Carry You Home

“So why didn't you tell me that Eric was moving in next door?” I casually inquire, as I guide an empty stroller through the crammed pathways at the Pittsburgh Zoo.

It's nearly ninety five degrees and the place is packed and relatively disappointing; way too hot and humid for the majority of the animals to venture out of the shade and too many out of control children. Spurred on by the excessive sun sun and the loads of sugary drinks and ice cream they've been plied with in hopes of keeping cool, they shriek and giggle as they chase each other through the crowds. Weaving and zigzagging their way in out and out the heavy traffic -and nearly causing several collisions with unsuspecting pedestrians- with their harried parents in hot pursuit. It's moments like these...where my patience has reached its limit and I want to snag one of the little brats by scruff of the neck, throw them over my knee and wallop their ass...that I question my decision to become a parent. Don't get me wrong; I love my son to death and the world absolutely revolves around him. And he's able to brighten even the shittiest of days -even when he's torn the house apart, thrown his breakfast around the kitchen or dropped something expensive down the toilet- with a single giggle or even an 'I wuv you, mum-mum'. But there's times where I wonder what God was ever thinking giving someone like me a child. Everyone knows that patience is definitely not my greatest virtue.

Yet my own little one...normally the spawn of Satan...has been an absolute angel for the past two hours. And he certainly doesn't seem to be feeling any ill effects from the disgusting, nauseating humidity; no whining or temper tantrums, no throwing up his lunch or the juice he's consumed, no unexpected naps brought on by the heat. Whether it be because he's just too damn hot to find the energy to misbehave or he knows that daddy 'rules the roost' and doesn't tolerate that kind of behaviour or he's just that enthralled by the animals and his surroundings, he's been amazing. Totally unlike the hellion that I'm normally chasing around the house or threw the aisles at the supermarket and who've I've had to resort to putting a harness on -for his own safety- on many an occasion.

And despite suffering through the horrific heatwave and having to deal with the handful of fans that have approached us, it's been a relatively peaceful and enjoyable afternoon. Although there'd been the odd asshole that had called him a traitor for signing with the enemy and told him that he hoped he 'burned in hell', most of those that had come up to us had been more than pleasant. Just wanting to cease the opportunity to thank Max for everything that he'd done with the Penguins -not only the two goals in game seven, but all of his charity work and his constant presence in the community- and to wish him all the best in Philadelphia. Listening to all of the memories they shared and hearing first hand what his time in Pittsburgh had meant to them, had been emotional for both of us. And I think it had done Max a world of good to hear straight from the horses' mouths that not everyone hated him for the decision he'd made. That it had been made perfectly clear to him that his days with the Pens were over and that it was time to move on. I know he's been struggling with what he thinks is every fan's perception of him, and for all of the good, decent -and mature- human beings to come out of hidden and put his mind and soul at ease had been just what he'd needed. Even if he had teared up several times and it had broken his heart to have little children cling to his legs and sob over his departure and beg him not to go.

“Eric Tangradi,” I clarify, when he stares at me like I've grown another head. “Remember him? Originally from Philly? Built like a brick shit house? Trevor Gillies turned his brain into scrambled eggs in that clusterfuck of a game against the Islanders?”

“I know who he is.”

That irritation is back in his voice again. Just when I thought we were making some serious headway in our relationship and that we'd finally gotten to the point where even the smallest things didn't piss each other off anymore. Where we didn't fight over stupid shit and we could talk like mature adults. Apparently, I was wrong. Max's good moods only last for so long these days. Blink and you miss them. I remember when he always seemed to be laughing and smiling and pulling stupid pranks and telling dumb ass (yet hilarious) jokes. When he could light up a room with his smile and transform a phenomenally shitty day into a much brighter one with those brilliant, sparkling blue eyes.

It's only been about three months, but it seems like a lifetime ago.

“Well he stopped by the house while you were dropping your parents off at the airport,” I explain, and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head slowly. He's definitely not impressed with that little piece of information. I can't help but wonder if it's because he's been busted hiding -yet again- something important (albeit relatively minor in the grand scheme of things) or if he's pissed that I'd had the nerve to be alone with another man. That's his guilty conscience playing with him. Reminding him of what he'd done with the stripper and trying to convince him that I just may be the type to seek out revenge. Irrational, of course. I'd never cheat on him. No matter how pissed off and hurt I may be. “Why didn't you tell me that he was moving in next door?”

“You actually let him in the house?” he ignores me entirely and moves our toddler's hands from the sides of his face to the front of his ball cap. For damn near an hour the kid's been riding on his shoulders; tiny legs curled loosely around his dad's neck, Max's large, strong hands resting on our son's thighs to keep him in place.

“Of course I let him in the house. Why wouldn't I? It's not like he's a complete stranger. What was he going to do? Tie me up and rob the place? Rape me? Jesus...get a grip. What's your issue? What's the problem with me being alone with other men?”

