Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice donned his light grey suit jacket and shouldered his gym bag. Tipping his head back, he crushed the Vita Coco carton and tossed it in the trash in the middle of the locker room before waving to his team and nodding to a few praises for his game winning goal in overtime.
He was beat but couldn't be happier to be on his way to see Jamie.
Before he turned to exit out of the room, Ferry told him to make sure that the girls knew about the on-ice seats before he invited them to the next game. Patrice smiled and nodded, thinking himself an idiot for never thinking to relay such vital information before.
"Yeah, I'll be sure to. I'm going over Jamie's now, so," he said, shrugging and then patting Andy on the shoulder.
"You devil, you," Andy teased, grinning at his friend. As Patrice laughed and shook his head, Tyler stood on his stall and announced to the locker room that he was going to a Harvard party tonight, if any one was interested in tagging along.
"Will you stop announcing your promiscuity!" Shawn Thornton jokingly grumbled at him, grabbing him by the ear like a kid who misbehaved at Catholic school and pulling him down off his high.
"This, is where I take my leave," Patrice whispered to Andy with a hint of a smile, slipping away from the locker room. Although closer to Tyler than Andy in age, Patrice identified with the older members of the team more so than the young and the avid.
"Right behind ya," Ferry laughed, shouldering his own gym bag and tugging on his sock hat.

He felt guilty for the thoughts that occupied his mind on the drive to Jamie's. He was normally a fairly tame individual in terms of controlling his desires; he had always just assumed it came along with having to lead a very controlled, well practiced and diligent lifestyle. It was one thing to be gifted with the stick and puck, but it was a whole other thing to be manicured into the perfect form to execute such skill. Ever since Patrice could remember he was eating the right things, sleeping the appropriate amount of hours, and successfully committing the mandated number of sets, reps, laps, hits necessary in training. As a boy, as a teenager, he never gave in to laziness, to physical or emotional desires, to social pressures; he only did what furthered him to his goal.
The only problem now was, he had an extracurricular goal.
Her name was Jamie.
When he wasn't thinking about hockey, he found himself thinking about her. Normally it was about how she made him feel; how she could make him hot and she could make him sweat, or how she could make his stomach shrink and curve into thick knots and drop. Because of his regimented lifestyle, Patrice knew a lot about his body and how and why it felt the way it did, usually. But this girl had really thrown him for a loop. She made him feel funny--great--but funny. She made him feel like he would lose control; like he wanted to skip out on his diet with her, sleep in, trade in a morning run for hot yoga. He wanted to drink wine with her and lay around; he'd forget to stretch or do his ab regiment before bed, just laying around thinking about her until he eventually fell asleep.
He wanted to throw away his control and take her to bed.
He felt so damn guilty about it. He could feel himself slowly loosing his control over it, too; he would think about her in the shower, run his hands through his wet hair and lock his fingers behind his head, leaning his forehead on the cool tile and sigh, thinking of her with her head thrown back, her back arched, her eyes closed in bliss. Or before he'd fall asleep at night, he'd lay on his stomach with his head under the pillows and imagine what she'd sound like if he could bring her to climax.
He brought his car to a halt at a red light. He gripped the steering wheel and rolled his eyes, heaving a sigh, disappointed in himself. He could see Jamie's window alight a few blocks down. He just felt so damn guilty. He had curbed his desires his whole life--he had never stopped early with an ache in the side of his rib cage, he had never gone to a party as a high schooler, he had never taken a week off without taking a workout regiment with him, he had never put himself before anything hockey; and now he was putting himself before a girl--a woman--whom he had come to care very deeply for.
He didn't like it. Not one bit. It wasn't him, it wasn't Patrice. Not that he wasn't compassionate, but he was very, very disciplined.
As he accelerated from the green light, he supposed that's what made him feel so guilty. He had no idea if Jamie was having these same feelings, these pangs of hunger low in his abdomen, explicitly different from being hungry in your stomach.
He sighed and looked out the passenger's side window as he parallel parked outside her apartment complex. It only took him one try.
He leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes for a minute. This had to be natural, these carnal fantasies he was having about her; they had to be. Hadn't he had these as a kid? When he first started noticing women? Had he ever noticed women?
He couldn't remember.
