Carry You Home

“So much for sticking to your guns,” Phoebe grumbles. “For showing him exactly who's boss. Just when I really thought you'd had enough and that you had it in you to stick with the program, you do a total one eighty on me. I should have known that this was coming. This happens every time Max fucks up. You rant and rave and lay down all these rules to him and then he turns around and does something so sweet and so adorable...” disgust drips from every words. “...that you totally go back on everything you said.”

“It's not that I'm not 'sticking with the program' or going back on everything I said,” I attempt an explanation. “It's just that I had to alter some things. Make some concessions. Give a little, take a little.”

I love Pheebs to death; she's my best friend and closer to me than even my own flesh and blood. Aside from Max, she knows all of my deepest and darkest secrets and has never once betrayed my trust. I trust her with my life. With my son's life. And there's not many people that I can honestly say that about. Aside from Bruno and my mother and father in law, there isn't anyone else I would trust to water my houseplants or bring in my mail. Never mind take care of a living, breathing human being properly. But when I tell you that she's ferociously stubborn and so dead set in her ways that she's a nightmare to reason with...

“Oh pu-leeze...” she laughs. “Max is getting his way. As usual. He always does. He bitches and moans and grovels enough and you just cave. Crumble faster than a bloody house of cards. One good roll in the hay and he's got you bowing to him and eating out of the palm of his hand.”

“It was a little more than a good roll in the hay,” I admit, as I gingerly step over baby Max as he plays in the middle of the kitchen floor. Clad in nothing but a Pull Ups and a Lightning McQueen t-shirt and hair still damp from an impromptu mid morning bath -brought on by him dumping an entire bowl of cheerios and sliced banana over his head just for shits and giggles- , he's intently focused on a wooden puzzle originally intended for two years and up. He's phenomenally tenacious and an extremely quick learner; it won't surprise me in the slightest if he actually manages to figure the damn thing out. “And it was definitely more than once,” I add, as I reach for a cup of tea sitting at the back of the stove.

I still physically ache from the all of the 'extra curricular activities' that Max and I had indulged in two days ago. Don't get me wrong; sex with him has always been astounding. I'm very fortunate to be blessed with a man that not only is gifted with phenomenal sexual prowess and the skills to rival any porn star, but who is a bigger fan of giving than receiving. It had been a long time since we'd been able to enjoy the 'wild and crazy, no holds barred monkey sex' that had we'd been privy to before we'd dived into parenthood. When there's a little one practically attached to your hip, there's barely any time to take a shower or throw some clothes in the wash let alone actually lie back and enjoy sex. When they're babies, you're exhausted from getting up every two to three hours and being covered in baby vomit on a constant basis makes you feel less than desirable. When they're toddlers, they not only discover how to climb out of their beds and find their way to your room, but they figure out how to get your door open.

Having that alone time at the hotel had been just what the doctor ordered. At least to satisfy our carnal wants and needs. It all started off with a quick and near violent fuck in one of the Mount Washington trolleys and had continued back at the hotel into the wee hours of the morning. Everything from raw and unhinged to slow and tender. Our inability to keep our hands off each other or our clothes in had put our drive to Philadelphia off by a day; we'd stayed way past our check out time at the hotel and all of our family plans had be carried over into the following day. For a full twenty four hours afterwards I couldn't stand even the touch of the softest fabrics against my crotch and the bruises are so deep and cover so much of my ass and the insides of my thighs, they're still painful. It's going to be quite the ordeal wandering around the zoo all day.

“Sex doesn't solve problems,” my best friend informs me. “We're both far removed from the line of thinking that it's possible to simply fuck our issues away.”

“It doesn't solve them, but it stops you from hating on each other and makes you concentrate on pleasing one another. Come on, Pheebs...” I sip at my drink; grimacing when I realize it's lukewarm and spitting it back into the cup. “...like there's never been a time where you and Jordy didn't resort to make up sex to smooth things over between the two of you.”

“Smoothing things over happens when you fight over stupid shit,” she says. “When you get into dumb ass arguments over petty crap yet you're both too damn stubborn to be the one who apologizes first so everything gets blown out of control. Shit like him leaving the toilet seat up for you to fall in at three in the morning, not remembering to bring milk home after you wrote him a list and reminded him twice on the phone. Stupid, domestic shit that you do battle over. Not having an affair with some two bit, more than likely diseased riddled stripper.”

“So it comes back to that,” I sigh, and tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, rinse my cup out at the sink and drop it into the already overflowing dish rack.

There's so much to do yet so little time in which to do it in. On top of our family day at the zoo and the appearance we're putting in tonight at a farewell party being held at Flower's house for both Max and Eric Godard, there's a lot on my plate. We're not leaving for Philadelphia until early tomorrow afternoon, but I still need to finish packing (going anywhere with a kid is a nightmare; toys and clothes and books and not nearly enough tote boxes or suitcases to shove it all in) and there's a staggering list of various household chores that I need to tackle. I can't leave this place a total mess for the next three weeks; the dishes in the rack and sink need to be done, the ones already occupying the washer need to be put through their cycle and the laundry is piled sky high in the bedrooms. My mother in law had offered to stay in extra day to help get everything done; she can miss the first day of school and get a substitute teacher. But Serge was exhausted from his time spent chasing around after his grandson and was anxious to get home.

