Spinning

The feeling of his chin on my shoulder still lingers against my skin.

"Carly?"

I blink, lifting my eyes from the passenger window and turning towards Patrick who holds my left hand in his right one, "sorry."

"What's bothering you, baby?"

I shake my head, leaning back in the seat and staring at his pretty face, "it's nothing. I just..."

"I saw you talking with him, Car. And it's fine."

A weight seems to have been placed on my chest, "he said congratulations."

Patrick nods, "he's going to be alright, Carly."

You didn't see him, Patrick. You didn't have him cry on your shoulder, without saying a word. "Yeah, you're probably right."

The next few days are a whirlwind of emotions, with calls and messages pouring in from everyone I think I've ever known. The media, too, has somehow heard about our engagement and suddenly, Patrick's face and several of our photos together are plastered over the internet and television as if we famous Hollywood stars.

"We'll marry in the summer," he says softly, holding my face in his hands as I lay on his chest on our sofa in the living room, "on the lakes. Would you like that?"

I smile, kissing him, "That would be beautiful."

"I think so, too."

"We'll invite everyone," I say kissing his lips and smiling, "the team, your sisters, my brother, our parents. All of our friends and grand-parents. Oh my gosh! We have so much to do!"

He grins and I touch my lips to his, sitting up with my legs around his waist. For a moment, I just stare at him, taking in his smile and his eyes, "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else," I whisper and he softens his face, lifting his torso and using his right hand to hold my cheek.

"Neither can I," he says, looking me hard in the eyes and then kissing me until my head starts
to spin and my eyes close and the world slips away.

March, to April, to May. Three months of practices, injuries, head-aches, airports, sex, no sex, two o'clock phone calls, five o'clock phone calls, nine o'clock phone calls. Three months of love. Three months of hard work. Three months, a loss in the Western Conference Finals, and Patrick Kane's season comes to an end in May.

I held him in my arms that night, after the loss. None of the boys were doing very well. They played hard, but the outcome wasn't in their favor.

"You did your best."

"I hate losing."

"I know, baby."

His lips pressed to my skin and there's a long silence where we stand in that hallway, just breathing.

"Let's go home," he finally whispers.

It's never easy to comfort someone in circumstances that you have never personally experienced. Sure, I've been with him through loss before but it's always different and hard to understand.

"I should have passed on that play in the second with Tazer. I shouldn't have held it and shot. Now..." his voice trails off and he bangs the window with his fist, tightening his lips and closing his eyes, "fuck."

I don't reach over to take his hand. Instead, I let him think as I keep my fingers wrapped around the steeling wheel as we drive through the heavily congested streets with silenced Chicago Blackhawks fans. They lost at home, and it stings a little more.

"Should have..." he mutters beside me, inhaling abruptly to stop his own thoughts from making him crazy. I just keep driving, eventually making the turn onto our street and pulling into our parkade where I turn off our car.

I let my hands fall into my lap and turn my head slowly to look at him. He's still staring out of the window.

Without a word, he opens the car door and I follow, walking beside him in a heavy silence. We get into the elevator, get off on the top floor, and unlock our apartment.

Without a word.

And then, like I've seen it happen a hundred times before, the dam breaks.

"I screwed it up," he says, falling into my arms and sobbing heavily into my chest, "I fucked it up. God, I fucked everything up."

I rub his back, whispering soft words into his ears and just holding him as tightly as I can as he cries heavily against my chest.

"I lost the cup," he whispers, staring with wide eyes at nothing in particular, "I lost it."

"Patrick..."

He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the tears to roll down his face before opening them wide again in a sort of panic, "everything we worked for...the boys are going to lose their jobs..."

I swallow hard, listening to his words which are filled of unfortunate truths.

He takes my hand and holds it tightly to his moist lips, "Carly, what are we going to do? This...oh, fuck, Carly...I..."

My voice fails and all I can do is wrap my arms around his sore, tired, and bruised body. He isn't sobbing anymore. He's devastated. He's heart-broken.

