Je t'aime, tu sais?

Jamie hated him. No. No, it wasn't him. Jamie hated herself.
"No questions?" She asked the class. She was met with silence, but wasn't sweating due to her lecture's seeming unsuccess; rather, she was sweating because she was worrying about Patrice. Again.
She shoved her files into her tote purse and kicked her chair into the desk space where it belonged as the undergraduate students filed out of the Harvard brick classroom, relatively unenthused. She sighed and jammed her arms down her coat sleeves and wrapped her scarf around her neck as she thought that they deserved a better graduate seminar from her. She was the top in her class and soon to be the top in her field as soon as her thesis was completed, and they all had competed to be in her lecture and class.
Now, something as insignificant as a male had thrown her course. An extremely handsome, fit, soft spoken and tantalizingly suave male...
Jamie, she threatened herself. If you don't get with the program soon... she couldn't think of a threat that didn't involve Patrice. This may not sound like a problem, as sometimes distancing oneself from the object of his or her affection produces great work, but, they hadn't spoken in three days...
Jamie felt herself grow hot and agitated again. She hated herself for falling for him; she knew she should've kept her distance.

Patrice sweat despite the snow that blew around his shoe clad feet in the cold Boston breeze.
He was thinking about her again, naturally, and was growing anxious with the time it had taken for him to puck up the courage and force a situation into being where they could spend more time together.
He had become overly stressed as of late. The Winter Classic game in Fenway Park was tomorrow, as was Guill and Gretta's last day with him. They were no trouble to have, but he felt bad that his thoughts were always being entertained by day dreams of the girl in the light pink scarf with the lavender bed sheets and the unfamiliar familiar scent of flowers lingering around her. He had also become increasingly frustrated with himself during practices. Ferry and Milan had assured him that they could hardly tell Patrice was overcome with extra-curricular thoughts during practice, and not to worry excessively about if Claude, their coach, or the other players could notice his seeming change in heart. But HE could notice it about himSELF, and that's what bothered him. Why couldn't he get himself to concentrate? Why was he constantly making the pit of his stomach freeze and drop with loop-the-loop day dreaming thoughts of her? Why did he have to make himself hotter than he already was remembering the tickle of her scent in the weight room?
Had he gone mad?
A car slammed on the horn as Patrice stepped into oncoming traffic. He swore in French and waved his apology from the safety of the curb, raising the cardboard cup of tea he had purchased for Jamie.
Jamie.
Patrice crossed the street as she re-entered his mind.
How to ask her... how to ask her... he thought. He had been so frustrated with himself in practice and in his family life that he had been unable to move forward in his relationship with her. He battled himself and how much he liked her all night, laying away in bed, his chest slowly rising and falling and his eyes wide open.
He entered the Coop and set his coffee down on a table that read "Harvard Bookstore's Favorite Books" to pull out his cell phone and to finally text her. He realized as he did so that he was completely and utterly lost when it came to romantics. Perhaps he should call her... he thought. That one time he called her after the Rangers game Ferry had had to pump him up, had to urge him he could, he SHOULD... now, he was left to his own devices. He had never courted a woman... and, he hadn't spoken with her since she had taken him out to breakfast three days ago; how could he be so stupid?
He called Ferry, nestled the mobile device between his cheek and his winter jacketed shoulder and grabbed his coffee and headed back out into the Boston winter.
"Hey bud, I need to talk to you," he began as Andy Ference answered the phone.

She stalked out of the building and into the cold Boston air. She was headed back to her apartment, but had to make her way out of the winding brick buildings of the heart of Harvard first. When she hit the main drag, it began to snow.
She made a noise of frustration and wrapped her scarf around her curled hair. She knew she was going to fall; she had worn only professional shoes today, and hadn't packed her boots due to her lack of ability to get up early enough to check the weather. Instead, she had elected to mope in bed about her lack of contact with Patrice, and day dream about his smile, his thin, grey sweatpants, and the way his eyes lit up at the sight of his crepe three days ago.
Why had she put herself out there?
Why had she bothered?
She grew hot with frustration with herself, especially disappointed in her lack of ability to concentrate on her graduate work.
"Jamie!"
Someone touched her elbow and she whirled around.
"I'm so..." Patrice began stepping towards her. She must have just blown by him, consumed in her own thoughts. "I'm so happy to see you," he breathed, smiling.
She flushed and her eyes widened. Seriously? She thought, after convincing herself all morning to banish the beautiful subject that was Patrice Bergeron from her mind.
"Sorry, I know this is crazy, but, I was just going to call you," he said. He held two to go cups of hot liquids, steaming out of their mouth pieces. His scarf hung loosely around his neck, and his chest was thick and warm with a black winter jacket.
"You were?" She asked, quietly, looking at him from the sides of her eyes.
"Yes! Yes, I swear. I was just about to," he said, stepping even closer to her. He seemed jumpy, maybe nervous. Was he going to tell her things weren't working out and he had just spent three days trying to figure out how to do it nicely?
She adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder, shifting it to the other side.
"Here," he said, extending one of the cups. "I bought you some tea, I was going to see if you'd like to meet me somewhere. I can take that," he added, handing her her hot cup of tea and taking hold of her bag.
"Oh, really, that's not necessary," she began.
"Please," he nodded, holding it firmly in his hand. She bit her lip and they stood in silence in the snow. A car rolled by on the street behind them.
"Is there... is there somewhere you'd like to go?" He asked. "Maybe le Coop?"
She thought for a bit. If she were going to be dropped, she figured he may as well do it in her home where she could immediately crawl into the bathtub and melt away in the hot soapy water... But she didn't understand why he was so breathless, so bright and smiling, so eager to see her, so... happy...
"My apartment?" She asked him, in French, pointing down the road.
"Oui." He nodded, beaming.

