Carry You Home

The sound of a car door slamming jolts me awake; my head snapping forward from its resting place against the back of the seat with enough force to cause a searing pain to shoot from the nape of my neck to the space between my shoulders. The agony is too much to bear. A tsunami rages in my head and an ocean of alcohol and bile churns in my stomach. It's been a long time since I'd been this drunk. So inebriated that I can barely keep my eyes open or hold my head in an upright position; it rolls to one side and then the other, my chin drops into my chest in second and the base of my skull collides with the head rest another. Everything is hazy; my vision blurry, my thoughts impaired, my limbs barely able to move on their own free will. My mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton balls. Ones soaked for hours in a mixture of tequila, Jack Daniels and beer. It's a horrid taste; acrid and nauseating. And I reach out and frantically fumble for the bottle of water that sits in one of the cup holders between the seats.

The bottle crackles under my fingertips. Attempting to get the cap off in my state is like trying to figure out the most complicated and intricate puzzle on the planet. And when I finally do manage to twist it off and raise it the drink to my lips, I discover that the goddamn thing is empty.

Of fucking course.

Giving a cry of disappointment and anguish, I allow my head to fall sideways against the cold, smooth window and close my eyes. I don't even know how I ended up here. How I'd even managed to get from the Flower's backyard to the driveway of my own home. Everything is fuzzy; snippets of memories that manage to cut through the fog and the suffering. My last vivid recollection of the evening was growing tired of being the only WAG left in a gaggle of drunk, annoying men that were fighting over everything from who was beating who at Black Ops and who was going to be the one to get off their ass and go into the utility room to fetch the last case of beer. I had had enough; the headache caused by a mixture of their childish drama and the amount of booze that I'd foolishly consumed in relatively short period of time making fresh air a necessity.

I had thought it would sober me up. Help clear my head of the some of the negative and depressing thoughts that were swirling around inside of it. The going away party had just seemed to make my harsh feelings and my bitterness towards Max even worse. It should have helped ease all of that. Seeing and hearing how supportive and understanding everyone is and how they hold no ill will towards him should have banished my own lingering hostility. In turn, had just made it all even more intense. It was all so fucking fake. Every word out of every mouth was so sugary sweet and so goddamn phony. Merely said to both repair and boost his ego. I had hoped that someone would really press the issue on 'why Philly?'. I had wanted someone to get the answers that Max seems so fucking reluctant to give. And instead they'd humoured him.

Both the booze and the bullshit had left a horrible taste in my mouth. I couldn't take the 'blame everyone else' mob mentality being shared by the remaining members of the Penguins gathered in Flower's basement. No one was holding Max accountable and instead of being happy for him, it had made me want to just punch him in face. Irrational, of course. But alcohol makes rational people do and think some crazy things. And I had decided to flee the negativity surging through me before I managed to make things in my marriage even worse. I don't want to feel this way towards him. I don't want to hold onto all the hurt and the resentment that he's caused in the course of a year and a half. I had thought that I was over all of that. That I'd moved on from his affair -is that even what it is? Considering it was only one night?- and didn't hold any grudges or hard feelings. We'd fixed things. Gone to counselling and busted our asses to make our relationship work. Built up the trust and the respect over time. And I had thought that we were well on our way to a full recovery.

My exodus into Flower's backyard hadn't gone according to plan. I had planned on trying to sober myself up. In turn I'd discovered a long forgotten half case of vodka coolers and just proceeded to add to my drunken state. How pathetic was that? Drinking alone? Allowing myself to stew over things I couldn't quite let go of? Questioning what was so wrong with me...what was so hideous and repulsive...that my husband would choose to slip with such a nasty skank.

That is my last lucid memory of the evening. Sniffling over the past like some little kid crying over spilt milk. Everything else is disjointed and fragmented. An extremely fuzzy recollection of Eric Tangradi joining me poolside and...

Jesus Christ!

