Baby Steps

“So you're still not talking to me?” I pose the question to my wife as I linger in the doorway to our bedroom, palms planted on either side of the frame as I wait -almost nervously- for her response.

This can go only one of two ways: we're either going to kiss and make up and I'll be sleeping in my own bed, or she's going to bite my head off and I'm going to be hunkering down in the guest room. I had thought that spending the entire day out with little Max and my parents that she'd been given enough time to lick her wounds and come to her senses; I'd assumed that when I'd walked through the front door after several hours that she'd have realized that neither of my requests -giving up both the blog and her friendship with Phoebe- weren't that difficult or irrational to fulfil. One of her reasons for deciding to move to Philadelphia instead of staying behind in Pittsburgh had been the chance to put the past behind us; we'd agreed that we both needed a change of scenery and that we wouldn't let our past mistakes and all the drama follow us to our new home. I had assumed that she'd cut all ties; no more blog that focuses on ranting and raving about how much of an asshole I am, no airing our dirty laundry to the world, and no more best friend who was out to destroy us. I'm not denying that I've given Phoebe a list of reasons to hate me: I'd cheated on my wife (her best friend and someone she loved like a sister) with a stripper, I'd signed a long term deal with Philly without even consulting her and there'd been a number of times when maybe I had taken advantage of her and not been the best possible husband I could possible be. It had only added insult to injury when Sloan had decided to leave the 'Burgh; I'd become an even bigger villain in Phoebe's eyes. But I had thought that meant she was taking my side. Not her best friend's.

“I haven't had anything of dire importance to talk about,” she coolly replies, not even looking up from the iPad that rests in her lap. As soon as the little one had been tucked into bed and had been on the verge of sleep, she'd retreated to our bedroom. Shutting the door to the ensuing bathroom in my face and locking it tight before I even had the chance to talk to her. I'd given her space for an hour; busying myself downstairs with the remains of supper dishes and leafing through a stack of bills that needed to be paid. I had hoped that her foul mood would go down the drain while she was taking her shower; I'd been slightly optimistic as I'd approached the bedroom door that maybe....just maybe...she'd gotten over our fight and had swung over to my side.

No such luck by the looks of things.

“You've been ignoring me all day,” I accuse, dropping the receiving end of the baby monitor on the dresser as I enter the room.

I'd tucked the baby in and stalled as long as possible crib side: straightening out the comforter and bumper pads, making sure his favourite stuffed toy -an old fashioned sock monkey that Pittsburgh's famous 'Knitting Lady' had made him when he was born- was wedged tightly under his arm and then I'd stood at the side of his bed...softly combing my fingers through his hair and watching as his eyes fluttered closed and surrendered to sleep...torn between admiring and being in absolute awe of him. He's already walking, running and learning to climb; he enjoys causing as much havoc as he can and seems to love giving his mother and I grey hairs. He's tenacious and fearless and blessed (or cursed, whichever way you want to look at it) with an infinite need to explore and learn. Stubborn to a fault. Confrontational and dramatic when things don't go his own way. Mouthy as hell even with his very limited vocabulary. Every day he seems to get bigger and smarter and he does something that completely blows me away. Becoming a father had changed me. I had thought that taking on the role as husband had made a difference in my life: it had matured me and taught me patience and compassion and had shown me that it was possible to love only one person for the rest of my days. But having a child...having a little life that is completely dependant on me...well it opened doors to a world I never even knew existed. Just when I thought I couldn't love someone more than I love my wife, she gave me a beautiful baby boy. The adoration and respect I have for her is off the charts. So add in how I feel about my son and there's no words to describe the things he makes me feel. I never realized it was possible to love this much. Where you always think your heart is close to bursting yet it somehow manages to grow bigger and stronger and take even more love in.
Now if only Sloan and I could get our shit together once and for all. If we could just get passed all the things that are still haunting us and drop the baggage we'd promised we wouldn't bring here.

“I haven't been ignoring you,” she still doesn't look up; fingers flying over the iPad's onscreen keyboard and a smile tugging at her lips as she continues with the conversation she's having. Needless to say, both my temper and my patience are on a slow, yet steady boil. “I've been avoiding you.”

“There's a difference?” I snap open the clip on my watch and toss it onto the top of my dresser with a loud clatter.

“According to Webster's Dictionary,” she cheekily responds, and it takes all the willpower I have to not storm across the room, snatch the iPad from her lap and hurl it against a wall.

Only I'd be called 'irrational' and 'childish' for lashing out even though it's her immaturity that sent me over the edge to begin with. Love sucks sometimes. It really does. There's times where the other person drives you fucking insane and you don't like them very much. But there's more times that you love them so much you can barely breathe and it actually physically hurts when you try to imagine life without them. I've come so very close to losing Sloan too many times to count. Through both my own stupidity and her illness. And no matter how crazy she drives me there's nothing that could ever make me stop loving her or change my mind about spending my life with her.

