Carry You Home

Talk about adding insult to injury. Rubbing salt and vinegar and a whole slew of corrosive substances into a festering wound.

I've lived in Pittsburgh for the past three years and before that I'd made numerous 'reading week' and Christmas break trips to the city when Max and I were still in our Friends with Benefits stage. I've walked hundreds...if not thousands...of miles in and around Ross Park Mall and charge an enormous amount of money to credit cards and drained my bank account in their stores on numerous occasions. Not once have I ever seen any other sports apparel on display other than Pittsburgh teams. The front window displays of athletic stores filled with anything and everything Steelers, Pirates and Pens related. T-shirts and sweatshirts, hats and scarves and jerseys. Lots of jerseys. Mostly Roethlisberger and Polamalu on the football side of things and an enormous amount of Crosby, Malkin and Sid during hockey season. Once Max had become the game seven hero in 2009, his name and number had been everywhere. All of a sudden everyone knew who the hilarious, fun loving kid from Lemoyne, Quebec was; reporters crowded his stall for interviews and he couldn't walk down the street without being mobbed by fans seeking autographs and pictures. Max had always been well loved in the city. He's compassionate and sweet and has always gone out of his way to make people happy. Donating what money and time he could spare to local charities and supporting small, Pittsburgh businesses by not only purchasing their wears, but openly promoting them.

He was always the cordial and obliging to the fans; he enjoyed delivering seasons tickets and taking part in student rush and never refused to attend local collector shows or visits to the sick and special needs children at UPMC. As annoying as it could get when people didn't understand our need for privacy during family outings (things that were so rare and precious during the season) he never turned down requests for a couple moments of his time. And he never backed out of signing autographs for hours after practices and games, whether it was in the sweltering heat of summer, rainy spring days or blustery fall nights or the dead of winter. Max loves everyone. He's warm and welcoming and makes complete strangers feel as if he's known them for his entire life and that they're somehow part of his inner circle. And in turn, they'd always adored him. Never getting enough of his silly car commercials or his often questionable wardrobe choices and his slightly tattered yet ultimately endearing English.

I don't think he's ever really realized just how loved he actually is here. It's been a rough two months since the decision; our home and cars have been vandalized, we've had the word 'traitor' spray painted on our garage and we've received warnings of impending harm and death threats via letters shoved in our mail box. We've also seen the videos on the internet of fans burning Talbot jerseys and read some of the hurtful comments posted on his official fan page on facebook. We both understand the anger and the frustration; we get why people feel betrayed and that they're going through a 'grieving process' of sorts. And we also know that not everyone is acting in such a fashion. We've received so many wonderful messages of support; Max's true fans have come out of the woodwork in droves (from various places in North American) and have let him know that they appreciate everything he'd done in Pittsburgh and love him no matter what. But it's human nature to dwell on the negative and completely push the positives to the back burner. It's been two months of trying to defend Max. Regardless of how upset and hurt I am over the fact he'd promised me one thing and had done another, I will defend him until the day I die. He's the love of my life. My husband and the father of my baby. Of all my future babies. And our issues fail to stand in the way of me sticking up for him. I've done interviews, posted several blog posts, called into television and radio stations, all to tell people where to go and how to get there. To try and explain the situation he'd been in and why he'd made the decision he had. And just how much it was breaking his heart to leave.

In the end, I don't think it did much good. All I'd wanted to do was defend him and in some fans' eyes, it had just made the situation worse. Now they hate me, too. I'm an 'opinionated, loud mouth bitch' who should be 'in the kitchen, shackled to the stove, barefoot and pregnant'.

Apparently they've never loved someone to the extent I love Max. Where you can't remember how you ever managed to get along in the world before they came along and how you don't know if you could ever live without them. How even though you're mad at them and you want to strangle them with your bare hands, you'll stop at nothing to stick up for them. He'd do the same thing for me. No matter how crazy I drive him or how bitchy I get or how nasty the things are that I say when we fight. I may not appreciate the fact that he'd gone behind my back and made such a life altering decision without me and I may not be bowing to his wants and needs at this time, but I won't let anyone get away with treating Max like shit.

*****

And now all the emotions that I've been harbouring for two months...all that lingering anger (towards him, towards the cluster of assholes trying to make our lives a living hell, towards Ray Shero for treating Max like he had) and bitterness and hurt...have come to the surface. All because of a fucking hockey jersey in a window. Three years ago I'd stood in almost this exact spot -at the same time of year- in the mall and had found myself confronted by a massive storefront display dedicated to my husband. A huge poster of him in all his sweaty, bearded glory hoisting the Stanley Cup above his head surrounded by home and away jerseys and 'shhh' t-shirts. I'd had my own little fan girl moment; squealing and jumping down (much to Max's embarrassment and the chagrin of other shoppers) and forcing him to take a picture of me in front of the window. My pride had (up until then) been rivalled only by witnessing his two goals in game seven and seeing him vaulted into legend status in Pittsburgh sports lore.

