Carry You Home

He smells so good. An intoxicating mixture of sweat and cologne that reeks of masculinity. His skin is impossibly smooth and tanned a delicious, golden brown; a stark contrast against the snow white walls of my front foyer. Tufts of hair stick out from the back and sides of the trucker style ball cap he sports and licks at the nape of his neck and drops of perspiration trickle down his temples and along his jaw and glistens on his shoulders. I'm a red blooded female; I feel no shame in finding a member of the opposite sex attractive and I make no excuses for the little fluttery sensations that inhabit my stomach or the way my heart races in my chest. I've got hormones that love to come out and play even though I've got a pretty phenomenal sex life. And the way Eric stands in my doorway... that solid, powerful body taking up so much space and every pore just oozing confidence and sex appeal...is like a scene straight out of a cheesy, smutty romance novel. Some bizarre yet completely sexy little fantasy wherein some redneck finds himself stranded on the side of the road after his pick up truck breaks down and he manages to find his way to the front porch of the only place for miles. And after meeting the 'lady of the house' and charming her with his 'awww shucks' personality yet making her salivate with his muscles and the way his ass and his bulge fills out his jeans, practically tears her clothes off and throws her down on the table and makes an 'honest woman' out of her.

Of course, this isn't some one horse town and I'm not some long, suffering woman that's been abandoned by her husband or a still grieving yet unbelievably horny widow. And life definitely isn't some lame Harlequin romance novel where the author uses ridiculous terms like 'throbbing manhood' and 'quivering magic button'.

And I certainly shouldn't even be entertaining any notions of a slightly redneck Eric Tangradi manhandling me and chewing my panties off.

Although it's not like I'm actually wearing any.

“Hi!” little Max cries in greeting, and reaches up to excitedly wave his hand in Eric's face. “Hi! Bonjour! Hi!”

I nearly loose my grip on him when he practically launches himself at our guest.

“Whoa...whoa...hey there little man,” Eric lets loose a deep chuckle and those massive arms reach out to rescue my son from certain doom before he can hit the floor. “You gotta be more careful there, sport. Your mommy almost lost you there. You nearly gave her a heart attack and you coulda split your head open.”

“Good catch,” I praise, and breathe a sigh of relief. “Pretty decent reflexes you have there. Sure you never wanted to be a goalie growing up?”

“If you ever see pictures of me as a kid, you'll realize right away that being the next Jacques Plante wasn't in my destiny. I would have gotten down into the butterfly and my fat ass never would have been able to get back up. You better be careful there, mommy. Or you're going to have a little accident too. A little nip slip.”

“A what? What's a...”

“Nip slip,” he repeats, boldly reaches out to yank my tube top further up my chest. “Now I've got nothing against boobs and I've been a titty man all my life, and I certainly don't mind sneaking a peek at your girls, but something tells me your old man wouldn't like that very much. So...”

“He's not home,” I say, and self consciously fiddle with the diamond and amethyst pendant that dangles from the thin, platinum chain around my neck. “He took his parents to the airport. They're heading back to Montreal because his mom's back to work right after labour day. Not that I'm taking advantage of the situation and intentionally showing you my boobs or trying to seduce you or anything like that. I mean, you're hot and all that, but...” I chew nervously on my bottom lip and wish I could take that last part back. “...you know what? I'll shut up now.”

I can only imagine how embarrassed I look right now; my cheeks and the tips of my ears are on fire and I want nothing more than to crawl under a rock. Nearly having a wardrobe malfunction in front of one of my husband's ex teammates? Epic fail. It's almost as bad as the time some asshole at summer camp when I was thirteen snuck up behind me in the pool and undid my bikini top so when I stood up, I'd flashed the entire place my barely there 'goods'. I'd been teased mercilessly for my 'mosquito bites' and then had gotten the last laugh when I'd shown up the first day of school in grade eleven with a C cup.

That summer had been extremely good to me.

As far as Eric and Max go, I hesitate at calling them friends. Eric is normally in Wilkes-Barre and even when he is in town with the big club, he's not exactly in Max's 'circle'. That's reserved for guys like Flower, Sid, Jordan Staal and Kris Letang. And we're close to Pascal Dupuis and his family. Maybe acquaintances is a better word to use; the vets all mingle with each other and boys from the Baby Pens have formed their own little group.