You probably suppressed those two, idiot, he scolded himself. He pressed his fingers from his wide hand to his temples and furiously mashed them, as if physically trying to incite a memory that somehow justified his sexual desire toward Jamie as natural.
Maybe the only reason he found it unnatural was because it was one of the first emotions he felt he couldn't control...
It wasn't often Patrice lamented his diligent personality, but it was times like these, times where he felt different from everyone, his family, his friends, his teammates, times where he felt as if he had missed something important while he was too busy growing up too fast that he despised himself. He never wished he hadn't done everything like he had; he didn't regret his life or how he had achieved his dreams, but sometimes he just wished things were different.
There was a gentle knock on the window, and Patrice snapped out of his thoughts only to meet the warm, kind eyes of Jamie. His face immediately broke into a smile.

As soon as he stepped out of his Audi, Jamie pushed herself against him, cupped his cheeks and pulled his face down to meet hers, standing on her tip toes. He immediately responded, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her close. He parted their lips momentarily to turn his head and kiss her more deeply, his nose grazing her cheek.
She savored his taste; freshly brushed teeth with a hint of something sweet, newly applied cologne, recently styled hair. She was so into it; all of it; him.
They parted and she bit her lip, watching him pull his grin to the side and softly laugh.
"What are you doing out here in the cold?" He asked, kissing her forehead and rubbing her back with his hands.
She leaned into his chest. "Alex was over watching the game; I walked her out."
Patrice tightened his arms around her small frame and she felt his breath in her hair.
"I saw your game winning goal, Mr. Bergeron," she whispered, her hands linked around his neck.
"Did you?" He asked, beaming.
"You bet," she laughed, mimicking him.

She awoke smiling.
Her hand was asleep under her cheek, but her eyes were quite awake when they saw the sight before them.
He lay on his stomach, sleeping softly. His eyes were gently closed and his face was expressionless, turned toward her, his jaw slightly ajar. Her other hand occupied the space between them, gently holding onto his wrist, as if they went to sleep holding hands but forgot somewhere in slumber.
His back was pale and strong, save for a bruise under his left shoulder blade. She smiled at the light purple covers that hid anything below the small of his back; they were such a soft color for such a strong man.
Hoping he wasn't cold, she gingerly pulled the sheets further up his back, letting them rest on his hard shoulders. His mouth twitched, softly, and he let out a sigh. He rubbed his face into the sheets and with a bit of a groan, he twisted until he was asleep on his side, facing away from her.
She took the separation as a moment to yawn, rolling onto her back and stretching, her arms above her head. She arched her back with her newfound energy and let her head turn to face Patrice, asleep next to her.
She admired his breathing, his back slowly expanding and falling. He was silent, save for the occasional twitch of the ankle or stretch of the calf.
She turned again so she was on her side and bit her lip as she watched him sleep. He had been the perfect gentleman last night; she brewed tea upon his arrival and they cuddled on her little green couch to talk and watch the game highlights.
"That is Andy, yeah?" She would ask, pointing to a figure on the TV in slow motion.
"Oui," he would answer, nodding. "C'est Marchy," he'd say, pointing to another.
"Oui," she'd answer, sipping her herbal tea.
After the post-game show, they turned the TV off and Patrice reclined on the couch, his back to its arm and his leg stretched across its length, his other bent at the knee, his foot resting on the floor. She laid back onto his strong chest, her head nestled in the nook of his collar bone--never broken, he had assured her, quite proud of himself.
They continued to talk like that for quite some time, until she could feel Patrice nodding off. His fingers, twisted in her pony tail would stop moving, and his breathing would get slower, and his head, resting on the back of hers, would become heavier. He'd wake with a start and she'd softly laugh, and his arms around her middle would tighten. He then would tell her he should go, and she then would quiet him until they both started drifting again.
"You know, Jamie, I can't pretend I don't want to do this with you every night," he finally said, quietly.
She looked up at him, smiling. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he said, smiling himself and nodding. He leaned forward and kissed her, very gently. "I'd so be lying if I said I didn't," he whispered onto her lips.
From there she had turned around and again sat on his hips and so fervently kissed him that he couldn't refuse to stay the night.
Presently, Patrice sighed and pushed himself onto his back, his hand landing on Jamie's stomach. She giggled and held it, and his fingers closed around her thumb.