I bolt upright and lay a hand over my mouth; dizzying and nauseous as all of the memories come flooding back at once. Drinking together, the playful teasing and the harmless flirting. The smell of his cologne mixed with a hint of sweat and the strong scent of chlorine drifting off the water. The way I'd so blatantly blurted out the vast majority of my deepest and darkest secrets. Things I've shared with anyone aside from Pheebs. Being a virgin when I'd seduced Max as a seventeen year old and his one night with another woman. Did I really express regret over some things in my life? Did I honestly question about whether I was happy and fulfilled with my marriage? Talk about how I sometimes wonder if maybe I'd made a mistake not experiencing other men?

This is exactly why I always promise to steer away from alcohol in social settings. Because too much booze means an uninhibited Sloan. And an uninhibited Sloan says things that are better left kept under wraps. Not to mention she does stupid shit.

Like kissing another man.

And while I shouldn't have done it and using alcohol on as a crutch is even more pathetic than the drunken action of making out with someone else, I have to admit that I'd somewhat enjoyed it. Okay...so I'd enjoyed it a lot. It had been so forbidden and so scandalous. The threat of being caught in such a compromising position only adding to the excitement that I'd felt when he'd finally caved in and kissed me back. I still tingle at the mere thought of it. About how surprisingly soft and supple his lips were and how I could taste a mixture of whiskey and beer on his tongue. And it makes me shudder and a throbbing, delicious heat to build in the pit of my stomach and between my legs when I think about how he'd tangled one of his huge, powerful hands in my hair and felt me up with the other all the while kissing me back with aggressive exuberance.

Then he pulled away. Almost as quickly as he submitted to the kiss in the first place. We'd sat there for what seemed like an eternity, gasping for breath and our eyes locked on each other; intense and intense and unwavering. And just when I'd attempted to apologize for ever putting him in a situation like that, he'd jumped up from the edge of the pool, dumped both of our drinks onto the grass and had practically dragged me inside. Giving Max shit for ever letting me get into such a drunken stupor and ordering him to 'keep an eye on your girl!'.

I'm not entirely sure what happened next. Other than being unceremoniously dropped into the passenger seat of the car. Did I say anything about my little moment with Eric? Does Max know what happened? Did I make the pile of shit I'm already wading in even deeper?

“Fuck...” I groan, and clasp one hand to my forehead and the other to my stomach. Too much drink mixed with too much drama and way too much thinking is just making my physical agony even worse.

*****

The passenger side door of the car is tossed open and the cool breezes ruffles my hair and licks at my flushed face. I have no idea what time it is. Or how we ever managed to make it home in one piece. Is Max even sober? The plan had been for me to act as the designated driver and for him to get plastered with his buddies. Looks like the shoe is on the other foot.

“Sloan...” his voice is surprisingly tender considering what a mess I am. “Sloan...” he pries my hand away from my forehead and then clasps my face between his palms. “...we're home now. Are you going to be okay? Can you make it inside?”

“I think so,” I mumble, and he wraps his long, thick fingers around my slender bicep and helps me out of the car. The second my bare feet -where the hell are my shoes?- hit the pavement, the world seems to spin around me and my stomach wretches; I barely have the chance to announce I'm going to be sick and Max almost doesn't get out of the way before I throw up all over the driveway.

“Jesus...Sloan...” he sounds more concerned than he does irritated. And he has a hell of lot to be annoyed about.

It's been a long time since I've gotten to this state. When we'd been young and unmarried and using each other for merely physical purposes, there'd been many a night when he'd practically had to carry me out of Diesel, down the street and into his place. Where...even though he was pretty damn drunk himself...he spent the remainder of the evening and the better part of the wee hours of the morning holding my hair back as I 'paid homage to the porcelain God'. Practice that had served him well for when I'd wound up pregnant and fell victim to brutal all day sickness that had plagued me well into the third trimester.

And Lord knows I'd nursed him back to health quite a few times when he'd gotten hammered.