The sight in front of me makes me feel nauseous. Both my chest and my throat tighten as the beginning stages of an anxiety attack settle in. My breathing quickens and my heart pounds furiously in my chest and sweat beads on my brow and collects at my temples and the nape of my neck. I've fallen victim to panic and anxiety attacks many times in the past; mostly over issues with my crazy as fuck family and the drama that had accompanied Max's night with the stripper. In the past two months, things have been...unstable...with my moods to say the least. In between the nagging anger and resentment and bitterness, there's been times where the mere thought of uprooting from Pittsburgh had left me unable to breath and sick to my stomach. And when all the hate towards Max and the threats and the damage to our personal property had begun to roll in, it had only gotten worse.

Now my torture is in the form of two Philadelphia Flyers jerseys hanging in the window display of Champs. A store that has never, ever decorated their storefront display with anything other than merchandise belonging to Pittsburgh teams. Yet there they are...flanked on either side by a Sid and a Fleury jersey...a Jagr jersey bearing his famous 68 and a Talbot jersey adorned with his new number, 27. I could give a shit less about Jaromir Jagr. I had known as soon as he'd begun making all these promises to Mario and saying shit like 'my heart has always been in Pittsburgh' and 'I want to come back and end my career there' that something was going to go wrong. I remember telling Max that it was going to be another Forsberg incident. That the money they were going to cough up for him would prevent them from signing all the young, gritty talent that had helped keep the team afloat when Sid and Geno went down.

“If this is the reason why they don't want you back, I hope it blows up in their fucking face,” I'd raged. “If they're willing to part with you because they want to play along with some old man's feelings of nostalgia, I hope he plays three games and shits the bed.”

Max had thought I was blowing things out of proportion. He'd reminded me of the insane amount of goals Jagr had scored overseas in the past year. How he'd helped the Czechs beat the Russians in the world championships. And he'd told me I was being 'ridiculous' and 'negative' when all those reports of Jagr going 'missing' on his way back to Pittsburgh to sign a contract had prompted me to say, “He's probably on his way to Philly to bum fuck all of us.”

It had been a joke, of course. But one that had eerily enough come true.

“That is just sacri-fucking-ligious,” Phoebe mutters, as she sidles up next to me, the ends of her newly shorn brushing against the tops of her shoulders. She's my best friend and she's tried to be as supportive as possible, but like a lot of people in the city, she'll never quite forgive Max for choosing Philly. And to be honest, I don't know if I ever will either. It has nothing to do with the city or the Flyers' fans (although the run ins I've had with some over the past three years alone were frightening) and everything to do with Max fucking me over like he had.

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out aside from a pathetic, nearly inaudible squeak. There's no words. Nothing that can adequately convey what I'm feeling at the moment. Seeing the jersey makes it all too real. For two months I've done my best to ignore the realization that he'd never wear the Penguins uniform again. Thinking about him being in anything other than black and Vegas gold had made the anger towards him and the sadness over eventually leaving the city even worse. Now it's all but smacking me in the face. My husband's last name...my last name for that matter...and the unfamiliar number 27 just feet away. Mocking me. Making all those negative, painful feelings return with a vengeance. It's so wrong in so many ways. I want to storm in there and tell them to take it down. That he's number 25, not 27. That belongs to Craig Adams. They aren't suppose to share a number. And for fuck sakes, Max most certainly isn't supposed to be wearing THAT jersey.

And what is up with the fucking 'This is what a traitor looks like' signs that are plastered to the window?

“Sloan...” Alyssa Godard appears to my left; concern etched on her pretty, youthful features as she reaches out to gently tuck strands of hair behind my ear. “...are you okay?”

My friends have been more than understanding and supportive. In their own ways. Alyssa shares the immense sadness and disappointment that I feel. Both towards the Penguins organization for how Max was treated and towards Max himself for going behind my back and making such a life altering decision without me. They've always been extremely close. Like brother and sister. It was Max that had taken her to the hospital when she'd gone into labour with her and Godsy's first baby. Eric had been doing a rehab stint in Wilkes-Barre and Alyssa had called our house at three in the morning in a state of sheer panic; her water had broken and she was contracting hard and fast. Max had been the one to make sure that she was okay; that the nurses and the doctors treated her right, holding her hand and talking her through the most painful moments, fetching her cups of ice to munch on and cold, wet face cloths for her forehead. Staying with her until Eric finally showed up. Every since then they've tight. 'My second wife', Max has always joked. And Alyssa isn't handling the loss well at all.