“What's a matter there, Pebbles?” he grins down at me. “Cat got your tongue? Not used to someone gettin' one over on you, huh? Don't be shy. I don't bite. Not unless you ask me to. And then it's not that hard. Not usually, anyway.”

“Pebbles?” I arch a quizzical brow, deciding it's best just to leave the flirtatious comments and the sexual innuendos alone. Whether joking or not or whether this is just part of his regular personality (at a charity event last season, he'd been walking past me in a crowded dining room and had made a casual comment about the 'junk in my trunk'), those types of things can only get people in trouble. And trouble is the last thing I need.

“Yeah...Pebbles...you know, Fred Flintstone's daughter,” he explains, and despite Max Junior weighing nearly thirty pounds and it becoming increasingly difficult for me to pick him up, effortlessly tossing the giggling and squealing toddler repeatedly into the air. Each time safely catching him in those powerful arms. “She was a ginger,” he adds. “Like you.”

“I know who Pebbles Flintstone is. I've just never had anyone call me that before. Usually they're calling me things like 'gin-gee' or 'freckles' or 'red'.”

“Totally amateur. What kind of boring people do you hang around with? Good thing I came along, huh? Liven things up? I mean, at least Pebbles is original.”

“I appreciate the thirty seconds it took you to come up with it.”

“Hey! It was closer to a minute, okay? I'm a hockey player; I've been hit in the head a few times in my day. I'm not as quick as I used to be. Cut a guy some slack. I think this belongs to you...” he passes my son to me; losing his hat in the process when little Max grabs a hold of the brim and rips it straight off his head. There's something sexy about the way those thick, brown locks fall across his forehead and tumble into his eyes and over the tops of his ears. And when he reaches up to rake his fingers through his wild, unruly mane and gives those waves a shake...

“Give that back,” I order my son, and snatch the ball cap from his hands. “That's not yours. Give it back.”

“That's okay. I've got tons more where this came from. He can keep it if he likes it that much,” Eric takes the item in question from me, adjusts the snap back closer to the smallest possible size and then slips it onto Max's head. “There, buddy. Now all you need is a pair of overalls and a plaid shirt and you'll be on your way to a first class red neck. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Cool dude!” my son agrees, and flashes a double thumbs up. “Down, mommy....” he turns pleading blue eyes towards me. “...down...big boy...no uppie...”

“Sorry...” I set him on the floor and hold my hands up in defence. “...sorry I'm cramping your style and embarrassing you.”

He ignores me and takes off into the living room. Within half a minute the television's been turned on and the sounds of Go Diego Go are blasting through the house. No kid should be that smart when they're so young. I know we keep it set on the local kids' station and all he has to do is press the button on the front of the tv, but the fact that he's already figured it out is mighty impressive. At least in my eyes.

“I can't believe how big he's gotten,” Eric shakes his head in disbelief. “I remember when he was like...this big...” he holds his hands a foot apart. “...now he's talking up a storm and figuring shit out like how to turn on the tv?”

“He's way too smart for his own good.”

“Must get that from his mom, huh? I mean, Max isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. Not many of us guys are. Unless you're Craig Adams or Orpik. Must get his brains from you. 'Cause he looks exactly like his dad.”

“And acts like him too,” I lament. “Cheeky as all hell. So...” I motion for him to step into the foyer and shut the door behind him. “What are you doing here? Did you come to talk to Max about something? Are you...?”

“I was just moving the last of my things into my place and nothing's been turned on yet. No hydro, no cable, no phone. It was all supposed to be turned on and ready to go yesterday. And I'd call them on my cell but I never charged the stupid thing last night and it's totally dead. So I was hoping maybe I could use your phone? See what the hell is up? See whose skulls I have to crack to get shit done?”

“Your place here is three blocks away. You wandered all the way over here to ask to use the phone? There's all kinds of stores and restaurants you could have asked.”

“No...no...that's my old place. I'm talking about my new one. Max didn't tell you? About me moving in next door?”

Come again?

“The guy from the Steelers that used to live next door...” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “...Chris Kemoeatu? He bought one of those lofts down at South Side Works. So I went and bought his old place. Max was the one gave me the heads up about it going on the market and who sold me on moving here in the first place. You sure he didn't tell you?”