“I love you both very much,” he'd assured me, as he'd kissed and hugged me and little Max at the door. “But I need a vacation to recuperate from this vacation.”

“You're not really pissed off about him signing in Philly, are you,” I state, and use the tips of my toes to tickle the back of Max's neck.

At first he doesn't even realize that I'd done it; so engrossed with the task in front of him, those brilliant blue eyes narrowed in concentration, the end of his tongue poking through his rosy lips. When I repeat the action, he scowls, rubs at the back of his neck in annoyance and then glances up at me.

“What?” I inquire, and tickle his tailbone. That finally gets the reaction I was hoping for. A broad smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and the end of his nose and is quickly followed by his musical little giggle. Then he circles my legs with his arms and affectionately snuggles his face into my calves. He's just a wonderful, beautiful little human being. Don't get me wrong; he's a little shit with no sense of fear and he's constantly being scolded for something he's gotten himself into. But he's filled my life with so much happiness. And watching him grow and learn is magical; I'm in awe of him every single day.

I never thought it was possible to love anyone more than I love my husband. That all consuming, profound love that is often overwhelming and frightening. And just when I had thought that my heart couldn't possibly take anymore, our little boy came along.

******

“Look,” Pheebs heaves a sigh of exasperation. “I completely understand why Max did what he did. Not necessarily the team that he did it with, mind you. But I totally get the business side of things, Sloan. Did I not agree with you that the offer the Pens game him was complete and utter bullshit? A total slap in the face? And I know that they made it perfectly clear when he turned it down that his time here was over. Hockey is his livelihood. It's what he loves to do. And it pays the bills and it keeps a roof over your heads and clothes on your backs and food on the table. He wanted financial security for his family. No one can fault him for that.”

“But...” I crouch down alongside of my son and then slowly slide down onto my butt. His patience is beginning to wear thin; those tiny fingers can't seem to get a firm grasp on the wooden knobs in the middle of the puzzle pieces and while he's got two in their proper spots, the others are giving him a hard time. With the phone tucked into the crook of my neck, I wrap my hand around his and aid him in picking up the smooth car and truck shaped pieces and guide them into place. “...there's a but. I know you, Pheebs. There's always a but.”

“The part of me that's a a life long, die hard Pens fanatic just pissed off that he chose the team that he did. I mean, the Flyers? The fucking Flyers?”

“It wasn't for the money,” I quickly jump to Max's defence. “He was offered a bigger deal somewhere else but Philly gives him the best change at winning. Instead of being stuck on a team that's been in a rebuilding process for damn near a decade and doesn't seem to be getting out of it anytime soon. And out of all the teams that were interested in him, this was as close as we could get to Pittsburgh. His foundation is here, all of our friends...”

“Five hours may as well be five thousand,” she declares. “You're my best friend, Sloan. I love you like a sister. We're used to seeing each other every day. It's been like that for three years. You know I don't do well with change. Who else is going to show up at the office to take me to lunch? Who's going to be the bad influence that shoves martinis into me when I'm on company time? And what about Halloween and Christmas? Who is going to wear stupid costumes with me and be my partner in crime when it comes to wearing those little elf costumes? And never mind the WAG Association meetings. Half the time we were the only sane ones there. We always made fun of everyone else afterwards. Who am I supposed to be friends with? Erin? Only thing I want to do to her is bitch slap her into the middle of next week. Vero? Vero's been acting like a massive bitch lately.”

“There's Bronwyn,” I point out. “She's still there.”

“She's going to be swamped with motherly shit once the twins come along. She doesn't have the time to play besties with me. And besides, you know what Sid is like. He doesn't like her being too close and cozy with anyone. What's he so afraid of? Protecting his privacy? There's a problem when your wife is afraid to open her mouth out of fear of saying the wrong thing or she stays locked inside the house because you feel it's safer for her.”

“Sid has his reasons for being the way he is,” I reason. “Part of me understands them, the other part thinks he's way too anal and obsessive. And I'm only going to be gone for three weeks, Phoebe. This isn't a permanent move. I'm trying to save my marriage here. I'm trying so hard to hold things together. As pissed off as I am at him for going behind my back and picking the Flyers and as adamant as I am to not move there, I don't want to lose him. He asked me to come for three weeks. So he could have some extra time with me and the baby. I thought he deserved that much.”

“What he deserves is a swift kick in the ass. And what he'd deserved months ago was having his shit packed in garbage bags and left out in the driveway. He didn't even deserve that. You should have just torn up all his clothes and dumped all his other shit out front and then had divorce papers dropped in his lap.”

“Pheebs...” I switch the phone from one ear to the other and then clap along with little Max when he finally gets the last puzzle piece in place. In reward, I smother his ear and cheek with kisses and then wrap my arm around his tiny body and draw him tightly into my side. “...I know that you're upset about the whole stripper thing. And I know it was a shitty thing for him to do. But...”