“There's no problem,” he says with a shrug.

“You can't stand the thought of any man being near me when you're not around. Unless it's your dad or Bruno. You don't even like it when it's your brothers because you say they're 'too touchy feely',” I stop pushing the stroller long enough to make air quotes around the last three words. “Regardless of what you think, not every man in this world finds me attractive and wants to jump me. It is possible for them to just want to be friends.”

“They're goddamn blind if they don't find you attractive and lying through their teeth if they say they don't want to bang you.”

Normally I'd find it adorable and charming that he thinks so highly of me. What woman doesn't want their man to look at them as if they're the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world? Worshipping the ground they walk on and treating them as if they're some gift from God that's been sent down to earth to be theirs and theirs alone? But there's moments where that adoration borders on possession. When the endless compliments and the stroking of your ego burrows under your skin and grates on your nerves and their desire to protect gives way to their need for control. Max has reached that point. He's reached it several times since we'd gotten married, actually. And when the baby arrived it had only gotten worse. When we were just fucking each other for the pure sport of it, he hadn't given a shit about who I talked to or who I hung around with. Every since I'd taken on his name and bore him a child...well he feels they both act as some sort of contract set in stone that declares me as his. There's times where it's so suffocating and so overwhelming that I need to get away from him.

This time...instead of running away from that anxiety that claws at my chest...I stay. He doesn't realize he's being like this. I know that he's completely oblivious to when and where that controlling, possessive side wants to come out and play. Ironically enough, he can't control it. It just happens. And as the therapist has said on multiple occasions 'you have to pick your battles'. And I just don't feel like doing battle with him today.

“I just don't understand why you didn't tell me about him moving in next door,” I try my best to keep the scolding tone out of my voice. “He just showed up out of the blue and started talking about moving and his new place and I felt like a total idiot.” Among other things. I won't tell him about the flirtatious behaviour that had been passed back and forth or the silly sexual innuendos or the little 'incident' when I'd accidentally found myself wrapped up in Eric's strong and powerful -surprisingly gentle- embrace. Or how for the first time in over a year, I'd felt safe and protected. As if I had someone right in front of me that wouldn't let me fall. Who wouldn't hurt me and lie to me. It's totally irrational, of course. My heart is just looking for any and every way to heal itself.

“I'm pretty sure I told you about it,” Max says. “I'm pretty sure that I mentioned he bought the place.”

“I think I'd remember something like that. I think I'd remember you telling me that one of your friends was moving in next door.”

“He's not my friend,” my husband corrects. “He's just some guy I used to play hockey with.”

Well now we know where THAT particular relationship -or lack there of- stands.

“I didn't even know that Chris was moving,” I point out. “It was all news to me. I'd remember all that, Max. Do you think I'm stupid or something?”

“No....but...”

I cast a sideways glare at him.

“...I think you've had a lot going on and tons of shit on your mind and that it probably didn't matter much to you at the time,” he finishes. “Why wouldn't I tell you about something like that? That we're having a new neighbour? Come on now...” he playfully tugs at the ponytail sticking out of the back of my Penguins ball cap. “...you really think I wouldn't tell you something like that?”

Actually, I do think he wouldn't tell me something like that. Max does a lot of stupid shit. Especially if he feels threatened by someone or something. And I'm pretty sure Eric Tangradi fits that criteria.

*****

“I told you,” he insists. “I know I told you. You just forgot. Stop looking for reasons to hate on me all the time.”

“Do you really think I do that? Look for reasons to be a bitch and start fights?”

“I don't think you do it. I know you do it. You've always been like that. When you don't have anything legitimate to bitch and moan about, you start picking up on all the little stupid shit. Or conveniently forget shit I said or did so that you can try and throw it in my face and start a big old thing. I know you, Sloan. Better than you know yourself half the time. It's what you do. Your M.O.”

“Oh...” I can't think of a better response at this point in the time. I honestly have never realize that I'm guilty of doing that. That if we don't have something 'real' to fight about, I actually go out of my way to find something. I certainly don't mean to be that way. I don't consciously set out to make him feel like shit about himself. “...I don't hate you,” I point out, and then frown when he shrugs. “Is that what you think? That I hate you? Do I really make you feel like that?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “And honestly? Half the time I think I deserve it. And then there's times where I wonder why you don't hate me.”

“Because I love you, you enormously stubborn pain in my ass. That's why. You just don't stop loving someone and start hating on them. Even if they have done stupid shit that may deserve it. The heart just doesn't work that way, Max. At least mine doesn't. You think you'd realize that by now.”

“I've done a lot of stupid shit,” he reminds me.