“Who are you talking to?” I inquire, peeling my t-shirt over my head and tossing it in the direction of the laundry hamper that sits just inside the walk in closet. Naturally, I miss: the garment hits the edge and instead of tumbling in with the rest of the dirty clothes, falls onto the floor.

“You're going to pick that up, right?” Sloan doesn't even wait for the frustrated sigh to escape my lips.

“No. I'm going to leave it there and let you get off your ass and pick it up,” I snidely counter, then scoop the offending item off the floor. Instead of putting it in the laundry, I hurl it across the room and feel a sense of satisfaction when it lands...in all its smelly glory...on top of her head. “Who are you talking to?” I ask yet again, trying not to sound too suspicious or over protective. Last thing I need while trying to put my marriage back together are guys sniffing around.

“I'm not talking to anyone,” she takes one whiff of the t-shirt, makes a gagging noise and throws it in my direction. “Why do you have to be so gross?”

“Because I'm a guy. And because I'm still twelve years old.”

“Would explain your penchant for farting in bed and trapping me under the covers,” she mutters.

“Once. I did it once. A guy does something gross once in his life and he pays and pays and pays...” sighing, I drop the shirt into the laundry and then shed my cargo shorts.

“Next thing you know you'll be pulling underwear out of the dirty basket and smelling them to see if their fresh,” she wrinkles her nose in disgusting and tries to shove me away when I stand at the side of her bed, curl an arm around her neck and press her face into my stomach.

“Who says I don't already do that when you're not around?” I retort, and jump backwards with a yelp when she sinks her teeth into my navel.

“I wouldn't put it past you.”

“So...” I drop a kiss on the top of her head and peer down at the laptop. I can't see shit without my contacts in or my glasses on. “...who are you talking to?”

“I'm not talking to anyone. I told you that the first hundred times you asked.”

“I asked twice.”

“And twice I told you I'm not talking to anyone. Jesus, Max. Can't I just sit here and play on the iPad without you getting all suspicious?”

“I'd rather you play with something else,” I mutter, then hold my hands up in surrender when she glares at me. Sex has been pretty much nonexistent since she got sick. First it was because she had to recuperate from surgery and the treatments they administered made her deathly ill. Now it's because the cocktail of medications she takes have all but zapped her sex drive. And that's saying a lot for someone like Sloan who used to give me a run for my money in the nymphomaniac department. “And I'm not getting all suspicious,” I defend myself as I retreat to my side of the bed. “I'm just being curious.”

“Suspicious,” she corrects.

“Curious,” I insist.

“Suspicious,” she repeats. “And if you really must know...” she snaps the case closed on her iPad. “...I was playing Words with Friends with Eric.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Tangradi?”

“No...Lindros...” she snorts. “Yes! Tangradi! Sheesh. What is with you? I can't play a simple little game with a friend without you going all crazy?”

“Who's going crazy? I'm not going crazy,” I argue, and pull the sheets down. “Why would I go crazy?”

“Because you can't stand me being friends with a member of the opposite sex. Especially one that's young and attractive and buff.”

“You think Tangradi's attractive?”

“Max...”

“Attractive and buff?”

“Max...uggghhhhhh...” she groans in frustration, closes her eyes and rubs vigorously at her temples. “For Christsakes! You're driving me insane! Stop being such a douche noozle and just come to bed. You're giving me a headache with all these questions.”

“No headache tonight?” I smirk. “Does that mean I actually get laid when I want to for a change?”

Wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, she crooks a finger and beckons for me to join her.

“So you're not mad at me anymore?”

“Just a little,” she admits. “But you can make it up to me.”

*****

“It's hotter than Satan's nut sack in here,” Sloan grumbles as we lay in the sea of rumpled and wrinkled sheets; our sweat slicked bodies pressed tightly together, her face buried in the crook of my neck.

“Guy is coming to fix the central air next week,” I mutter sleepily in return.

I'm somewhat embarrassed by my current state: normally I'm not worn out after just one round of sex. But it's been so fucking long since I've even seen her naked let alone gone down on her or made love to her that there's practically nothing left in the tank. Not to mention the lingering strain and drama along with the guilt over my past mistakes hangs heavily on my mind and exhausts me mentally. Loving someone shouldn't be this hard. Or this painful.

“By that time the cold weather will be here and we'll need to turn the heat on.”

“Stop being a drama queen,” I order, and stifle a yawn in her hair. “Weather won't turn that drastically.”

“Even if it does, you're like a living, breathing heating blanket,” she teases, and presses a series of kisses along my jaw. “But for now...well right now it is way too damn hot in here.”

“Where are you going?” I crack my eyes open as her body slides down mine. “Did I say you could leave?”

“Quit acting like you're the boss around here,” she jumps off the bed, snags a pillow and swats me in the face with it. “Everyone knows it's all a huge act.”

