Carry You Home

Forty eight hours before I leave for Philadelphia, I pay Tanger a visit at his loft style apartment located at South Side Works. He'd purchased it it shortly before our short lived playoff run but hadn't moved in until late August, having spent the few months in between hiring top notch decorates and designers to get the place up to his specifications. Don't let the shy, awkward Frenchmen with the hair all the girls cream over fool you; he's far more sophisticated than he looks and has a keen eye for art and style and a thirst for fashion. I blame his model girlfriend for those butt ass ugly modelling pictures that had surfaced of him last year. I'm sure the fan girls loved it; Tanger parading around with his hair slicked back (in quite possibly the most ridiculous style I've ever seen) and his rippling abs showing in just about every photo. But fuck...the clothes they made him wear. That he willingly put on his back! That goddamn 'Mister Rogers' worthy cardigan. And a purse. A motherfucking purse! He'd argued until he was blue in the face that it was called a 'man satchel' but a term like that had only made the ribbing in the dressing room even worse. I'm not exactly Mister GQ -'you're the last one to talk about fashion considering the amount of plaid and Ed Hardy in your wardrobe' Sloan had pointed out, when I'd bitched about Tanger and his 'modelling career' one too many times- but at least I have enough common sense to not humiliate myself like that. I'm sure it's the last time he ever gets mixed up in something like that. The relentless ridicule among the boys has properly scared him off of any more runway shows.

That being said, the kid isn't just a pretty face. Or an extremely talented (if not a little sketchy with his play sometimes, but that'll get better as he matures) yet surprisingly underrated defenceman. He may fly under the radar with that dark and brooding bullshit and he may look all innocent and sweet and stutter and stammer and blush like a school boy when he's embarrassed, but believe me when I tell you that there's more than meets the eye with Tanger. He's not that shy and awkward when you get him away from the cameras and the reporters and out from under the spotlight and expectations the fans. Mostly it's the females...the ones that are desperately in love with him and all vying to be the future Mrs Letang (or at least a future lay)...that expect him to be Prince Charming. Something right out a Disney movie or romance novel. Away from all of the attention showered upon him, he's just like every other guy. He burps, he swears, he gets fall down drunk from time to time, scratches his crotch and doesn't always remember to put the seat down or open the door for a female. And he has sex. Lots of it. Probably even more than me. And that's saying a lot. Although my history boasts an expansive list of different women where he only has a couple dozen notches on his bedpost. Tanger's not into casual sex. He normally doesn't pick women up in bars or accept the puck bunny's invitations for a 'good time'. He actually dates women. Courts them and wines them and dines them and all that shit. Takes his time getting into their pants and then stays there for a while. Not exactly long term commitments, but legit relationships.

He's an enigma that kid. Sometimes you don't know if he's a little boy stuck in a grown man's boy or if he's just playing everyone and laughing behind their backs at how wrong their impressions of him are. Don't get me wrong, he's a stand up guy. He does his best to mind his p's and q's and treats the females right and is amazing with the fans. Not to mention he's an amazing friend; loyal and trustworthy, someone that has your back no matter what the consequence. But he's no Mister Perfect. I've partied with him. We've gotten drunk off our asses together and nearly been arrested for some of the shit we've pulled back home in Montreal. I've even had a threesome with him (not that we had to do anything to each other) and a girl he dated before he met the model he's been on and off for the past couple of years. I know what a dirty bastard he can be. Looks are extremely deceiving. And Tanger has a whole lot of people fooled and eating out of the palm of his hand.

But I trust him. Explicitly. Other than Flower and Sid, there's no one else on this earth I'd go to with the request I'm about to drop on him. The other two just don't have the time to do it. Flower and Vero are dealing with their own relationship issues (a common occurrence ever since they hooked up as teenagers) and Sid's been busting his balls trying to get back into tip top shape and rebound from his concussion issues. Not to mention he's also got twins on the way with his wife (and childhood sweetheart) Bronwyn and he's having a bitch of a time juggling his role as soon to be dad with that of resident superstar. I worry about him in that respect. And Bronwyn and the babies for that matter. I don't know if Sid's capable of turning off the hockey side of himself. If he can find that healthy balance between hockey God and husband and father. It isn't fucking easy, that's for sure. I speak from experience. I'm not exactly the same quality of player, but even a third of fourth line hack has to learn to adjust to those kind of lifestyle changes. Becoming a parent is exciting and terrifying all at the same time. Suddenly there's a little life that is not only completely dependent on you, but has you totally wrapped around their tiny finger. Being a dad is everything I'd ever imagined it would be and more. Everything I've ever wanted. The world revolves around my wife and the life that we'd created together. But Sid...I don't know if he's able to love...truly love...anything other than hockey.