He's lost.

Sleep comes easily through stress, fear and overbearing emotions. His eyes have closed as his head rests on my chest. His breathing is soft and I look over his back, his chest, his arms. Bruises, scars and aches I can't see and pains I haven't endured.

My fiancé The light to my day. He looks so peaceful right now, worry free. Almost child-like. But it is well known that innocence and immaturity are not common adjectives one will use for Patrick Kane anymore. He has grown, changed. He has felt loss, pain, defeat. He has become a man, a well respected individual.

I run my hand over his skin, his hair and a soft sound leaves his lips. It is a tone of comfort and he holds me a little closer, falling into a deeper sleep than before.

I love him. I want the best for him. I want everything for him. I wish it were easier than this.

The press conferences bring some closure. I watch him from off to the side of the room, behind the microphones and the cameras.

"It's tough, yeah, but we gave it our best and unfortunately our best wasn't good enough.
We're proud of how far we came, despite the result. But, yeah. It sucks."

I put my hand over my lips and breathe in steadily, trying to maintain my composure. I hate the way Pat sounds so beaten and so hurt. All I can do is cross my arms over my chest and watch him carefully as he finishes the conference with a quiet nod of his head and a simple thank you.

Then, I have to fight my instinct to run to him and instead, I watch him disappear through the doors and then close my eyes.

Jonathan Toews' voice pulls me from my thoughts.

"Yeah, it was a tough fought series. We worked hard and we're disappointed in the results as much as you guys are."

I lean my head against the door frame and watch him with a soft expression. His eyes draw over me and I frown, feeling my chest lift with emotion when his lips turn downwards in reflection of my own face.

Then, he's walking over to me. His hands are gripping mine and his lips are softly pressing to my cheeks. I can feel his breathe and hear his heart as my hands grip his shirt, pulling him to me and feeling that familiar desire.

"Carly?"

I pull myself from daydreams to only see him standing in front of me, real as day, "Oh, Jon.
Hi, honey. How are you?"

He takes me into his chest and I hold him tightly, too, in my arms. He's warm, and I feel so comfortable in his grip. We don't kiss, though. We are subtle in our affections but our hold on one another drags on for a while longer than it should. I know eyes are on us but I don't care.
I just missed him. I have missed him ever since months ago, before hockey got serious and before the fights started.

I can't bring myself to let go of him.

"I've missed you so much," Jonathan whispers into my ear, keeping his grip equal on me as mine is on his.

"I know. I missed you too. It's just been so busy, Jon..." somehow busy feels like the wrong
word.

"I know," he says anyway, but I think he senses the falseness of reality.

His arms untangle themselves from my body but he takes my hand and squeezes it in his, "Jessica said you two met."

"We did. She's very nice, Jon. She's good for you."

"Maybe, but she's not..." he pauses and shifts his weight forwards, lips lingering over my forehead for a moment, "she's not like you."

I let him say it. I know its too much, and that I'm engaged and have been for several months now, but I still take part in these unexplained feelings.

"Did you want to come for dinner tonight? The four of us? You two need to get out..."

"Four of us?" he asks, confused.

"Yes. Pat and I, you and Jessica."

"How about Pat, me and you. Like old times."

I exhale heavily and then kiss his cheek. His hand immidately presses to it, as if trying to capture its impression, "okay. We'll meet at seven, at that little Italian place we always go to.
You know the one?"

"Yeah. I'll see you then."

I want to reach out and kiss him again but I keep my distance and then carefully exit the room to find Patrick down the hall where he's just finished talking to his coach.

"Hey."

He's leaning against the wall but as I walk over to him, he opens his arms and holds me to his chest, "those questions are always so hard to answer." He says in reference to the press conference.

"I know."

He sighs and kisses my forehead, taking my hand and running his fingers over my ring, "so much has happened in the last year," he says softly.

"It's incredible."

He takes my hand and presses his lips to the back of my hand, "I wouldn't change any of it, Carly. Nothing. Nothing at all."