“You'll never hear me admit out loud that I'm whipped,” I say, and tucking the pillow at the nape of my neck, place my hands at the back of my head and watch -in great admiration and lust- as she walks across our bedroom in all her naked glory. She'd lost a lot of weight when she'd been sick but the mixture of her higher carb diet and medications have been helping her pack on the pounds. Sloan's never been what you would call skinny; she's been healthy and well toned and had curves in all the right places.

“You don't have to say it out loud. Everyone already knows,” she retorts, and tosses open the French doors that lead out onto the master suite's private balcony.

“Careful there,” I chuckle. “Don't go outside. Old Man Briere and the moppy haired Ginger are probably hiding out at their house in the dark, watching you through binoculars.”

“I highly doubt I do anything for them. Danny's got some hot young thing of his own and Claude...well Claude is just a whore. I'm sure he sees much hotter women naked on a daily basis.”

“No one is hotter than you,” I inform her. “And Claude? When did you meet him? You're on a first name basis already?”

“We chatted a bit while I was working in the garden and he was mowing the grass,” she explains as she climbs back into bed and straddles me once more. “Did get your jock all in a twist,” she warns, as she rakes her fingers through my hair and presses a kiss to my lips.

“Who was getting their jock in a twist?”

“Please...” she snorts. “...I know what you're like. So before you question me on his motives or mine, it was just mindless, stupid little chitchat.”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” I hold my hands up in surrender.

“You don't have to say it. I know you're thinking it. And there's no reason to,” she buries her face in my neck once again. “He really thinks he's something, you know. Cocky little fucker.”

“Worse than me?”

“Way worse. Way, way, way worse. Even at your worst, I can tolerate you. I just want to punch him in the face.”

“Jagr thinks the Ginger is the second coming of Mario.”

“Oh what the fuck ever!” she laughs. “There's never going to be another Mario. Ever. That's just pure and utter horseshit right there. Jagr always was a space cadet.”

“He's my teammate now,” I remind her. “I play for the Flyers now, remember?”

“Doesn't mean I have to kiss his ass or anyone else's. And I refuse to. So if you think I'm going out of my way to be friendly...”

“Civil. All I ask is that you're civil. At least until you warm up to everyone,” I nuzzle my face in her hair and trail my fingertips down her spine. “Look...about earlier today...that whole stupid fight....”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Well I do.”

She heaves a sigh of exasperation.

“It's not that I want to talk about. I just...I don't know...I just realize now that I may have overreacted just a bit.”

Raising her head, she stares down at me with a cocked eyebrow.

“Just a bit,” I insist, and hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I shouldn't have freaked out on you about that blog. I know that you enjoy writing it and that people like to read it and that you're not deliberately airing our dirty laundry or talking shit about me. So if you really want to continue it...”

“I do. I really do.”

“Then just keep doing it. Just don't make this harder for me, okay? This whole transition to the Flyers? Don't make things bad for me in the dressing room by talking crap about the guys. I'm not saying you need to suck up to them or the organization or that you need to start talking shit about everyone in Pittsburgh. I just...it's going to be hard enough adjusting, you know? And having people accept me. I don't need you going out there and making it even harder.”

“I would never do that to you,” she declares. “Ever. I love you too much. I'd never hurt you, Max.”

“Even after everything I've done to you?”

“Even then,” she says, and once more snuggles her face into my neck.

Now that is true love.

“And as far as Phoebe goes...”

“Max...please...” she sighs. “...I'm too tired to fight with you. Don't ruin everything, okay? Not after the night we just had. Just please don't.”

“I'm not fighting. I'm not trying to ruin anything. I was just going to say that...”

“I will not give up my best friend,” she interjects. “I'm not going to ditch her just because the two of you aren't getting along right now. Once she gets over her butthurt and she realizes I'm not going to up and leave you...”

“So she does hate me. She does talk shit about me all the time.”

“...she'll calm herself. She's just super pissed that you made me move here.”

“Whoa...whoa...I didn't make you do anything. You chose to come here.”

“You know what I meant. She's just upset that I agreed to move here in the end. Add that onto how pissed she already was over the whole Philadelphia thing and the affair with the stripper and the fact that she's a die hard Pens fan and can't understand how you could choose to sign with the enemy...”

“Are you being serious right now? Are you really...?”

She clamps a hand over my mouth. “...and she's just really upset right now. She'll get over it. Eventually. In the meantime, just play nice, okay? Or just avoid her outright. She's a five hour drive away. It's not like she's going to show up on the doorstep to smack you out again.”

“You never know,” I mutter.

“Please...just stop...” my wife pleads. “At least for tonight. Can't we just lie here? Can't we just shut our mouths and enjoy each other? I think we deserve that, don't you? Time to ourselves? Time where we're not trying to rip out one another's throats?”

I nod in agreement.

“Good...” she beams down at me, removes her hand and kisses me. “You know, if you're a really good boy, I might let you have a second go.”

Grinning like a mad man, I pinch my thumb and forefinger together and mimic zipping my lips shut.

“So predictable,” she smirks, and pecks the end of my nose.