“Baby...this isn't good...” he heaves a weary, worrisome sigh and finding a safe spot on the pavement to stand, leans into the car to pop open the glove compartment. Rummaging through the stacks of owners manuals, scrap pieces of paper and other useless items in search of the pack of baby wipes we always keep handy. “...why do you get like this, huh? Why don't you ever just stop before you get like this? I shouldn't have to baby sit you.”

In my inebriated state, I overreact to his light scolding. Breaking down into heaving sobs that only make my insides quiver even more and cause me to cough incessantly. Which in turn only makes me throw up yet again. And once I start, it takes a while for me to stop.

“Don't cry...” he pleads, and pops open the travel container of wipes. “...there's no reason to cry...just calm down, okay? Just try and take it easy.”

That's much simpler said than done. It's a few minutes before my insides decide to cooperate and I'm able to draw air into my aching, burning lungs. And while I sit back against my seat and wallow in my misery, my husband tenderly cleans my face and the front of my clothes and then leaves momentarily to grab a bottle of water from the case that we keep in the trunk.

“Here...” he cracks open the drink and cupping a palm under my chin, presses the plastic against my lips and pours some of the water into my mouth. “...drink it nice and slow...don't gulp...nice and slow or you'll just throw it all up.”

He has his moments. Tender and patient moments where it completely makes up for all of the thoughtless, total douche bag things that he's either said or done. Max isn't a bad person. A least not the Max that I'd fallen in love with and decided to devote my life to and have babies with. He's a wonderful, caring man with a heart that's bigger than his body. Who would do anything to care for and protect the ones that he loves the most. And the way he is right now...exactly how he'd been before all of the lies and the betrayal and the craziness had taken over our lives...fills me with so much guilt and regret for what I'd done at Flower's. For kissing another man and considering going even farther than that.

“I'm sorry...” my voice trembles. “...I didn't mean to do it...I'm sorry.”

“I know you didn't mean to, but...” he shakes his head in dismay, his thumb repeatedly brushing against the underside of my chin as he slowly pours more water into my mouth. “...you know you get really, really sick when you drink too much. That you've never known when to just say no and cut yourself off. You know how you always preach to me about 'everything in moderation'? How come you never follow your own rules?”

Christ...he doesn't know. He has no clue what I'd done with Eric. And while the last remaining shred of sobriety is screaming at me to just come clean before he finds out on his own (is my partner in crime the type of person that will squeal on me?), the drunk and terrified side of me is to telling to just keep quiet. That what he doesn't know won't hurt him. That if I can get to Eric Tangradi before regret and a guilty conscience propel him to tell Max went down, the better off we'll all be.

“And I think this is far more than just drinking too much,” he says, and pulls the now half empty bottle away from my face and screws the cap back on. “You've been sick a lot, Sloan. Nearly every day...several times a day...for more than two months now.”

“Stress,” I reason. “You heard what the doctor said. It's just stress. It totally fucks people up.”

“It's gotta be more than that,” he gently argues. “Way more than that. You've been taking medication so that you're not so depressed and anxious and you've been having trouble sleeping and you're losing all kinds of weight and...”

“She's done tests,” I remind him. “Lots of tests. All kinds of blood work. Not to mention we took six home pregnancy tests and they were all negative. So we know it's not that.”

“Well it has to be something,” he sighs. “Something serious. You need to go back and see her. Tell her you need her to check into things. Because feeling like that isn't normal. Getting sick this...” he nods towards the mess in the middle of the driveway. “...when you're not drunk? That's not right. You have to call her.”

“I will,” I promise. “When I get back to Pittsburgh, if I'm still feeling like this, I'll go and see her.”

“If you're still feeling like this in a week, we're finding a doctor in Philly. We shouldn't even wait that long. Maybe you should call her tomorrow and I'll work something out with the Flyers. Tell them that there's some serious shit going on and that I need to take care of it before I can make it into training camp.”

“And piss them off? Make them think badly of you before you even play your first game? They've given you a huge opportunity, Max. Not to mention a massive paycheck. If you do something like that, they might regret signing you and they might make things miserable for you and...”

