Carry You Home

In the past seventeen months, my body has grown accustomed to being up at crack of dawn; used to snapping awake at even the slightest hint of sound that came through the baby monitor. At first it was being awakened by the shrill cries of an infant desperate to be fed and changed. I can vividly remember all the times I stumbled out of bed -blurry eyed and exhausted, my entire body aching from a game the night before- and across the hall to tend to my tiny, precious son. It had never mattered how tired or sore I was or if I'd just arrived back in Pittsburgh after a long and trying road trip and I'd only been home for a couple of hours. My little boy was the light of my life. My pride and joy. And before he'd even managed to make it into the world, I'd made a promise to be the best dad that I could possibly be. My old man had been one hell of a role model; busting his ass to make ends meet, working his fingers to the bone and shedding a lot of blood, sweat and tears to make sure that his family was provided for. When I'd found out I was going to have a kid of my own, I'd been determined to be just like my dad. He had paved the way and left some mighty big shoes to be filled; I knew if I could be even half the husband and father that he was, my son would be better off for it. And I easily recall the overwhelming, suffocating surge of emotion that had washed over me when -just mere hours after little Max had been born- my dad had stood at the end of Sloan's bed with his brand new grandson cradled protectively in his arms. A smile curving his lips and tears sparkling in his eyes already when he turned to me and said,

“You did good, boy. Real good.”

And now that seven pound newborn weighs nearly thirty pounds; a fearless, precocious toddler that has me wrapped around his little finger. Every morning since he learned how to pull up to stand, he's been waking us up the same way: rattling and banging on the bars of his crib and hollering for someone to come and rescue him. A couple of times he's even attempted to seek freedom on his own; getting one leg over the top railing and either becoming stuck and forced to scream for help, or toppling overboard and onto the hardwood floor. I've come to expect his early morning wake up calls; the moment the sun starts peeking through the curtains he's giggling and shrieking and ready to start the day. During the summer, the mornings are our favourite time together. Mommy gets to sleep in (sometimes even until well after noon hour) and her two boys fend for themselves. We have breakfast together (I either make pancakes or we head to McDonalds) and then we hit up the park for a couple of hours before coming home for lunch and a nap. It's a happy little routine that we've gotten into. One that I even try and continue during off days during the season. And now that he's going to five hours away and we're not going to be living under the same roof...

I'm going to miss him. Beyond all comprehension.

This morning he's decided to sleep past his normal time. The sun is already pouring into the master suite and there hasn't been a single peep from the bedroom across the hall. Instead, I'm stirred awake by my wife lightly scraping her fingernails across my shoulders and down my chest. There's a soft rustling of sheets and bed clothes and the mattress dips and sways slightly as she moves above me; my eyes still tightly shut against the harsh sunlight and a low, animalistic groan rumbling deep within my chest when she replaces her fingers with her mouth. Warm, moist kisses are scattered over my fluttering stomach and her tongue traces each section of thick, hard muscle that inhabits my abdomen; swirling around my navel before delving inside. The mixture of sensations -the slow, feathery movements of her tongue partnered with the way the fingers on one hand twist and tug at my chest hair and those on the other pinch and knead at one of my nipples- are almost too much for me to bear. Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down my temples, my hands tightly grip the sheets below and my heels dig into the mattress. And while my brain is quick to remind that of how she'd been a drunken mess just hours before, my body is operating on -and only concerned about- its own agenda; my cock giving a single twitch before launching itself from comatose to firing on all cylinders.

“Sloan...” her name somehow finds its way through my painfully tight throat and between my parched lips.

It's almost a pathetic, submissive whisper. She has me right where she wants me. And she knows it. Relishes it. This loss of control on my part...my willingness to just hand over the reins and let her be in command for a while...doesn't happen that often. And she's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She pounces; seizing the opportunity in front of her and aggressively yanking my boxer briefs down on my ass. My hips lift on their own according; aiding those nimble fingers as they peel the thin fabric down my legs and over my feet before tossing them aside. The rational side is screaming at me to put an end to things before they get even further. Less than seven hours ago she was throwing up all over the driveway and herself and it had been up to me to clean her up and get her inside where she'd be safe and sound. Carrying her all the way upstairs and listening to her ramble drunkenly about how she'd kissed another man. And that she'd actually enjoyed it. I should be pissed. Beyond pissed, even. And had she not been so hammered and had I not treated her like complete and utter shit a handful of times over the past year, I would have just tossed her drunk ass into bed and slept on the couch. Maybe even for a couple of days. Sulking and holding a grudge until I felt she begged and pleaded to my satisfaction.