Pheebs on the other hand...I love her like a sister and my life is truly blessed because she's in it...is the angry one. And most of it is directed at Max. She's never gotten over his affair with the stripper -'Why the fuck did you stay? What the hell did that even teach him? That he can fuck other women and you'll still take him back?'- and now the Flyers incident has just pushed her over the edge. She'll never accept his decision and while she doesn't wish anything bad on him and she's certainly appreciative of everything he'd done while a Penguin, she's all but washed her hands of him as a hockey player. There's times she can't even stand him as my husband and little Max's father.

“He just keeps hurting you and you keep taking it,” she'd complained just last night on the phone. “He fucks another woman and you take him back. He goes and signs with the Flyers without even telling you about it and you're still around. I know you're sticking with this whole 'staying in Pittsburgh' thing for now, but how long is it going to be Sloan? How long before you bow to what he wants and you go running to him?”

Uncalled for? Slightly. Harsh? Absolutely. But Pheebs has always practised tough love with everyone around her. Including Jordan. Although she's never been tested, either. He's never gone and cheated on her. Or at least been caught doing it or man enough to fess up. And I can't help but wonder if she'd be so willing to kick him to the curb if the shoe was on the other foot. It's always so easy for outsiders; to judge others and lecture you about what choices you should be making. But it isn't that simple when it happens to you. Love isn't easy. No one said it would be. And sometimes you go back on promises you'd made to yourself about how you'd handle certain situations. I'd always subscribed to the adage 'once a cheater, always a cheater' and sworn up and down that no man would ever get away with doing something like that to me. But here I am. Only a year removed from Max fucking another woman. Maybe it's because he'd been so open and honest about it. He hadn't even tried to get away with it. He'd told me right away and he'd been genuine in his remorse and Lord knows he's been trying ever since to make things right again.

“You know this doesn't change anything, right?” Alyssa inquires, as she wraps an arm around my waist and firmly leads me away from the window. Pheebs stays behind; a hand on her hip and her head slowly shaking back and forth as she surveys the nauseating display. I can only imagine what is going on inside that pretty little head of hers. I wouldn't put it past her to storm into the store and confront the manager. “You're still one of us. You're still welcome here. With all of us Pens' WAGs. Didn't we already go through all of this?”

I've spent a lot of sleepless nights thinking about it. How I'd be received not only in Pittsburgh, but with women that I'd gotten extremely close to. I'd spent a lot of time working with the WAG Association and I'd made some wonderful friends. Most have been supportive; they've called and given me pep talks and assured me that no one is going to think any less of me because of Max's decision. The usual suspects have been bitches about it. Brooks Orpik's girlfriend Erin had left me an email about no longer being welcome at the CEC and how she better not see me even sitting or conversing with the other wives. That I'm 'dead to her'.

“This is Max's doing,” my friend continues. “Not yours. No one blames any of this on you. And once the anger and the hurt wear off, they won't blame Max either. They'll realize that it was the right decision for him to make. That he did what he had to do.”

Maybe that will happen. Maybe one day, people won't hate him as much. And maybe I won't either.

But that seems like it's light years away.

******

I cry the entire way home. I'd somehow managed to get through the remains of my shopping excursion and lunch with the girls yet the second I'd slipped into the passenger seat of the BMW SUV and Max had pulled out of the mall parking lot, I'd lost it. I hadn't been able to contain the tsunami of tears or the horrendous sobs that racked my entire body; my face buried in my hands and my knees drawn tightly into my chest. It's the first 'real' cry that I've had since the incident. Even the first decent one I'd allowed myself to succumb to since Max cheated on me with that nasty ass slut. I've shed my tears over the situation. Because of the hurt he's inflicted on me making the decision behind my back, because of how selfish and immature I feel for staying behind in Pittsburgh just to 'teach him a lesson', because he hasn't even left yet and I already miss him so much I ache. But this...the force of my emotions and the intensity of the throbbing in my chest and the agony of the tightness in my stomach...is nothing I've ever experienced before. Or let myself experience, for that matter.

Max hasn't said a word. He's probably more relieved that I've let myself break down instead of worrying about how I always hold things in. It's his main pet peeve. Always has been and probably always will be. He hates that I've never fully let my guard down, even with him. That I've always felt the need to protect myself, even from someone that loves me to the ends of the earth. I had been getting better. I had been letting him in. And then the one night with the stripper had happened and I'd reverted back to my old ways. And now the Philly thing...