“Fuck them,” he interjects. “I don't give a shit about that. There's things that are more important than hockey. Things that have to come first. You and the baby are those things. You mean more to me than some fucking sport.”

“I know, but...”

“I'm calling them,” he concludes, and presses a kiss to my forehead before helping me stand up. “I'm calling them and telling them that I need to make sure that things are okay at home before I report to camp. If they don't like it...” his voice trails off and he shrugs.

“You're awfully fucking stubborn,” I crumble, as he shuts the car door with his hip and curls an arm around my waist. “Has anyone ever told you that? How big of a pain in the ass you are?”

“You've been telling me practically every day for the past six years.”

“Well it's the truth. The whole truth and nothing but. You...” I stumble my way towards the front door. “...are a phenomenally stubborn pain in my ass.”

“And you...” he fishes his keys out of the side pocket on his cargo shorts. “...are plastered.”

“Just a little drunk,” I correct, and trip over the slight rise in cement before the front door. Max isn't quick enough to catch me and I hit the pavement hard; cushioning the blow with the heels of my palms and my knees. And despite the pain that shoots through me, I can't help but find my predicament highly amusing. And I collapse onto my ass, laughing hysterically as I lean back against the cold, rough bricks that cover the garage.

“Yeah...just a little...” he grumbles, unlocking the door and then crouching down in front of me. “...I swear to God woman...if you give me a back injury...”

“Are you calling me fat?” I gasp dramatically, curling both arms around his neck as he wraps one of his around my shoulders and places the other under the back of my knees. “Are in insinuating that I'm a heifer? That you can no longer carry my fat ass over the threshold?”

“Your ass is awesome,” he assures me, and gives a small grunt as he pushes himself up onto his feet. “I was insinuating that I've become a total pussy and I might not be able to carry you all the way upstairs without breaking myself in half.”

“Sure you were...” I snort, and bite down on his ear lobe. Hard enough to not only to cause him to hiss in pain and draw blood, but to have him nearly drop me. “I'm sure that's exactly what you meant to say.”

“And you call me a pain in the ass,” he mutters, and yanks the door open. “You're a pain in my ass and in my ball sack.”

“You like it when my ass and your ball sack get to have a little fun together,” I giggle at my perverted little joke. “You know...you may be a stubborn shit and you may piss me off from time to time...but I..love...you...”

“I know you do. And I love you, too. Even though you're an obnoxious drunk.”

“I am not obnoxious. I am a lot of fun. You know what I was thinking? What would be a lot of fun? If you took me upstairs and threw me on the bed and ravaged me!”

“Only thing I'm doing to you when you get upstairs is throwing you in a cold shower and then putting you to bed.”

“Party pooper,” I grumble, and then cackle hysterically. “I just said poop! Hey! Look under there!”

“Under where?”

“I just made you say underwear!” I squeal in delight.

“You're really annoying,” my husband declares as he slowly mounts the stairs.

“No...no...no I'm not. I am really, really, really sexy. And smokin' hot. Eric told me so.”

“He did, did he? Well I guess it's something I actually agree with him about. You are smokin' hot. And crazy sexy.”

“He wants to sleep with me,” I ramble. “I could tell, you know. I could tell when he kissed me.”

“When he what?” Max's entire body tenses.

“Kissed me. Well I kiss him. But that's neither here nor there. He was a good kisser, too. But not as good as you. Nowhere near as good as you.”

“You know....” he shakes his head slowly, fumbling with his keys as he slips them into the lock. “...you're lucky I love you. And that you're drunk and have no clue what you're doing or saying. Or I'd drop you on your ass and leave you here.”

“No you wouldn't.” I scoff. “Because you love me.”

“Yes, Sloan. I do. I do love you. Regardless of what you think.”

“I love you, too,” I sigh, my head snapping backwards as all of the alcohol I'd consumed begins to count me out. “I love you too, Max. Even if you do piss me off. Even if...”

The words never get a chance to leave my mouth. Instead, I pass out cold in his strong, protective arms.