"Hey," he said in a rough, tired voice after a deep breath. She looked at him; his eyes were still closed and his lips were bent in a smile; they were the softest part of his face as his tired five o'clock shadow had begun to develop around his cheeks, chin and neck.
"Morning," she said, softly. She watched him drift in and out of slumber, his chest rise and fall slowly. His skin was smooth. His pecks were defined and where the met in the middle of his chest fell flat and hard, the center of his ribcage. He had a little hair on his chest, mostly in the middle but it was hardly noticeable. One thing she couldn't help but notice though, was the thin, light trail of hair that started under his belly button and trailed into his borrowed sweat pants that were just a hair too small. Jamie had to admit she liked the Crimson on him, though.
His stomach was flat; it wasn't muscular, like she had expected. In fact, he was breathing so deeply that his stomach seemed to move up and down before his lungs did. It looked so, so soft, and she couldn't get over how unexpected it had been. She remembered when he pulled his shirt off last night, how she had run her hands up and down his chest. Her fingers gripped at his pecks and trilled down his abs, but then again, he had been straining then, holding his weight above her.
Now that he was on his back, his stomach was flat and ridgeless, soft and welcoming. She loved it. The fact that he wasn't some iron man made him seem more warm and tangible.
He rubbed the back of his fingers alongside her exposed stomach, her shirt caught up from her turning in her sleep. She laughed softly and he smiled again, eyes still closed.
"How'd you sleep, mon ami?" she asked, pulling his hand from her stomach and kissing the backs of his fingers.
He gave a deep sigh. Lightly, with a finger, he traced her soft cheek.
"Wonderfully," he breathed. "You?"
"Like a child," she smiled.

As he closed his eyes, holding hands with Jamie and savoring the morning, he thought about last night.
He remembered they made out for a long time semi-uncomfortably on her velvet couch, her sitting on his hips and pressing herself all over him. There was lots of heavy breathing and more than once little moans escaped his lips when they parted for air.
He picked her up and as she wrapped her legs around his middle he felt a surge of desire he knew he'd have to spend all night fighting off; he had promised himself he would never sleep with someone he wasn't in a relationship with yet. He had to promise himself that after Rebecca; he had never felt so low after being thrown around by such a woman. He wasn't worried that Jamie would do the same, but he thought it would only be fair to each of them to be committed before such intimate circumstances were executed. Maybe he was old fashioned, he didn't know...
As he placed her on her bed, she tugged his undershirt off of him. He only had his suit after the game, which he had come to be really embarrassed about given the thin material that made his pants, and the certain, very apparent situation that had arisen in midst of their sudden intimacy.
When she lifted his shirt off of him though, she sighed as she pulled him on top of her and ran her hands up and down his chest and his back. He did his best to kiss every inch of her and hold her and rub his face against her but the whole time he was mentally checking himself. No matter what Jamie does, you can't take her tonight, you can't... you both deserve a commitment... no short cuts; you've gone twenty four years without a short cut, don't start now, Patrice. This girl should love you and trust you before you're with her; it's the way you want it to be, too.
It took every fiber of his being to not paw and kiss her chest, to not give into what she also seemed to be longing for. Why wasn't he okay with it? Why was he so confused?
"Hey," he mumbled in a feeble attempt to calm the situation.
"Oui," she answered, holding his head to her breast as it rose and fell quickly. He felt her heart rush and he savored her scent. He lifted from her and looked her in the eyes.
"Jamie," he said, softly. She closed her eyes and took a breath, then resumed eye contact with him.
"Oui," she answered, laughing softly.
"I... really like you. I really like you," he said, emphasizing the "really" the second time rough. He even said it in French he was so serious.
"Good," she giggled, cupping his cheeks and kissing him gently. He laughed and blushed.
"I don't want you to feel like... like we have to rush things," he said, rubbing his nose against the side of her face. "I want to see you every day, I want to hear about work, take you out to eat, cook for you; I want to spend nights with you and kiss you and everything, all the time," he sighed, pressing his forehead to hers. "We don't have to rush anything..." he repeated, cupping her cheek and brushing stray hairs from her face. She smiled. "I plan on being around for a while, if that's what you like," he finished.
She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, stroking his cheek and playing with his ear.
"I'd like that," she whispered, bringing his face close and hugging his head as he nestled into her neck and shoulder, smiling.