Tanger is the best man for the job. He has tons of personal time on his hands -his girlfriend refuses to move to Pittsburgh, preferring to try and further her modelling career in Montreal- and he's spent a considerable amount of time around Sloan and little Max. He's come for many a Sunday dinner at the house and they adore him. Sloan raves about his manners and how 'adorable' it is that he seems so awkward and shy, and the baby loves that 'Uncle Kiss' always brings him sweets and toys and isn't above getting down on the floor to play with him. He'll do a good job keeping an eye on things. He won't interfere too much in their personal space and I don't have to worry about him getting too close. There's no threat that. He's not going to just saunter in and try and take over my life. The other guys...someone like Tangradi or Deryk Engelland or Matty Niskanen...I don't trust as far as I can throw them. Sure, they'd been loyal teammates and I would gladly go into battle alongside of them any day, but when it comes to my family...I don't know. Something just tells me to avoid them like the plague. Not to give them an open invitation to be dick heads.

*****

“Salut,” Tanger greets me at the door, and instead of what has become our customary fist pound, he instead draws me into a tight embrace. A forearm pressed against the small of my back and a hand firmly cupping the back of my head. The affectionate, brotherly gesture immediately brings tears to my eyes.

After six years, in less than forty eight hours I'm going to be leaving this city...my boys...and the next time I return will most likely be facing off against them wearing a Flyers jersey. I knew that it would be difficult to go. The loss is pretty severe and I'm grieving harder and longer than I thought I would. Maybe the pain will never fully disappear. Maybe it will always be lingering under the surface and certain moments will bring it to the forefront. The first time I report to training camp for another team and find myself surrounded by different faces or my first game back at the CEC as a member of the opposition. I had spent six years in the Penguins organization; a little more than half a decade playing for the most incredible fans. And it's going to feel strange to face up against guys that I'd once gone to battle with. Who I will always consider some of my best friends. My family even. Gone knows we'd been through a hell of a lot together; we'd collectively shed our fair share of blood, sweat and tears and we'd won hockey's holy grail and weathered many a storm as a united front.

I'm dreading saying goodbye. And I really do wish things had ended differently.

Or not ended at all, for that matter.

Tanger pulls out of the embrace only seconds before I finally succumb to the threatening tears and then tousles my hair affectionately, “Comment faites-vous?” he inquires, as he clasps my face in his hands and gives a sympathetic smile.

“Alors si,” I reply with a shrug, and he nods in understanding. “It's harder than I thought,” I admit.

“No one said that it would be easy,” he muses, and holds the door open as I pass through into the foyer. “Life never is, right? It's all pretty simple until you hit about thirteen and then all hell breaks loose. And once you become an adult and start having adult problems...”

“People seem to think that I don't give a shit,” I sigh, toeing off my sneakers as he shuts and locks the door. “They seem to think that this is easy for me. That I'm leaving because I want to. It's not like that, Tanger. You know it's not like that.”

“You did what you had to do,” he slaps me on the shoulder and then squeezes in a show of supportive. “What did people want you to do? Get on your knees and beg? Three hundred thousand dollars is a huge pay cut. Honestly? I wouldn't have taken it either. It was a slap in the face. An insult. You had to move on, Max. You had to do what was best for you and your family.”

“Well my family doesn't seem to think it was for the best,” I grumble, and follow him into the spacious kitchen; all stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops, black wrought iron tables and chairs and burnt orange walls. Tanger's place is something right out of Architectural Digest. Vaulted ceilings, a winding staircase made out of metal and plexiglass and a wall of trickling water in the living room. I remember all those times I'd brought Max Junior over. How my fellow Frenchman would let my boy strip down to just his diaper and let him splash around and make a huge ass mess. Or how he'd cough up enough spare change for Max to toss in and keep himself occupied for hours at a time. “No one sees it the same way we do.”

“Because we get that it's a business,” Tanger reasons, and yanks open the door to his enormous fridge. “Because we're the ones making the tough decisions.”

