Carry You Home

By the time midnight rolls around, only a handful of guests remain at Max and Godsy's little 'going away party'. It had originally been intended for Mike Rupp as well, but he hadn't shown any interest in mingling with anyone from the Penguins since he'd been cut loose. After he'd been shipped to Rangers, five minutes hadn't even passed before he changed his twitter picture to their logo and he hadn't even bothered to express any sort of gratitude towards the organization or express any sort of sorrow or apprehensions about leaving. He'd had his heart set on coming back and -in his opinion- they'd all but slapped him in the face. He felt disrespected and unappreciated because they chose to sign younger, less experienced guys (some for even more money than he even asked for) when he was a two time Cup winner and had proven time and time again that he was a valuable, reliable asset to the organization. A hard nosed, take no shit player on the ice and a deeply spiritual, charity driven, compassionate family man off of it.

A lot of the guys tend to agree with him; we've talked amongst ourselves that we think that both Rupper and Max were treated like complete and utter shit. How the hell do you cut guys like that lose? Who bring so much to the dressing room and the organization itself? You need those kinds of players around. The ones that aren't afraid to get their noses dirty and who demand a certain level of respect from the younger players. Who know what it takes to win a championship. Sure, we have a lot of vets and proven winners on the squad, but we don't have Max and Rupper. We don't have any personalities that can match theirs. Everyone that's left is ultra serious or just doesn't have that same level of 'give a fuck' or they're so caught up in their own game and padding their own stats that teamwork isn't even on their list of priorities. Rupp had the intimidation factor down pat and Max brought both the tenacity and the humour. What team didn't need someone in the room that could lighten shit up? That could see the bright side in everything? And who could prove to the irresponsible younger guys more interested in pussy than hockey that a leopard could change its spots.

I hadn't played a lot with them, but I'd learned a lot in the time I had. How to be fearless and gritty and how to get the most out of my limited talents. How to play through the incessant pain of nagging (and sometimes serious) injuries; keep a smile on your face and a spring in your step and an edge to your game no matter how bad you're suffering. And through watching their interactions with their fans and witnessing the tremendous amount of empathy they had for those less fortunate and ill, I had realized the kind of man that I wanted to be. Someone that the fans loved not only for their play, but for how they treated others. I wanted to be the guy being heralded for his charity work. The one that everyone loved. I wanted to one day have a wife and kids and find that perfect balance between my professional and personal lives. They've both somehow have manage that and I respect and admire them for it. And I'm sure I'm not the only one that's going to miss them. Even if their departures do open the door for someone like me.

The organization will regret it. They'll realize what they'd lost when the season starts up and they don't have those personalities in the locker room any more. When they see just how much chemistry has been lost and how employee morale has been disrupted. Yeah...it's a business. We're all expendable. But a company should have a certain level of respect for the guys that are bringing in all the customers. How the hell do you cut loose the guy that scored the only two goals in game seven of the Stanley Cup Final? Sure, hockey is a team sport and everyone had a role to play and lived up to them. But let's be fucking realistic here. If Max hadn't have put those pucks in the net, who knows if anyone else would have. If lightning hadn't struck -twice- Detroit would have won that game 1-0. That's how I see it. And it's why I have such a hard time accepting the way everything went down. Seeing a guy who'd rightfully earned his spot in Pittsburgh sports history just tossed to the trash like that. Who would you rather have representing your city? Max Talbot and his Stanley Cup winning goals? A guy who'd dumped his slightly skeezy personality in favour or becoming a family man? Or someone like Big Ben who despite his Super Bowl wins, continues to do some pretty questionable shit?

Maybe I see things as either too black or two white. No grey areas. And I know I'm not exactly the smartest tool in the shed, but even I know when someone's been done dirt. And what happened to Max...well it was a bitch move in my opinion.

It's what the remaining guys at the party had spent the better part of two hours talking about. Once Mario and the couple of members of the coaching staff departed, the hard liquor was cracked open and the tattered emotions and disappointment and hurt came out to play. Everyone had an opinion on the way Max had been handled by the club. No one concerned themselves about Rupper or Godsy. We were going to miss them and the aspects they brought to the team, but neither of them had seemed too torn up over leaving Pittsburgh. In fact, they couldn't seem to wait to get out of there fast enough. And they didn't bring to the dressing room what Max did. He was the out spoken and often flamboyant Frenchmen that not only kept us entertained with his perverted personal stories and his corny jokes (made even funnier because of his on going struggles with certain parts of the English language) but who never seem to take himself seriously.