She unlocked her door and Patrice followed her into her apartment, holding their two warm beverages. She slipped out of her shoes and he watched her wriggle her sock clad toes, probably trying to warm them up. She pulled off her jacket and scarf and then took the drinks from him, smiling.
He was already warm so welcomed the opportunity to hang his jacket and scarf on the coat rack. He pulled off his own shoes as well, careful to leave them on the matt as the snow began to melt. He met her at the island as she pulled her tea from the microwave, giving it a little more warmth and holding the cup between her hands.
He had never seen her in her professional attire. She wore black slack dress pants and a white blouse, unbuttoned at the top and fastened in the middle with a small black vest. Her hair was tied up in a series of knots and a bun, and ringlets of hair randomly fell from it, particularly at the nape of her neck and around her ears.
He so desperately wanted to kiss her.
His stomach flipped.
"Would you like a seat?" She offered, gesturing to the couch. Her voice was small and delicate in French.
"Oh, sure," he said, taking a seat with his back up against the arm of the velvety green piece of furniture. He took a sip of his coffee.
"Jamie, I, ah," he licked his lips and looked away from her. She sat on one of her legs, the other, slender, hung from the couch, mounted on her crunched up toes on the hardwood floor. Why was he so nervous? He felt like he wanted to vomit, knowing he had experienced something similar many times throughout his life, but only when his skates were laced tight and he could feel the pulse of his body under his elbow pad secured tightly around his arm. This time, he felt his body pulse under his temples, in his hands as they sweat, and in his heart.
"I wanted to thank you for breakfast." He said. "I felt bad I didn't even text you or anything, and I'm really sorry--I meant to--I'm just... I'm just really overwhelmed right now," he confessed. She looked at his from the corner of her eyes, sparkling slightly with a dash of makeup. She bit her lip and he began to sweat, he could feel it in his thick hair.
"I'm just, I'm just trying to say that--"
"It's ok." She assured him. He stopped and looked at her, puzzled. "It's ok you didn't text me..." she said. "I, I think I get it." She smiled, embarrassed. "It's not a big deal," she said, making eye contact with him and nodding. "It's ok," she repeated.
"It's not a big deal?" Patrice was confused. The way he felt, the way maybe they felt--if there was a they--was there a they? Could there be a they? He desperately hoped. He had given up on all control; he was sure he was mad.
"I've never felt like this before, and, it's really taken me by surprise--" he had lost all control and given up any hope of regaining it. Something about this girl made him want to talk; he wanted to talk to her, with her, about her, for her, he wanted to touch her, hold her, smell her hair, he wanted to think about her all of the time and not feel like he couldn't, like he shouldn't, he wanted to know about her, about her childhood, her family, her friends, her work, her studies, what she thought about him, how she felt about him. The blood was rushing around his body and he felt his hands moving in gestures he hoped would help explain whatever words were tumbling out of his mouth and he felt the sweat seep and pool in the short roots of his dark hair and his shirt stick to his back and then there was bliss.

The bliss tasted like far away, sweet, rose petals. It was warm and soft and loud. The blood pounded in his temples, his head swirled, overcome by scent, touch and emotion. He was kissing her. She was kissing him!
He felt the tip of her nose press against his cheek and her hot hands on the side of his face, twisting his head to better make room for hers. Her felt her exhale and the light flutter of her eyelashes on his.
He felt her bit her lip, their faces still close, their foreheads still pressed together. She took a deep breath and he waited, so patiently, he waited for her return. He longed for it.
Her hands dropped from their hold on his cheeks and found themselves behind his neck. She pulled him closer and met his lips again.
He sighed--he couldn't help it. His coffee-free hand took hold of her waist and she scooted closer to him on the couch. He tried to think of what he had been saying, what he had been blubbering on about like an idiot that had ignited the kiss. He couldn't.
She smelt of the unfamiliar familiar flowers. Her back was strong but small as his hand spread across it and moved to support her shoulders and invite her to move even closer to him.
When they parted again, she proceeded to bite her lip. He noticed one of her hands had made it to his hair and he had to close his eyes and steady his breathing.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, in French. "I'm sorry, I totally lost control." His stomach flipped as he breathed lightly onto her face. He pushed his lips to hers, one last, quick time. "I'm sorry."
She gently kissed him again.
"I kissed you first, Patrice Bergeron."