What can I say? I'm an immature ass.

But the cold hard facts is that I'm the last person who should be holding a grudge. Who should be expecting any form of apology. I've done some shitty fucking things over the past thirteen months. I've made horrible choices and I've done some pretty bad things with some equally as bad people. And I should be counting my lucky stars that Sloan is even still around. She could have easily left when I'd told her about the night that I'd spent with the stripper. In fact, I half expected her to. She had a right to hate me and to want to punish me. To hurt me in the way one she knew would inflict the most damage; take my kid and leave town and make me fight just for the chance to see him. But she didn't. I'd underestimated Sloan. I'd especially underestimated the way that she feels about me. And I don't see it as a show of weakness on her part. It's never crossed my mind that her sticking around means that I can screw up time and time again and she'll always take me back. If anything, it's made me realize just how lucky I am. And that I really don't deserve someone like her. I don't deserve having someone that loves me that much.

“Sloan...” my voice is for forceful this time, and I shove my hand through her thick, unruly hair and give a gentle tug, forcing her to look up at me.

Even if I hadn't been mature enough at the time to admit it, I've loved her since she was seventeen years old. Back when we were both young and stupid and everything had been a game. I'd been so caught up in enjoying the lifestyle that being in the big leagues had to offer (even if I was just a virtual nobody toiling away on the farm team) that I'd been completely fucking oblivious to what I had right in front of me. A beautiful, amazing girl back home that practically worshipped the ground I walked on and who had (despite the 'arrangement' that we'd made) sworn off all other guys. Had I not been such an idiot, I could have avoided those wild and crazy days all together. I'd sowed my wild oats all over Pittsburgh and Montreal and a handful of cities all over North America and I'd regaled the boys with tales of my sexual exploits and I'd both laughed at and fed into my reputation as a womanizer. But deep down, I've never been proud of it. And if I could go back in time six years to the night that I'd come up with the stupid fucking 'friends with benefits' idea and stop myself from ever even thinking such a thing, I would. Because maybe...in some crazy, twisted way...being committed to her -and only her- right from get go might have prevented me from doing the shitty things I'd done.

*****

“I love you,” I tell her. Short, sweet, straight the point. What more is there to really say? That's the gist of it, isn't it? I love her. Regardless of what she probably thinks sometimes.

She smiles. That adorable, precious little smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes and the tip of her nose. The one that our son has inherited. The only thing that he has managed to get from his mother. Other than his remarkable, almost frightening intelligence. “I love you too, Max,” she responds, and for the first time in a long time, I actually believe her. She's had every reason in the world to hate me. And even if she had denied ever feeling that way about me and always declared that she still loved me no matter how pissed off she was, I always knew deep down that she was lying. That there was a linger animosity that she just couldn't let go of. And now...well now it seems be dissipating. “I'm sorry,” she says, and with her hands on my hips, presses a handful of kisses along my stomach. “For what happened last night. For getting sick like that and for telling you about Eric Tangradi. For even kissing him in the first place.”

That's the last thing I want to talk about. The last person that I want to bring into our bedroom even if it is just through the mere mention of his name. It happened; she kissed him and she liked it and she was upfront about it. Although I can't help but wonder if she would have told me had she been sober.

“Max...” she frowns when I take too long for respond. “...you're not mad, are you? You know I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't drinking, right? You know that I wouldn't...?”

Tangling my fingers in her hair, I roughly yank her up the bed and into an aggressive, demanding kiss. Punishing, even. My lips claiming and owning hers, my tongue not wanting for permission to enter as it shoves between her teeth and into her hot, sweet mouth. I'm sick of all the fucking apologies. It's all our lives have consisted of over the course of the past twelve months. There isn't enough “I'm sorry's” in the world to take away the damage that we've both inflicted on each other. To erase what I've done or exterminate the hurtful, horrific things that we've said to one another during our epic battles. Nothing can ever make us forget. The things we've done, the words that we've used as weapons against each other, will live forever. We can push them away and they can fade over time, but they'll never disappear entirely.