When he stepped out onto the ice he became a completely different person; fearless and determined, the first one to have your back if you ever got yourself into trouble. He knew when to take shit seriously and a lot of the younger guys (both impressed by his hard nosed, take no shit attitude on the ice and the remarkable transformation he'd made off of it) flocked to him. It was easier to go to Max for advice than anyone else in the locker room. The majority of guys didn't seem to have the time or the patience to answer 'stupid questions' and Max was always approachable. He didn't look down on anyone. He'd had his own struggles and he knew that his future with the Pens was tap dancing on very thin ice and he was looking for anything and anyone to give him a little extra edge or instill some much needed confidence in him. Guys respected him and loved him because he wasn't an arrogant asshole. He didn't walk around as if he owned the place and his spot on the roster was secure. He was vulnerable and he knew it. And he let everyone see it.

I don't think he realizes how hard a lot of people are taking his exodus from Pittsburgh. Not everyone considers him a traitor. They understand why he did what he did. That it had been made perfectly clear that his time with the Pens was over and that he needed to move on. Find a team that was both interested in his services and were willing to pay him a decent sum of money for them. I get the whole 'Flyers are our rivals uproar' and I can sort of understand why some of the fans feel it was a betrayal, but I can't fucking fathom anyone burning jerseys and acting as if Max had never made an impact on the city. He fucking won us a Stanley Cup, for Christsake. I didn't see anyone else scoring any goddamn goals that night. Fuck this 'it was a team effort' bullshit. Give credit where credit is due. And I will never...ever...be able to wrap my head around the fact that what he'd done has warranted him receiving death threats. Who the hell does something like that? Spray paints shit on your driveway and vandalizes your property? Tucks notes threatening bodily harm against your wife and your kid into your mailbox? That's just some sick shit right there.

Of course, everyone has an opinion. Those are like assholes. We all have them. And the small group of guys gathered in Flower's basement are no different. Add booze to wounded pride and 'fuck the man syndrome' and the brutal honesty begins to flow. Everyone is pissed off. At Ray for handling things the way he did, at Mario for not putting his fucking foot down and stepping in, at Jagr for breaking promises and screwing us all over. Some are even livid at Sid for not doing more to keep Max around. Sid's got fuck load of pull around that place. He could have done something to get shit done.

“The money to resign the core guys was all tied up because of him,” an uncharacteristically drunk Adsy had declared. “Because they were so fucking certain he was going to sign. Two million dollars right there. And don't give me this shit about cap space. They had nearly five million on top of that to fucking play with. You know what this really is? This is fucked up. Beyond all recognition. This is...”

“FUBAR,” we'd all agreed in unison. And it was. Our 'family' was being ripped apart and scattered all over God's fucking creation. Some of us don't like change. We're simple people that like things to stay the same.

Most of the guys are sympathetic to Max's dilemma and accept the decisions he made. Who knows whether they're sincere or if they're just saying all the right things to avoid confrontation or to make him feel better about himself. Others are little more...outspoken...about what he'd done.

“Any other fucking team would have been just fucking peachy,” TK had grumbled. “But you had to go and pick those fuckers? What the fuck is wrong with you? Other teams were offering you more cash and you had to pick Philly? I'll never fucking understand that Max. Ever.”

The man himself had never said a goddamn word. Unusual, considering a drunk Max is a thousand times more affable and hilarious than a sober one. And that's saying a lot. Tonight he was dark and brooding and didn't even respond to either the glowing praises and declarations of understanding or the raking over of the goals that TK and Staalsy had given him. He just fucking sat there on Flower's couch. Lips pursed together and his eyes in his lap as he busied himself with picking the label of a long finished bottle of beer sitting between his thighs. In a way I totally understood. He has a lot of shit on his mind. Both professionally and personally from what I've heard. But the part of me that had looked up to him and admired him wanted something from him. I wanted him to say something...anything..that would show that he at least understood the impact of what he'd done. Or that he realized that some of us had his back no matter what. We weren't going to try and bust him up when we played the Flyers.

But there was nothing. Not even simple fucking eye contact. It was as if the old Max had disappeared the second he'd signed that contract. And it was that frustration and that disappointment -what can I say? I'm like a butt hurt little kid over the entire situation- that had been my signal to leave before I said or did something I'd regret. So I said my goodbyes to everyone and wished Max all the best in Philly (he'd looked at me as if he'd wanted to rip my head off and had grumbled something about 'don't worry about keeping an eye on my wife' before finally -and reluctantly shaking my hand) and got the hell out of the man cave. Too much testosterone, even for me. Mix it with booze and it's a dangerous combination.

It's when I'm in the kitchen saying farewell to Vero and thanking her for inviting me that I see her. The last remaining WAG. Sitting all alone in the backyard. Perched on the edge of the pool with her feet dangling in the water and the moon and the strings of multicoloured Christmas lights strung in the surrounding trees shimmering in her hair and bathing her pale, smooth skin in a soft glow. I should just leave. Avoid the backyard like the plague and just call it a night and head out the front door. That's what an intelligent, rational person would have done. Gone out of their way to avoid problems instead of wandering straight into them.

