the late night revellers are showing no signs of letting up; I've got naked people both swimming and making out in my pool and hot tub, drunks dancing on top of tables and chairs on the deck attached to the house, and bodies passed out on my grass. Not to mention every spare bedroom, couch and my basement floor has been claimed by those who would never make it home in one piece and need a place to crash.

“What are you talking about?” Higgy slurs from the lawn chair beside me. “He was already engaged once. To that...you know...that stupid blond cunt...what was her name?...Barbara...Brittney...Breanne...”

“Bianca,” Georges says. “Bianca, you drunk fool. Or should we just call her 'Clingy Bitch?'.”

“How about we don't call her anything?” I suggest. ”How about we don't talk about her at all?”

While Bianca herself has no bearing on my life whatsoever (I certainly don't miss her and I don't regret the decisions I've made), I don't necessarily want to acknowledge her existence or the original part she'd played in driving Sammie and Kesler batshit insane to begin with. Talking about my ex fiancee only serves to bring back the painful memories associated with Vancouver; cheating on her instead of just ending things before getting involved with someone else, the twisted and sick need to exact revenge against her, the way I'd been used as nothing more than a 'mark' and seen as only 'collateral damage'. And when I think about Bianca, Kesler immediately jumps to first and foremost in my mind. And when that happens all I can think about is what he'd done to Sammie (both the long term damage that bullshit five years ago has caused and the way he'd manipulated and bullied her this time around) and the golden opportunity I'd missed out on to rearrange his face. I'm trying hard to get over everything that happened. Some days it's a struggle; a seemingly endless uphill battle to regain the trust I'd lost in her. Other days, things go nice and smooth. We don't fight have nasty, 'knock 'em down, drag 'em out' fights and we don't allow ourselves to live in the past and solely concentrate on the future. Our new start in Montreal. And normally I wouldn't feel this...edgy...by the mere mention of Bianca's name, but I've consumed a shit load of liquor. And while I start out as a friendly, 'touchy feely' type drunk, it doesn't take long (or much) for me to turn into a brooding, irritable asshole.

“You guys really didn't think he'd go through with it, did you?” Shea Emry pipes up from the lounge chair across from me, his monstrous arms curled tightly and protectively -yet surprisingly tenderly for a man of his sheer size and power- around his girlfriend Raychel as she sleeps between his sprawled thighs with her face buried in his chest. A linebacker for the Montreal Alouettes, he's my closest 'non hockey' buddy; quite possibly my best friend, even outdoing Higgy for that honour.

We'd met at a charity event during my first full year with the Canadiens and we'd immediately hit it off despite the vast differences in our chosen professions. He knows all of my deepest and darkest secrets (and vice versa) and I'm tighter with him than the vast majority of my own family members. While he's extremely outgoing and blessed with a hilariously dry wit, sometimes his bite is more vicious than his bark; brutally honest and unapologetic and never afraid to dish out massive doses of tough love if he thinks you're in danger of fucking your life up. He hadn't sat by silently when it had come to his enormous dislike for Bianca. He'd thought she was phony; a spoiled, immature brat that would never get the silver spoon yanked out of her ass. And he didn't understand why I was wasting my time or my energy on someone that clearly didn't (and would never) accept who I was. She'd wanted to change everything about me; quitting hockey to work for her father, speech therapy to rid me of my 'hideous' accent and correct my mispronunciations and my poor use (or lack thereof) of plurals. Nothing had ever been good enough for her and Shea had always called her on it. To her face. So no one had been more relieved and ecstatic when I'd called him to not only say I was being sent back to Montreal, but that I'd kicked Bianca to the curb and had already married and was expecting a baby with someone else. Normally I would have told him everything a lot sooner, but the ongoing drama with Kesler and the stress associated with uprooting and dealing with the issues between Sammie and I had caused a lot of upheaval. And while he wasn't entirely accepting of the way things had gone down (rather disturbed about the entire thing, actually), he and Raychel had not only welcome me back to Montreal with open arms, but have accepted Sammie. They haven't been judgemental or appear to be holding an ill will towards her for her part in 'the plan'.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same with for the vast majority of my teammates and their respective WAGs.

******

“You guys seriously didn't think he'd actually marry that bitch, did you?” Shea continues, one of his gigantic hands softly stroking Raychel's hair. They've been dating for two years (she's an art therapist at the Montreal Children's Hospital that works with special needs kids and those who have suffered traumatic brain injuries) yet living with one another since just before the Alouettes' Grey Cup win last November. They also just found out that they're expecting their first baby; due less than two months than when my own kid is scheduled to make their appearance in the world. “He would have come to his senses sooner or later. He wouldn't have gone through with it. He would have yanked his head out of his ass before the big day. Or I would have yanked it out for him.”