She gives a yelp when I dig my teeth into her bottom lip; tears sparkle in her eyes as she pulls away to glare me. I don't apologize. At least not with words. Those...for the most part...are hallow and empty. Instead I place chaste, feathery pecks on the corners of her mouth and smooth the pad of my thumb over her swollen and bruised lip. The kiss that follows is tender; our open mouths moving sinuously against one another, our tongues briefly grazing against each other before tangling in a slow, erotic dance. I roll her over onto her back, propping myself on my elbow alongside of her, as my free hand roams her body. She sighs into my mouth when I press my palm against her left breast; the nipple responding accordingly and poking out through the thin fabric of the t-shirt I'd struggled to dress her just hours earlier. When the need for air finally forces us out of the kiss, my mouth finds the side of her neck and the hallow of her throat instead; teeth, lips and tongue working together to drive her into a frenzy. Nipping, suckling, bathing. Tempting and teasing until she's grabbing at my hair and arching her body against me.

We make out like teenagers in the backseat of a car. We kiss eagerly and sloppily, we feel each other up and dry hump one another through our clothes. I slip my hand between her creamy, silken thighs and push two fingers past her swollen, moist lips and into her war, welcoming body. My thumb briefly brushes against her clit and she cries out against my shoulder; one hand gripping my rock hard cock through my boxers and the nails of the other scraping down my back.

“No,” she protests, when I move away to snatch a condom from the nightstand drawer. For over a year we've been using them. My affair and her worry that I'd contracted something from the stripper (even though multiple tests have shown that I'm clean and should have been enough to banish her paranoia) had relegated us to using rubbers. And brought an end to our quest to have a second baby. “No more,” she says, and putting a hand on the back of my head, pulls me into her. My entire body shuddering as the tip of her tongue travels along the outer edge of my ear and her teeth capture the lobe. “Make love to me, Max,” she whispers.

It's the first time she's ever used those words. Sloan and I aren't the kind of couple that 'makes love'. We have wild and crazy monkey sex. It's fast and hot and borders on the violent side. We're the type that not only leaves bruises and scratches on each others bodies, but loves the pain we suffer from afterwards. We don't do gentle. It's never, ever dawned on either of us to be that way. But now...as I draw away to look at her...now I see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. It's something that she wants. And needs. She needs me. And God knows I've let her down too many times to count.

“Don't cry,” I whisper as I cradle her face in my hands. Smoothing the pads of my thumbs along the dark circles under her eyes, I press tender kisses across her forehead and down the tip of her nose. “Please don't cry...everything's going to be okay...we're going to be okay...”

I want to believe that. I know she does too. And maybe...just maybe...her wanting me in this way...and without the use of protection...is a sign that we're on our way to being completely healed. That one day very, very soon, we're going to be Max and Sloan again. We're going to have the happily ever after that we'd so desperately wanted when we gotten married and started a family.

It has to get better. It just has to.

*****

She sleeps for the better part of the day. Several times I'd gone to check on her; kneeling down at the side of the bed and brushing her hair away from her face and kissing her softly. Whispering about how much I love her and confessing how terrified I am of losing her. How I wish there was something I could do to convince her to come to Philadelphia with me. I don't want to be without her. I don't want to be stuck in an unfamiliar city without my wife and my little boy. They're my only support network. The only two people I can count on to keep me grounded. And I'm scared of what might happen with so many miles and hours separating us. I'm supposed to take care of my family. Protect them and provide for them. How am I supposed to do that if they're so far away?

I also made promises to change. To make things up to her. A long time ago, I told her that I could be the man that she needed. One that she could rely on and be proud of. And so far I haven't lived up to any of that. Things that I haven't been able to be open and honest about. Maybe one day I'll be able to tell her. I'll get over the worry that thinking and feeling all of those things somehow make me less of a man.