But with all the alcohol I've consumed and given the circumstances of the past couple of months, I'm feeling neither intelligent or rational.

And I can't seem to stop myself as a I grab two bottles of beer from a case by the sliding glass door and head outside.

******

“Looks like you could use some company there, Pebbles!” I call, as I slip through the entrance of the wrought iron gate that surrounds Flower's enormous in ground pool.

On the outside, I'm calm, cool and collected; my confidence carrying me across the terracotta deck. Inside, I'm as nervous a high school freshman approaching the most popular girl in school for the first time. It's not that I'm attracted to her in THAT way; I don't even know her well enough to have those kinds of feelings for her. But I'm a red blooded male with red blooded male needs and red blooded male hormones and she's an insanely attractive woman. A feisty red head with a killer body and a sassy attitude. Totally unlike what I'm usually attracted to. And the fact that she's like the forbidden fruit...completely out of reach and unattainable...well that just makes the flirting that much more fun.

She tosses those ginger tresses over her shoulder and shoots me a smile.

“I come bearing gifts...” I crouch down beside her and tap one of the beer bottles against her shoulders. Not that she needs any more alcohol. Even in just the glow cast by the moon and the Christmas lights I can see her flushed cheeks and the inebriated glitter to her eyes.

“I already have one,” she nods down at the vodka cooler clutched in her right hand.

“But that one's almost empty. And those things are for pussies. I've heard stories about you, Pebbles. About some wild and crazy nights at Diesel and how you can drink most of the guys under the table. I thought Jose and Jack Daniels were your best friends.”

“Once upon a time,” she says wistfully. “In a galaxy far, far away.”

“You're drunk,” I accuse. “Maybe I should keep both for myself.”

“I am not drunk,” she argues, and snatches the beer from my hands. “I am not even close to drunk. I am just...you know...teetering on the edge...just...” she attempts to hold her thumb and forefinger an inch apart and goes cross eyed as she struggles to steady her hand. “...okay...” she giggles. “...maybe I'm just a little drunk.”

“Now that's an understatement,” I chuckle, and slip down onto the deck beside her. Rolling my jeans up to the knee and then sticking my feet into the cool, rippling water.

“I haven't gotten drunk in a long time,” she says, and polishes off the remains of her cooler. She fails miserably trying to twist off the cap on the Bud and taking it from her, I hold it against the edge of the pool and slam a hand down on top of the neck of the bottle. Not hard enough to break it, but enough to snap off the lid and send it scattering across the deck. “You...” she snags the drink from my hand and toasts me with it. “...are a man's man.”

“I am, am I?” I won't lie; that inflates my ego a bit.

“Yeah...you are...” she takes a long swig from the bottle and then slowly licks remnants of beer off her lips. First the top, then the bottom. “...I like that. I like a man's man. I like it a lot.”

Sweet...mother...of...god.

“So did you get in shit?” she inquires. “For coming over to the house today? I bet you got in shit. I bet Max went all alpha-male and flipped the fuck out on you. He did, didn't he. I know what he's like, you know. I've been with him...” she holds her right hand up and folds down each finger as she does the math in her head. Frowning when the numbers escape her. “...it doesn't matter how long. It's been a long time. Something like...I don't know...six years?”

“He wasn't too happy,” I admit. “He kinda got into my face about it. Told me that I needed to mind my place and keep my nose out your business and my hands out of your pants. He's a little...I don't know...”

“Possessive? Jealous? Irrational? All three?” she gives a derisive snort. “Can you believe he actually enlisted Kris Letang to 'keep an eye on me'. What the fuck is that? Why do I need someone keeping an eye on me? I'm a grown woman. I know how to take care of myself. I don't need some man running to my aid all the time. And of all people Kris? I mean, don't get me wrong, he's a really nice guy and he's hot as hell. But for God sakes! Talking to him is like talking to a plant!”

“Max just wants to make sure that things are okay at home,” I reason. “He's just worried about you and the baby. That's all.”

“No...no...no...you know what this is about? What it's really about, Eric?”

I shake my head.

“He's got a guilty conscience. He totally thinks I'm going to do something wrong. That I'm going to fuck around on him behind his back. He thinks 'cause he did it to me, I'm going to turn around and do it to him. And he knows that I'm not into Tanger in that way and that Kris wouldn't do something like that to him in the first place. That's why he picked him. So Tanger can make sure I'm not doing anything wrong. That's what this is all about.”

“Whoa...whoa...slow down a second, Pebbles. What are you talking about? He did what to you?”

“He fucked someone,” she answers with a shrug and swallows a mouthful of beer. “Behind my back. Some stripper. Can you believe that?”

Unfortunately, I can.

“He thinks because he did it to me, I'm going to turn around and do it to him.”