He has way too much faith in me. I most likely would have gone through with marrying Bianca had fate not intervened in the most unbelievably fucked up way. Had she never screwed over Sammie and Kes to the point they felt the need to not concoct a ruse on how to get back at her...had I not been seriously involved with her...that night at the convention centre never would have happened. I would never have met Sammie until my wedding day. And even that depended on whether or not she accepted the invitation. As screwed up as things were...as much hurt and bitterness that still lingers under the surface...everything that went down in Vancouver happened for reason. And that's the thought process that gets me through every day and helps with the healing process. “Think about the positives,” the therapist had said. “Think about everything you'd be missing out on had none of that in Vancouver had ever taken place.”

“There's no sense living in the past,” Georges says, as if reading my mind. “There's no sense dwelling on what happened out west when he's got so much to think about now. Right here and right now. That's all that matters. This is a whole new start. You and your pretty wife and your baby. Don't worry about all that other shit. What's done, is done. Simple as that.”

“I still can't believe someone like that even sees something legitimately appealing in someone like you,” Shea teases. “What's wrong with her? Couple screws loose upstairs? Totally blind? Willingly shacking up with you?”

“It's the accent,” Georges chuckles. “Apparently she's got a thing for us French Canadians. Supposedly she has a huge crush on me.”

“So she's just completely blind,” Shea concludes, and barely manages to dodge the beer cap my former teammate tosses in his direction. “Well..if my opinion means anything, I think you did the right thing. Made the right decision. I know the way things started off and the way they went down was pretty fucked up, but would you really change any of that? Would you go back and erase it? Make it so it all didn't happen?”

“Maybe some of it,” I admit. “Maybe the way I met her. I might go back and...”

“But even changing that would fuck up everything. How else would you have met her? At your wedding? What would you have done? Run off with your bride's step sister?” Shea waves off the mere suggestion. “You change one thing, it changes everything. You can't just pick and choose like that. So if you were to go back and change that, it fucks up everything else. Would you do that?”

“Of course not. If that's the only way I would have met her...”

“How else would it have happened? Before she walked into that charity thing she was just some weather girl that all you guys were fantasizing about while jacking off the shower. Would you have even went up to her if she hadn't have approached you first?”

“Probably not,” I admit.

“She was the one that made the first move. Doesn't matter what her reason was. Just that she did. And because she did it now look...look where you are and what you have. Don't tell me you'd jeopardize all of that just to go back and change one or two things.”

He's got a point. An extremely valid one at that. I most likely never would have approached her that night at the charity event. To be honest, I'd thought she was out of my league and that among all of the eligible bachelors -lawyers, local politicians and celebrities, other more prominent athletes and businessmen- there would be no chance in hell someone like her would want anything do with some a guy like me. No one knew who the hell I was; a fourth liner with a sketchy reputation within the league that was beyond passed around from team to team. Yet all of a sudden there she was right in front of me; batting those long eyelashes and giving me that million dollar smile., the flirtatious comments and the sexual innuendos so smoothly flowing between us.

Naturally, there's that small part of my brain that can't help but always remind me that she'd only sought me out because she'd had a reason to.

“It doesn't fucking matter why she hooked up with you, it matters that she did,” Shea continues. Oddly enough, he's awfully fucking profound when he's been pounding back the whiskey. “And that she stuck around even after she'd been called out on her bullshit. She obviously had legit feelings for you, right? She didn't fuck off when all was said and down. You're married to her and having a kid, aren't you?”

I nod in confirmation.

“So how about you quit living in the fucking past and start looking at what you got right in front of you,” he suggests. “Stop fucking dwelling on all the bad shit. You need to just go on with your life. You and Sammie and the baby.”

“What about Kes?” Higgins suddenly asks, and every head swivels around and every eye focuses on him.

“What the fuck about him?” Georges growls. “Who gives a shit about him? He's the one that caused all this crap in the first place. If he'd never messed around with her all those years ago and treated her like he did, none of this would have ever happened to begin with. He caused this. So who gives a fuck?”

“I give a fuck,” Higgy snarls. “'Cause the guy is going through hell. 'Cause he knows he did some shitty things and he's got a kid out there he's never met and he's lost the only woman he's ever really loved and he's having a shitty fucking time at home and...”