“But? How can there be a but? He fucked another woman. Someone who gets paid to take her clothes off for strangers. You can rest assured he wasn't the first patron she banged. And he won't be the last. What if he'd caught something? Brought it home to you? What if...?”

“He didn't though. He was careful about it and...”

“And you need to stop making fucking excuses for him. Stop defending him. Just because he wrapped it up, doesn't make what he did any better. Who are you? The reincarnation of Tammy Wynette? Suddenly practising all of this 'stand by your man no matter what' bullshit? This isn't you, Sloan. This isn't you at all. I'm the one you came to, remember? When it first happened? You may have acted all calm, cool and collected in front of Max, but I'm the one that that you opened up to. I'm one the one that you unleashed on. I'm the one that you cried to. The one whose heart broke to see you like that. And that's why I'll never let it go. Because I saw what he did to you. I will never get over that and I certainly can't just erase it from memory or forgive him. I love you and little Max. But as far as his father goes...”

“He's my husband, Pheebs. He's my husband and I love him and...”

I don't get a chance to get the remainder of my sentence out of my mouth; interrupted by a vigorous -and repetitive- knocking at the front door. To get into our place, you have to either have a key for the entrance downstairs or call up through the intercom mounted on the bricks in order to have someone buzz you into the building. For years, Max had lived without a lock or any other form of security; people used to just wander in off the streets and up the stairs and knock on the door to his place. Mostly autograph seekers or drunks with nothing better to do at three in the morning.

“I am getting way too old for this shit,” I mutter, knees cracking as I push myself up onto my feet. “I'll have to call you back,” I say to Pheebs, disconnecting before she can respond and tossing the cordless phone onto the counter. “Let's go little man,” I scoop Max Junior up and settle him on my hip. “I can't even turn my back on you for five seconds or you'll be tearing the place apart.”

“No mom-mom! Nooooo!” he wails, beating one fist against my collarbone and the other on my back, his heels digging into my thigh. “Noooo!! No want! Want puzz-dle!”

“You can go back to the puzzle in a minute,” I promise, grimacing as he grabs a handful of my ponytail. “Would you just slow your row, child? I just have to check who is at the door.”

“Nooooo!” he bellows, and then sucks in a deep, huge breath and holds it until his face starts to turn blue. It's a common thing for him when he's rebelling; his version of a temper tantrum. Refusing to breathe until we have to pry his cheeks open.

“Don't be silly,” I scold, and tap my palm against the bottom of his chin and dig my thumb into one cheek and my forefinger into the other. “What did daddy tell you about being a good boy while he was taking grandma and grandpa to the airport? About how if you were bad we wouldn't go to the zoo. You don't want me to tell him about this when he gets home, do you? You want to go and see the tigers and the elephants and the zebras?”

“Pen-wins?” he inquires hopefully. “Pen-wins?”

“And the penguins,” I assure him. “But you won't get to see them if you're bad. And right now, you're being very, very, very bad. You want to go to the zoo, right?”

“Go see the pen-wins.”

“Then you know what means...” I glare at him. “...quit your nonsense, mister. Got it?”

“Gots it,” he says, and shoots me a thumbs up accompanied by the wide, almost goofy grin. Definitely his father's son.

Carrying around a thirty plus pound bundle makes it impossible to stand on my tip toes to check who the visitor is through the peephole, and I curse my earlier decision to postpone my shower and frantically try to tidy my messy ponytail. It never fails; you look like complete and utter shit when someone shows up unexpectedly. It could be anyone. A meddling reporter looking for an interview, a fan wanting Max's autograph and a piece of his time, some asshole with enough balls to come up here and freak out about the decision to sign with Philly. And here I am, ready to make one hell of an impression in the tube top and Tweety Bird boxers I'd worn to bed.

“Holy!” I huff, when the knocking continues. “Keep your damn pants on! I'm moving as fast as I can. Sheesh...” snapping open the dead bolt, I balance little Max on my hip and yank the door open.

There...on the other side...is my Pittsburgh Penguins crush. All the WAGs have one; a player aside from their husband or significant other that makes their insides flutter and their breath catch in their chest. It's harmless. Nothing more than red blooded females finding other men attractive in the same way they do with women. None of us would ever do anything except admire. And while most are crushing over guys like Kris Letang (he's insanely attractive, but definitely not my type. Too quiet and reserved) and Jordan Staal, my little fantasy -although little isn't a word that can be used to describe him- isn't a full time member of the big club and spends the majority of his season down in Wilkes-Barre. I haven't even been in his company that much. I can count the number of times we've actually spoken to each other on one hand.

But whoa...he's something else. Built like a brick shit house; broad shoulders and a wide chest and powerful arms and massive thighs and calves. All on display in a pair of a tattered and weathered jeans that have been cut into the male version of capris and a plaid button down shirt with the sleeves long removed. Loose pieces of thread dangle against his shoulders and sweat glistens on his smooth tanned skin.

If there was ever such a thing as walking sex, it would be him.

Eric Tangradi.