“And would you?” I can't stop myself from asking. “Would you do it to him? If you got the chance? I mean, if he screwed up again and pissed you off really bad, would you do it? Just to teach him a lesson?”

“Maybe. I don't know. I've never thought about it. I've never thought about cheating on my husband. Do you know how fucking long it took me to get him to even want me in the first place? For him to want something other than a fuck buddy? Four years, Eric. Four fucking years. All that time I sat back and kept hoping and praying he'd fall in love with me. That he'd want me the same way I want him. Four goddamn years. That's a hell of a long time to wait for someone.”

“But you're glad you did, right? That you waited that long? 'Cause things are pretty awesome. I mean, you got what you wanted. He fell in love with you, you got married, had a kid. Now you've got happily ever after. What more could you want?”

“Happily ever after?” she scoffs at that. “This is happily ever after? If this is happily ever after...” she shakes her head but doesn't finish the thought.

“Well...for what it's worth...” I take a swig of my beer. “...he was a real fucking jackass for cheating on you.”

“A stripper,” she snarls. “A fucking stripper. Someone that takes their clothes off for money. Someone who probably fucks for money, too. Can you believe that? That of all the bitches he could have picked, he went with someone like that? Is that all this marriage is worth to him? That's all I'm worth?”

“He made a mistake. We all make mistakes.”

“Well he keeps making mistakes,” she grumbles. “Over and fucking over again. One mistake after another. And I keep taking him back. I stick around. How pathetic does that make me? I swore I'd never be that girl. The one that stays with a man even though he keeps fucking up. Yet here I am!” she gestures towards the house. “Here I fucking am!”

“Just means that you love him,” I say. “That you're willing to make things work.”

“No it means I'm fucking stupid. It means love has turned me into a stupid fucking fool. And you know why he's like the way he is? Why he's got this whole possessive fucking attitude? Like he has ownership papers to me?”

“Sloan...I don't know if...”

“Because he got to go where no man ever had gone before. Because I was a virgin when I met him. I was...” she insists, nodding vigorously. “...I was a virgin when we hooked up. I pretended I wasn't, though. 'Cause I was worried he wouldn't want me if he knew I'd never been with someone else. So I pretended to be this big old slut and I jumped him in a coat closet at a charity event...” she giggles hysterically. “...can you believe I did that? Can you believe I was such a whore?”

“How can you be a virgin and a whore at the same time? How can...?”

“It was a total whore thing to do,” she ignores me entirely. “And it was an even bigger whore thing to do to be his fuck buddy for four years. But you know what? I did it. I kept my mouth shut and I did it because you know what it mean? It meant that I was all his. I may have been a whore, but I was his whore. How bad am I? How bad of a person does that make me?”

I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to say to that. Although I hardly consider her a whore. I've known a lot of those in my time, and she definitely doesn't fit the criteria of being a skank.

“And you know what else...” she leans in close, as if what she's about to tell me is top secret information. “...I've never been with anyone else. Not even in those four years. Not even when he was fucking everything that walked with a wiggle. I only ever wanted to be with him.”

“Well that's pretty...” I sip my beer and search for the proper word. “...admirable.”

“Admirable?” she laughs. “Admirable? It's fucking ridiculous is what it is! I should have done the same thing he was doing! I should have sowed my wild oats all over the place! I had a lot of chances, you know. A lot of guys wanted to be with me. One of them even plays in the NHL. I let him get so far and then...” she claps her hands together. “...shut the door! Max cock blocked him from thousands of miles away! I should have just done it. Had a couple fuck buddies on the side. Lots of girls would have.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But you're not a lot of girls.”

“But I've only ever been with one person,” she drunkenly rambles. “Just the one. And it's going to be the same one for the rest of my life. And he's been with tons of people. How do I know if the sex is really that amazing if I don't have anything to compare it to?”

I nearly choke on a mouthful of beer.

“Can you believe how boring I am?” she laments. “How boring and pathetic does this all make me? Do you think that way about me? Do you think I'm pathetic and boring?”

“I think...” she watches me intently as I chose my words carefully. Chewing nervously on her bottom lip as she worries about what I'm going to say about her. “...I think you're fucking hot as hell...” I confess. “...I think you're hot and that any guy would be lucky to have you. And that Max is a fucking idiot for sleeping with someone else.”

“Really?” Are those tears sparkling in her eyes. “You think I'm hot?”

“Smoking hot,” I admit. “But...I also think that you've had enough to drink. That you wouldn't be telling me all this stuff if you weren't plastered. So...” I pluck the beer from her hands. “...I'm cutting you off, Pebbles. It's time to...”

I don't get a chance to finish. All words escaping me as she grabs me by the front of the shirt, roughly pulls me into her and captures my mouth with hers in a rough, greedy kiss.