I'd remember something like that. If I can remember useless, random shit from my less than remarkable and completely forgettable childhood, I'm fairly certain I'd remember Max telling me about our new neighbour. But with everything that's been going on lately...all the fighting and the stress...it could have easily slipped his mind. Or mine, for that matter.

“So...yeah...” Eric punches me lightly in the shoulder. “...we're neighbours. That's neat, huh? I promise I don't throw any wild parties or anything like that. And I'm pretty good around the house when it comes to fixing shit. It'll be nice, don't you think? Having a guy close by to help out with some stuff?”

Sounds more dangerous than anything.

“I don't mind helping out. Doing repairs and carrying heavy shit and playing with the rug rat. I don't accept cash, though. Just food and beer....” he grins broadens. “...and maybe sexual favours.”

My eyes widen at the last part. “Excuse me?”

“That's a joke, Pebbles. A total joke. I'd never ask for something like that from you. Ever. Now if you were offering...”

This has the potential to be more disastrous than I'd originally thought.

“So...” he hooks his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and rocks back and forth on his heels. “...can I use your phone or...?”

“In the living room,” I nod my head towards where little Max is sprawled out on the area rug in front of the television. “The cordless is on the coffee table. If you can find it underneath all the crap.”

“Thanks, Pebbles,” he gives me a wink of appreciation and then brushes past me. “By the way...” he pauses just as he gets past me and lowers his face closer to mine; his warm, moist breath tickling my cheek and shoulder. And I see the way he glances down at my ass and the sly grin that spreads across his face. “...still got that junk in the trunk, huh?”

Lord have mercy on my soul.

*******

I try not to eavesdrop while he's on the phone, but I honestly can't stop myself from watching him. The way the muscles in his calves bulge as he paces the living room floor and how those last remaining droplets of sweat glisten on his smooth, tanned skin. I pretend to busy myself with some packing in the adjoining dining room; clean clothes Max had taken out of the dryer before he left that needs to be folded and placed in the appropriate tote boxes that we're taking with us to Haddonfield. In reality, I'm watching every move that Eric makes and listening to that smooth, deep voice. I can only imagine what it sounds like during more...intimate...moments. When those full, luscious lips are pressed against your ear and those enormous hands are wandering your body. And I can't help but wonder how those muscles in his shoulders and back move and what they feel like under your fingertips when...

“Grover!” my son chirps, his cheerful little voice snapping me out of my reverie and rescuing from those dirty and forbidden thoughts. I'd never actually do anything wrong. I'm not the type that cheats. Even if Pheebs does see it as the ultimate form of revenge for what Max had done to me. And I feel guilty enough about finding another man this attractive and entertaining such naughty fantasies about him. Someone that my husband actually knows. It's different when it's a complete stranger. It's safe.

This...this isn't safe.

“I love Grover,” Eric declares, and phone call completed, plops down onto the carpet alongside of my son. “I used to watch Sesame Street all the time when I was a little kid.”

“Yeah?” Max's eyes widen and he wastes no time in scrambling onto his new friend's lap. “Best friends?” he inquires, and curls a tiny arm around Eric's impossibly wide neck. “Best buddies?”

“Sure, little man. We can be best buddies. Your dad's going away? Going to live somewhere else for a bit?”

“Daddy go away,” he concurs. “Long time?”

“Not a long time. And I bet he'll come back and see you and your mommy a lot. You're gonna miss him, huh?”

“Miss daddy,” little Max lets loose a long, forlorn sigh that nearly breaks my heart. “Daddy bad. Bad boy daddy.”

“Yeah...” Eric drawls “...I've heard. We're all bad from time to time. Doesn't mean we're not nice guys, though. I'm sure you're bad every now and then.”

“Never,” my son declares, and I can't help but laugh.

“Mommy's probably got tons of stories that say otherwise,” Eric chuckles. “Just like my mommy's got loads of tales about the bad things I've done.”

“I bet you were a total pain in the butt when you were little,” I say, as I join them in the living room; dropping onto the couch and propping my bare feet up onto the cluttered coffee table. “I bet you were the one that could climb all the way to the top of the trees and your mom would be down on the ground having a heart attack, begging and pleading for you to come down and praying you wouldn't fall. I bet you were the one that used to stick grilled cheese sandwiches in the DVD or VHS player.”