“Wish I'd never had to fucking make it in the first place,” I mutter, and then shake my head when my buddy holds a bottle of beer over his shoulder. “I'm driving,” I remind him. “Sloan will be calling me in a couple of hours to pick her up Ross Park Mall. And the way I'm feeling? Once I get into the booze, I won't be able to stop.”

Despite things vastly improving between my wife and I within the past two weeks -we've gone back to doing more than sleeping a mile apart in the same bed, she no longer backs away when I try to hug her or kiss her and although she's still agitated as all hell, we'd been capable of having civil conversations- as 'D-day' approaches she's starting to revert back to her old ways immediately following my decision to head back to Pittsburgh. All of a sudden we can't talk to one another without her biting my head off and she's finding excuses and ways to get out of being in the same room alone with me. This morning, we'd gone out to breakfast together and she'd barely said three words to me the entire time. It had been a planned thing; my parents would watch the baby for the entire day and Sloan and I would spend it together. Including the night at the luxurious Renaissance hotel.

But the second we'd walked through the front door of one of our favourite places to eat (somewhere we'd been frequenting since our 'friends with benefits' stage), Sloan had immediately closed herself off. All those seemingly impenetrable walls she'd put up after my decision and that I'd thought I'd broken down, had been rebuilt. And when I'd dropped her off at the mall (a day she'd had planned over two weeks ago with Alyssa Godard and Jordan Staal's live in girlfriend Phoebe) and she'd turned away when I went to kiss her, I knew that my battle to get her to Philadelphia was back at the starting gate. I had thought I'd made some headway with her; she hadn't agreed to move to Haddonfield right away, but she had promised that she'd be up before the start of the second half of the season. Over breakfast she'd told me that she'd changed her mind. The next time we'd be living under the same roof would be during the summer when we returned to Montreal. And when she'd climbed out of the car and took off towards the mall entrance without even looking back, it had felt like she was slipping further and further away. That one day soon, she was going to walk away from me and never come back.

“Fair enough,” Tanger says, and helps himself to a beer and passes me a bottle of water. “Things are going okay?” he asks, as he twists the cap off his drink and tosses it into the sink. “With you and Sloan? Things are...?”

“A disaster,” I lament, and tearing the top of the bottle in my hands, throw it into the stainless steel basin along with his. “A fucking disaster. I don't think she's ever going to forgive me. I don't think she's ever going to accept me playing in Philly. And I definitely don't think we're going to ever live together until the off season.”

“She'll come around,” he assures me, and leans back against the island in the middle of the room and sips his beer. “She just needs some time to adjust to all of this. It's a shock to her. First she thought she'd be in Pittsburgh for the rest of your career and then she got her heart set on Montreal and now all of a sudden, she's finding herself in Philly. That's a lot to digest, you know? Everything she knows is either here or back home. Friends, family...”

“She hates me,” I conclude with a heavy sigh. “She fucking hates me.”

“She's upset with you. She doesn't hate you. Hate is a pretty strong word, non? I don't think Sloan is capable of hating anyone.”

“What about Trevor Gillies? Or even Patrick Kane? How do you explain how she feels about them?”

“Okay...so there's always one or two exception to the rule. But you? Why would she hate you? She could never hate you. You don't just stop loving someone and start hating them. Not when you have that certain kind of love, know what I mean? It's not like you're just some guy she's dating. You're her husband and you have a kid together. Sure, she's pissed off with you for doing what you did, but hate you? Never. Not Sloan.”

“Well it sure fucking feels like it right now. Sure feels like she wishes I'd just drop off the face of the earth.”

“Give her some time,” Tanger encourages. “That's all she needs. Just hang back and give her some time. Stop trying to force things to happen. More you do that, more pissed she's going to get. Haven't you learned anything by now? About your wife? Haven't you realized that things need to be her idea? That if she's going to do something, she has to be the one to decide on it? She doesn't want anyone making her mind up for her or telling her what she's going to do. Shit, I'm just an outsider and even I know all of that.”

“But how much time am I supposed to give her?” Everyone's been preaching about the same thing. Trying to drill the whole 'she needs time and space' thing into my head. So far it hasn't settled in. I just can't accept it. Her refusal to follow me to Philadelphia and start this new chapter of our lives feels like a betrayal. That she's gone against every vow that we'd taken two years ago. What happened to the 'in the good times and the bad'?. Or the 'loving and honouring and never forsaking'?. “How long do I wait, Tanger? How long do I sit back for?”