He's really batting a thousand, isn't he?

Throughout the drive, he'd kept a supportive, strong hand hand on the back of my neck and has stolen concerned glances out of the corner of his eye. He'd stopped at a gas station to get me a bottle of water and a box of tissues and a bottle of Aspirin because I'd complained about feeling as if my head was going to explode. At red lights he'd leaned over to kiss my temple or my cheeks and he'd run a palm over my hair and used his slightly calloused fingertips to clear tears off of my cheeks. But nothing has come out of his mouth. Not even a single 'I'm sorry'. And deep down, I think that's what I need from him. I need him to say it and I need to believe it. Because so far, his apologies haven't seemed to carry much weight.

We sit in the driveway for nearly twenty minutes. Listening to the tick of the engine as it cools and the sounds of traffic speeding down Carson Street behind us. We don't talk; Max sits with his legs stretched out, hands behind his head and his eyes closed and I stare up at the house...our house...with an elbow on the window ledge and my hand over my mouth. I can't seem to bring myself to leave this place. Our 'ugly orange abomination' as I've called in many a time. I'd always hated it. Even when Max and I were just dating (I use that term extremely loosely) and I'd come down to visit. The stairs that lead from the garage and the front door to our actual residence have always been a pain in the ass. Especially having to carry an infant (and it only got worse as he got older and heavier) or bundles of groceries up them. We've never gotten around to putting curtains or blinds on any of the windows -'That's because you like people to watch us' Max had teased, and there were times that he'd fed into that dirty side of me and had helped me live out those perverted little fantasies- and we donn't have a backyard or a basement. Not to mention the colour itself is garish. Everyone knows us -mostly in part to the HBO 24/7 series- because of it.

Yet for some reason, the place is entirely Max. It's always seemed to 'fit' him. And I'd fallen in love with it as I'd fallen more in love with him.

Now the place I'd once hated and couldn't get out of fast enough, seems like a castle. A safe haven.

I glance over at him. He looks good. Beyond good, in fact. His hair recently cut and just shy of a brush cut -he'd taken baby Max in for a trim and they'd both come home with their hair nearly buzzed right off- tan deep and golden against his snow white t-shirt; tight across the chest and around the biceps, the sleeves short enough where it gives a sneak peek of the tattoo that graces his right arm. He's in the best shape he's ever been; fifteen extra pounds of pure, solid muscle that long, tedious hours in the gym have rewarded him with. He may not be conventionally handsome; the crooked nose and the various scars that decorate his face. But to me he's the most beautiful man on the planet. And right now, I want nothing more than to throw my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. Lose myself in the feel of his warm body pressed against mine and in the sensation of those strong arms wrapped around me. Max has always made me feel safe and protected. Even when things have been at their darkest. And right now...right now I need those feelings back. I need to prove to myself that he still brings those feelings and those emotions around. Because if he does, I know things will be okay. If he doesn't...

“We should go inside,” he says suddenly, and leans forward to finally remove the keys from the ignition.

I don't know if he's completely oblivious to how intently I've been watching him or how desperately I need him. But the fact that he doesn't acknowledge the way I've been staring at him or the breakdown I'd launched into the second we'd left the mall, makes the hurt and anger just grow even more. And when he lays a hand on the top of my head and runs his palm along my hair and leans in to kiss me, I abruptly turn my face to the side. His lips landing on my cheek.

“Is this how it's going to be?” he asks. “Is this how we're going to be with each other from now on? Forever? Is this how you're going to treat me? Because if it is...”

“I just want to be alone right now,” I cut him off. I don't want to hear the end of what he was going to say. Because it sounded ominous and I just can't deal with that shit right now. “I need to be away from you.”

“In two days you are going to be away from me,” he points out. “Next time we see each other will be nearly a month. When training camp ends and I finally get some time to myself. I won't be able to just drive back and forth all the time to see you and the baby. I won't...”

“I never asked you to and I don't expect you to,” I snap. “Right now, I just want you to leave me alone.”

“Fine...” he sighs in exasperation and throws his hands up in surrender. “...fine, Sloan. If that's what you want.”

It isn't what I want! I internally scream, as he throws open the driver's side door and climbs out. I want you! I want things to go back to the way they were. I want us to be okay!

“You know...” he pauses before shutting his door. “...one day I'm going to leave you alone for good. One day, you're going to push me so far away, that I won't be able to find my way back. Is that what you want?”

My failure to respond in what he feels is an acceptable time is just one more nail in my coffin. He simply shakes his head, furiously slams the door closed and stomps up the driveway.