"I wouldn't either."

He releases me and I kiss his lips softly, "I asked Jon to join us for dinner tonight, at that
Sicilian pasta place."

He hesitates in our kiss, "just the three of us?"

"Yes. If that's alright...?"

"Of course," he says softly and takes my hands, "I just thought that you two weren't on good terms."

"We aren't," I admit softly and then wrap my arms around him tightly, "but I want to change that. I mean, he is going to be your best man at the wedding, isn't he?"

Patrick grins, "who else could take his place?"

I press my lips to his and then let him go, "well, I'm starving. Shall we?"

Dinner. It's strange, being with them like this. Jon and I haven't talked, actually talked, since the news of the engagement months ago. Conversation is at first filled with restrait but after everyone has some wine, our shoulders begin to relax and the affection that is between the three of us is reveled once more.

It's nearly midnight by the time we're paying our bill. I've been laughing so hard my stomach hurts and Patrick nearly spit his drink all over the table at Jon's comical remarks. The boys have been drunk since ten, and I'm not so sure I'm sober at this point either. Regardless, we hail a taxi and I help them into the backseat with myself in the middle.

"Where to?" the driver asks.

"Lincoln Park!" Patrick yells, laughing and pressing a kiss to my cheek. I raise my eyebrows and take his hand.

"The park, baby?"

"I don't want to go home yet."

I kiss his lips and nod, feeling strange, "alright. But just for a little while, okay? It's late." I touch my hand to his cheek and he leans in, holding it there for a moment.

The drive to Lincoln Park isn't very far and soon enough, Jon's handing the driver a twenty dollar bill as we step out of the taxi and into the dark.

"C'mon," Pat says, taking my hand as Jon walks ahead of us, his own hands shoved deep in his jean pockets.

We walk for a long while in silence, listening to the city sounds and feeling the alcohol ease its hold on our minds. A lake sits on the left of the path we're walking to and Jon begins to stray from the concrete, walking slowly down the grass towards the water.

"I should get him," I tell Patrick, letting go of his hand, "he's going to go in the water otherwise..."

I hurry down to where Jon is staring at the lake with glossy eyes.

"Jon?"

He doesn't look up at me, instead shifting his weight so he's teasing himself with falling forwards.

"Come back up to the path," I tell him quietly, "we're going to go home now, I think." I turn back to where Patrick is, seeing that he's sat down on a park bench and is playing with his phone, "Jon?"

He turns to me and I can't tell if he's drunk anymore, "how do I stop loving you, Carly?"

I feel panic rising in my chest, "Jon--"

He's calm, though, and he keeps his hands in his pockets, staring at the lake again with little concern on his face, "I ask myself that every damn day and I never can answer it honestly. How do you stop loving someone?"

"I...I don't know."

He turns to me and sighs, "is it even possible? Or am I just going to love you for the rest of my life? Because--" he turns away, "because if I have to, I don't know how I'm going to be able to deal with this...this pain."

I turn to see Patrick staring down at us, head resting in his hand.

"Jon, we have to go now," I tell him and I think he senses the other set of eyes on him because he simply nods, following me up to the path as Patrick stands from the bench.

"You okay, man?" Patrick asks as we step up beside him.

Jon nods and I try to see if Patrick heard anything we had said. I don't think so.

"I called a cab. It should be here in five minutes. We've got to meet him back at the main road."

The three of us walk back to where we were originally dropped off, this time with heavier heads and darker eyes. When the cab arrives, we fall in and drive the short way home.

"Wanna crash at our place?" Patrick asks Jon as we get out of the cab.

"No, I'll be fine. I'm starting to feel sober already."

Pat raises a hand in good-bye, "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Jon," I say, leaning into the car and pressing a kiss to his cheek, "be safe."

Patrick takes my hand and I wish I had looked away before Jon slammed a fist to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting whatever demons I awoke with my affections.

I'm left in Patrick's hold, wondering if the entire evening went horribly wrong.