“She's your wife. You wait as long as it takes,” he replies. “You spent four years not even knowing where you stood with her, non? Four years you guys did this weird back and forth, fuck buddies thing. Now you're married to her. You have a kid. Are you telling me you can't wait until she's ready? Come on, Max...” he shakes his head in dismay. “...she's not just some girl off the street. Some casual thing. Are you telling me that just because she's having a hard time with this, you're going to go to Philly and replace her with someone else?” his eyes narrow and he stares at me. “You're not, are you? Going to do that? Go back to your old ways?”

“Of course not. What kind of fucking question is that? You think I'd do that? Cheat on her?”

“Well it happened before,” he points out.

“One fucking time,” I growl. “It was just once. I owned up to it, didn't I? Told her myself? It's not like I even tried to get away with it. I made my mistake. Learned my lesson. I love my wife. To the ends of the earth. And I'm not going to do anything that might make me lose her. Or my boy.”

“Because you know that's what will happen, right? You know that if you do something like that again she's going to leave you and take the baby with her and...”

“Tanger...enough...” I raise a hand in a show or surrender and a plea for him to back off. “...it's not going to happen. No other women. I just want Sloan. Only her. No one else.”

“Good,” he concludes with a satisfied nod. “Because you know if you ever fucked up and she got rid of you, there's tons of other guys that would be willing to take your place.”

“Are you one of them?” I ask. “Are you one of those guys? Are you going to walk in when I'm gone and try and take over? Are you going to...?”

“What? No...no...” he shakes his head vigorously. “...never. I'd never do that to you. What kind of question is that? I'd never do something like that. Are you being serious right now? Asking me something like that? I mean, you've got a hot wife and all that, but...”

“I trust you, Tanger. There's only three people in this world...aside from my parents...that I trust like this. And I need you to do me a favour. A huge favour. And I totally get if you don't want to do it. If it freaks you out or...”

“What is it? You don't want me to be like a surrogate daddy or something like that do you?” he teases. “You don't want me to cough up some sperm or anything, right? Because that would be just a little weird.”

“I want you to keep an eye on things around here. On Sloan and the baby. It's fucking killing me that they're staying here and I'm going to be five hours away. What happens if something goes wrong? She needs some help around the house or the baby gets sick? What happens if shit goes down and I'm all the way in Philadelphia? I need someone that can take care of things. Someone close by.”

“Me?” his eyes widen in alarm. “Why me? Why not Flower or Sid? Or one of the older guys? That know things about kids?”

“I'm not asking you to be a stand in dad or anything. I'm just asking you to keep an eye on my family. Be there if they need you for stuff. Stop by the house from time to time to check on them. You know what Sloan's like; she'd never ask for help from anyone. And if you just go over there casually...”

“Won't she think it's a little weird? If suddenly I'm coming around, poking my nose into things?”

“I'll tell her that I talked to you. That you said you'd stop in and check on her and the baby. I'm not asking you to move in or anything. Play husband and daddy. I just need you to make sure they're okay. That's it. And Sloan's always going on and on about how sweet you are. How much she likes you.”

“She is?” his eyes are as big as saucers for now. “She likes me?”

“Always teasing me about how I'm lucky she didn't meet you first,” I admit with a chuckle. I don't tell him that's she confessed to finding him 'beyond sexy'. Or how she thinks he always looks so sad and troubled. That each time she looks into his eyes she can practically feel the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. “Look...Sid and Flower have their own shit going on. I don't want them having to add this to their plates. And there's other guys I wouldn't trust to remember to water the houseplants. Not to mention I don't think they'd waste any time weaselling their way into other parts of my life, know what I mean?”

He nods in agreement.

“Little Max loves you. You're one of his best buddies. And Sloan trusts you. I trust you. I wouldn't have come to you if I didn't. If I didn't think that you were the best person to turn to. I don't ask for much, Tanger. I'm not the type of guy that asks for help. But I need you to do this. I need you to give me your word. That you'll keep an eye on them. That nothing will happen to my family.”

“I won't let anything happen to them,” he promises.

“So it's a go, then?” I offer my hand to 'seal the deal'. “Are you in or out?”

He sighs, takes a long swig of his beer and then curls his fingers around mine in a firm shake. “I'm in.”