“Well I guess I'm just used to it,” I tease. “Or I'm a glutton for punishment. But I don't hate you. No one hates you. Would you stop with this crap already? What's done is done. You can't take it back. You can't go back in time and change things. Not the night with the stripper, not the decision to go to Philly. None of it. Can't you just open your eyes and realize that there's people that love you? I love you. Max loves you. And there's fans that love you. No matter what. Haven't you seen that today? You're not some evil, treacherous person. People don't see you that way. It's how you feel about yourself.”

“You're going to play shrink now?” a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You're going to psychoanalyze me in the middle of the zoo?”

“Don't be a smart ass,” I grumble. “I just want you to realize that no matter how bad you think you are, there's people that disagree with you. You did a shitty thing. But fuck, Max. It's not the end of the world. You wouldn't think you'd hate yourself this much if going to Philly was something you really wanted. If it really was the best choice for you.”

“For us,” he corrects. “The best choice for us.”

“If you really felt in your heart of hearts that it was the right thing to do, you wouldn't be constantly beating yourself up over it. If you felt that positive and that strongly about it, you wouldn't give a shit what other people think or say.”

“Like you said, what's done is done,” he shrugs.

I knew it. I knew deep down he was kicking himself in the ass for it. And that he most likely jumped at the Flyers' offer as a big old 'fuck you' to Ray Shero. Not to take away from Philadelphia's talent; they've got a team full of young, extremely skilled players and a handful of crusty old veterans that know just how much pain and sacrifice it takes to get to the top. But sometimes, bad blood is enough motivation to do something you wouldn't normally do. Fuel that adds ferocity to an already smouldering fire and sends it spiralling out of control. In Max's case, it helped the hurt from being cast aside by the Penguins turn into anger and the need for revenge.

“Do we really have to talk about this?” he asks, and pausing several feet in front of the penguin exhibit, bends his knees until his head reaches my shoulders and then leans over to let our son slip off his shoulders. Expertly flipping him upside down and then settling him on his feet. Little Max thinks it's hilarious. Squealing in sheer delight and then clapping his hands and shuffling his feet in the dance he's perfected when he's extra excited. Something that we've even nicknamed him 'Happy Feet' for.

They look so much alike. My little boy in his cargo shorts and his Montreal Alouettes t-shirt and hat and his favourite light up Diego sandals and his dad...my husband...the love of my life...in a pair of fatigues cut into 'man-pris' and a black t-shirt that fits tight across the chest and around his biceps. He's changed so much. A completely different person since when we'd first hooked up six years ago. Back then he'd had that long, greasy looking hair (his 'Guido stage' as I'd called it) and he'd been all of a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet. I'd witnessed him maturing and growing in every possible way. Seen him become a husband and a father when only a couple of years before all he'd cared about was getting his dick wrecked as often and as much as possible. And while he's in the best shape of his hockey career -packing on nearly twenty pounds of solid muscle and his woes with his shoulder far behind him- I can't help but wonder what cost he had to pay to get here. And if one morning I'm going to wake up and he's not going to be the same person anymore. I've heard stories about Philly and how playing there changes people.

And I don't want that happening to Max.

“I don't want to fight, Sloan,” he says, as he digs through the child's size Bob the Builder knapsack that dangles from the handles of the stroller. “Not on our last day here. Not at all. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of doing battle with you all the time. Of everything being fine one minute and us ready to rip each others throats out the next.”

“I don't want it to be that way,” I respond. “I've never wanted it to be that way. I don't know what's happened to us. How things got this bad. Was it like this before everything went down? Is that why you did what you did? Is that why you slept with that stripper? Was it something I did? Did I push you to do that? Was I making things so bad for at home that you...?”

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he assures me, and removes a Pens hoodie from the knapsack; staring down at the logo for several seconds before tucking our son's arms into it and tugging it up to his shoulders. “It wasn't you, okay? It was me.”

“That's just what people say when they want a discussion to end. It's what they say when they don't want the other person feeling guilty for being the one that caused things to go bad in the first place.”

“It wasn't you,” he insists, and tugs the zipper up to Max's chin. “Now can we drop this? Can we drop all of it? For him?” he nods down at our son. “He deserves better than this, don't you think?”

I look down at our little boy. At those huge blue eyes sparkling with excitement and that massive smile that dimples his cheeks. Regardless of all the shitty things that have gone down between my husband and I, we still managed to create a life together. A beautiful, happy little soul that deserves a mommy and daddy that aren't at one anothers throats all the time.

“I swear to God, it wasn't you,” Max says, and presses a brief, tender kiss to my lips. “You ready to go, buddy?” he plasters that fake smile on his face-the one he uses when he doesn't want people to realize just how bad he's suffering- and adopts that overly cheerful and playful personality. It's so forced. So un-Max like. “Ready to go and see the penguins?”

“Red-eee!” our son chirps, and curls all five of his fingers around one of his dad's. “Lots of pen-wins?” he inquires hopefully. “Lots and lots?”

“Lots of penguins,” Max promises, and then they both turn their backs on me and head into the exhibit.