“Guilty as charged. On both counts. One time, my brother and I decided that we had what it took to be professional knife throwers. We grabbed some knives from the kitchen and I made him stand with his back against the garden shed and...”

“Dear Lord...” I gasp, and lay a hand over my chest.

“He was perfectly fine,” he laughs. “I didn't even get one knife away. Mom came tearing out of the house to stop us. Good thing she was home. My brother may never had gotten the chance to ever bear her grandchildren. Or I may have turned him into a girl. I've heard some stories about this little dude here...” he lays one of those enormous hands on the top of Max's head. “...about how he's pretty fearless. You're going to have your hands full with this one, Pebbles.”

“He's a handful and then some,” I agree. “How did you get so good with kids? You don't have any nieces or nephews.”

“Lots of little cousins. And I've spent a lot of time down in Wilkes-Barre helping out with hockey camps. I love kids. They don't scare me like they do the other young guys. Beau Bennett spent two weeks acting as a coach and he's ready to have a vasectomy. What a pussy.”

“Well if you like kids that much, all you have to do is convince that pretty little girlfriend of yours to start popping them out,” I tease. “I know you're both relatively babies yourself, but...”

“We broke up,” he says. “Before the end of last season. Turns out she was nailing some guy on the football team at her school.”

“Ouch...” I wince. “...must be something in the water here. Infidelity seems to be running rampant.”

He nods in agreement and glances around the apartment, taking in all the tote boxes and my failed attempts at packing.

“I'm going to Philly for three weeks,” I explain. “Max asked me if I'd come down so he could spend some extra time with me and the baby.”

“You don't sound too thrilled about it. You should give the place a chance. I know it's got a pretty bad reputation, but you might grow to love it. You might like your three weeks and decide to never come back here.”

“Not going to happen,” I assure him. “Pittsburgh is my home. It's where I belong. And until I'm ready to make the move...” I shrug. “...until then, this is the way things have to be.”

“I'm sure you're going to do just fine. You're a big girl, Pebbles. I'm sure you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. But never say never. You might really like it there.”

“I've got a job lined up here and Max is going into daycare. And who knows? Maybe other things will keep me here, too.”

“Other things?” he arches a brow.

“Don't go thinking anything scandalous,” I scold, and toss one of the throw cushions at the side of his head. “You're from Philly...” I use the nail on my index finger to pick at some of the peeling, chipped polish on my thumb. “...what do I need to know about surviving there? Is there anything fun to do? Anything that will keep me sane for three weeks?”

“Well it's not like you're going into the actual city,” he points out. “You're living in New Jersey. But...” he moves Max to the floor and then stretches until his back and his shoulders crack. “...I know a few things that and the little guy might be interested in. Places you could take him if you find yourself in the city.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I attempt to summon up at least a slight bit of enthusiasm. And then have to bite down on my bottom lip and divert my eyes when he stands up and gives me the perfect view of that firm, impressive ass.

“I'm going to need a pen and a piece of paper,” he says, and when I look back towards the television, he's standing above me and casting a rather large, intimidating shadow over the couch.

“You can't just email it?”

“I can...but I still need a piece of paper and a pen. To write your email address down. You can just tell me it, but I'd forget it by the time I got home.”

“It takes about two minutes to get to your front door,” I chide.

“Humour me, Pebbles. Go easy on a guy, okay? It's not even noon and it's been a long ass day already.”

There's a flirtatious comment about his ass on the type of my tongue, but I hold it back. “Fine...fine...make me get up...” I sigh dramatically and jump to my feet; my left falling on one of the Little Tikes cars that my son has scattered around the room. And it shoots out from under my heel and sends me tumbling forward. My face planting into Eric's broad, solid chest and his arms instinctively curling around my waist.

I'm not entirely sure how much time passes before either of us finally react. How long we stand there for, his arms holding me captive and his chin resting on the top of my head. How long I actually spend listening to his heart pound in near unison with mine and basking in the heat that radiates off his body as his comforting, alluring scent permeates my senses.

All I do know is that if I don't watch my step from here on out, I'll be in serious trouble.