“That's all his own fucking doing,” Georges interjects. “All his problems are his own fault. And this...” he leans forward and snatches a half empty bottle of beer from Higgy's hand. “...is your problem right now. It's giving you loose fucking lips. You're really going to start this shit? Bring all this crap up right now? You come to Lappy's house to cause shit? What is wrong with you?”

“Technically, this all goes along with my whole 'things happen for a reason',” Shea says. “If Kes and Sammie hadn't met five years ago and if things hadn't gone down the way they did, we all wouldn't be here right now. Sure, it's all sick and twisted and fucking crazy as shit, but...”

“You think what you want to think and I'll think what I'm going to think,” Georges downs the remains of Higgy's beer. “And I think that you're just bringing all kinds of disrespect to Lappy and Sammie and even the baby by bringing Kes up. They just want to be happy. They deserve that. And if you fuckers keep bringing this other shit up...”

“I'm just trying to say that Kes wasn't the only one to blame in all of this,” Higgy interrupts. “I'm just saying that he...”

“You need to shut the fuck up now,” Shea directs a kick at Higgy's shin, and then jerks his head in the direction of the entrance to the fenced in pool deck, where my wife -barefoot and practically drowning in one of my hoodies over that tank top and capris she's sported all day- makes her way through the gate and wanders towards us. Her hair's been thrown up into a messy ponytail and she looks exhausted; stifling a yawn behind one of her hands as she gives our small group a tiny wave with the other.

“What's the matter, baby girl?” Georges drawls, and circles his arms around her waist and yanks her into his lap. He's always been a massive flirt; a huge teddy bear that's totally harmless. And he definitely doesn't mean any disrespect towards her or me. Anyone else and I'd be ready to tear his face off. “Rug rat giving you a hard time?”

“All day, every day. The things we don't do to keep our men happy. Everything's good here? Everyone's having a good time?”

We all nod in agreement.

“Well I'm going to bed,” she announces, and playfully yanks on one of Georges' corn rows before sliding off his lap. “I'm way past my days of staying up until the wee hours of the morning partying. I'm at the point in my life where every ounce of beauty sleep is a must.”

“Girl...you could be an insomniac for the rest of your life and not have to worry about a thing,” he praises. “So I was thinking...this whole crush thing...maybe I can come with you? Tuck you in?”

“Oh my God! You told him!” Sammie snatches the ball cap off my head and beats me on the shoulder with it. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Maybe Lappy was hoping for a threesome,” Georges howls with laughter.

“Before there was a bun in the oven, I may have indulged both of you,” Sammie retorts. I'm pretty sure she's just teasing him. Or at the very least, half teasing. “But now...” she shoves my hat back down -backwards- onto my head. “...no such luck. For either of you...” she pats me on the shoulders and slides her hands around to the back of my neck. “...bonne nuit...” she breathes, and kisses me softly, her nails digging into the base of my skull. A simple and innocent touch that with the aid of alcohol, causes my cock to twitch. Unlike the majority of drunks that can't get up when they're three sheets to the wind, I'd learned long ago that I was the complete opposite. A stiff breeze hits me the right way and I'm ready to go.

“I won't be long,” I promise. Not because I'm necessarily tired or all 'liquored out' or worried about my nine in the morning tee off time with my father in law, old man, Shea, Georges and Higgy, but because I'm suddenly horny as fuck.

“Don't keep me up, boys!” Sammie waggles her finger at us in warning as she pads across the deck towards the gate. “Or I'll come back out and kick all your asses!”

“I like her,” Georges declares, a huge shit eating grin plastered across his face as he watches her go. “She's feisty as all hell. Doesn't take any shit. She's good for you,” he gestures at me with his beer bottle. “Keep you in line. On your toes. Knock you down a peg or two when you get too big for your britches.”

“Hope you realize what a good thing you got going here,” Shea says. “That you don't let the shit that happened in Vancouver fuck this up for you, ya hear me? 'Cause if you do? I'll snap you in half like a twig.”

“And this big boy is capable of doing it!” Georges chuckle, and cuffs the football player upside the head. “And if he doesn't get the job done, I'll finish you off.”

“Seriously,” Shea warns. “I will fuck you up.”

“Yeah...” Georges agrees, yawning noisily as he stands up. “...don't make us hurt you, shit head.”

“And quit worrying about her doing you wrong,” the Alouette adds. “Because the only person capable of fucking all this up? Is you.”

No truer words have ever been spoken.