It's been a relaxing yet fulfilling day. The events during the early morning hours had left me with a new found sense of hope and promise. And while I let Sloan sleep off the remaining effects of all of the alcohol she'd consumed the night before and to catch up on some of the rest she'd been so sorely lacking during the past few months, I spent the day with my little boy. Breakfast together, a couple of hours in the park followed by lunch at McDonalds and a nap when we got home. Now we sit on the couch together; him perched on my knee, an orange Popsicle clutched tightly in his hand and my laptop open on the table in front of us as I go through the pictures my brother Frank sent earlier. All of his precious baby girl; my beautiful little one month old niece, Jeanne.

“Baby!” Little Max squeals, and points towards the screen. “Bay...bee...”

“That's your cousin,” I tell him, and press a kiss to his temple.

He's my everything. The greatest thing I've ever achieved in my entire life. He's better than any Stanley Cup. A silver trophy that you bust your ass to get but aren't even allowed to keep. My boy is a gift straight from God. A legacy that I've created. Growing up, I'd always thought that my brothers would be married and starting families long before I would. In fact, there'd been many times during my teen years and even into young adulthood when I had thought that a wife and kids just weren't my cup of tea. It didn't seem of the utmost important to get married and procreate. Even if my mother did think the sky was falling if I didn't want all of that. Who knew that I'd be the first one to delve into wedded bliss. Or give my folks their first grand baby. Now I can't even bear to think about what my life would be like had I never run into a somewhat grown up and mature Sloan at that golf tournament. There's been a lot of ups and downs. We've weathered some pretty ferocious storms. But it's all been worth it. Our little boy makes all the turmoil and the battles worthwhile.

“Maybe soon, you'll have a baby brother or sister,” I say. “Maybe mommy and daddy will have a baby of their own. Would you like that? To be a big brother? To have a little brother or sister to take care of and play with?”

“More like terrorize them,” Sloan mumbles, as she wanders into the living room. I only need to take one look at her to know that something isn't quite right. And it extends far beyond the remains of her hangover. Her skin is sickly grey and her hair lifeless as it tumbles over her shoulders and down her back and a pained grimace curls her lips.

“Mum-mum!” our son cries ecstatically, sliding down off my lap and tearing across the room. He doesn't have even the slightest inkling that there's something wrong. Nor does he notice the smile that his mother feigns when scooping him up causes her obvious physical discomfort. Worry nags at me. I can't ignore the impending sense of doom that suddenly hangs heavily in the air. Sloan attempts to cover it up. Showering our son with kisses and affection and tickling him until he's not only giggling hysterically, but rendered breathless.

“Go easy on mommy, okay?” I shut the cover on my laptop and go to her rescue. “She's not feeling very good today.”

“Mum-mum sick?” he inquires, turning those huge blue eyes on his mommy, a pout curving his lips.

“Just a little bit,” she confirms, but smiles nonetheless. “Nothing that some quiet time with her two favourite boys can't fix.”

If only it was thateasy. There's something wrong. I want to convince myself that I'm only being paranoid. That it's not as horrific or as serious as the things my imagination are conjuring up. But I don't like the way she looks or sounds. The scratchiness to her voice or the way she has one hand pressed against her throat and the other on the small of her back.

“Baby...” I try to sound as calm and composed as possible. “...what's going on?”

“My throat is really sore,” she admits. “And it feels swollen. Does it feel swollen to you?” she asks.

Placing the baby on the ground, I lay my hands on either side of her neck. “A little,” I reply. “The right side is worse than the left. Maybe your tonsils are acting up? You didn't have them taken out as a kid, right? Maybe you've got tonsillitis.”

“Maybe...” she sighs, and then looking me dead in the eye, moves my right hand closer to the hallow of her throat. “Do you feel that? That lump there? You feel it right?”

I nod. It's hard to miss; a mass the size of a golf ball.

“It's been there for about a month now. But it started out like this...” with her thumb and forefinger, she makes a circle the size of a dime. “...and now it's like this.”

“A month, Sloan? It's been there for a month? Four weeks and you're just telling me now?”

“There's been so much going on,” she tries to explain. “There's just been so much drama and so many issues with us that I didn't feel like making things worse by bringing it up. And the doctor said I was sick because of stress. That once I got a handle on things I'd feel better and I'd...” tears sparkle in her eyes and she chews nervously on her bottom lip. “...it's bad, Max. It's really bad, isn't it.”

“We don't know that,” I respond.

I just wish I didn't feel it.