Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice had only told Ferry, Soupy and Looch that he had guests tonight when he had taken them to lunch to ask their advice about Quebec City, so he was entirely taken aback that as soon as they got on the ice, Marchy approached him looking madder than a hornet.
Patrice had done a few laps to the Dropkick Murphys and had settled down on the opposite side of the rink, facing Jamie and Alex to stretch. He had told them that he didn't want to make a big deal out of their connection, so he probably wouldn't interact with them too outwardly as to draw attention to them, but that didn't stop him from catching eyes with Jamie every few seconds and smiling and blushing profusely. He tried his best to tone it down, as he had noted that they had both looked extremely relieved when he promised a low profile game viewing, but he couldn't deny how hard it would be to not stare at her every second of spare time he had both on the ice and on the bench.
As he leaned forward on his hands to stretch his groin he rudely received a kick of snow that sprayed all the way up his shoulder.
"You didn't tell me she was coming," Marchy snapped. Patrice looked up at him incredulously. At first he laughed, thinking maybe this was one of Marchy's skits for a few good laughs, but he quickly could tell it wasn't. Seguin was on the other side of the rink, his stick held in both his hands, cautiously eyeing he and Marchy towards center ice.
"What?" was all he could manage.
"You didn't tell me Alex was coming." Marchy dropped to his knees and slid beside him, stretching his abs and back by leaning forward, his legs out straight behind him.
"What's the matter with that?" Patrice asked, casually. "I wanted Jamie to come. She asked if she could bring a friend." He shrugged.
Marchy heaved a sigh and shook his head, clearly distraught.
"You ok March--"
"Don't you think I'd want to know?"
"Look man, what's your problem? Are you into her or something? Why are you so pissed?" Patrice sat back on one of his ankles and stretched his other leg off to the side. He put a gloved hand on his padded knee, applying a little pressure. Spending the night with Jamie, his calf had charlie horsed and was still tender.
Marchy spread his knees and leaned toward the ice. He huffed again, careful not to make eye contact with Patrice.
"What's the deal, man? What's wrong bud," Patrice pleaded, hitting his buddy's shoulder with his other glove gently. "You'll all uptight about this girl; are you talking to her or something?"
"No," he said, heavily hanging his head.
"Do you want to be? Come out after the game with us," Patrice offered quickly, trying to lighten the mood. Chemistry was vital for tonight. He had no idea what was eating his liney, but he felt like maybe it was a bit bigger than just Jamie's friend.
"No, no, no," Marchy said defiantly. He sighed again, "I'm sorry man."
Patrice was completely baffled; he had never not seen Brad in a good mood. Even working out, even in physical training, sweat soaked through his clothes, his finger sliced open, nose broken, he always had a joke, could always find something to laugh about.
"What's on your mind, Marchy?" Patrice begged.
"Oy; boys! Let's go!" Ference yelled, crowning the top of the face off circle and gently tossing a puck between them. Ferry always had a good nose for trouble; he joked it was from raising to mischievous girls. Marchy shook his head and kicked off again.
Patrice was dumbfounded. What the... he thought, rising from his knees and joining the team in laps again. He gave Alex and Jamie a confused look, but they were laughing and pointing to banisters and retired numbers way up in the rafters, a cold beer in their hands and not a care in the world.
He felt juvenile for arguing with a teammate about a girl on the ice before a professional hockey game and hoped none of the camera crews had picked up on it, but couldn't help but wonder what was bothering his liney...

Jamie had to admit it, she was a little taken aback with the grace the hulking figures on the ice had.
The men like Milan and Chara could move smoothly and were so agile she almost felt as if she were in a haze and she were dreaming it all; dreaming she had been invited here by Patrice, dreaming she got to share it all with one of her best friends, dreaming that she was even donning his shirt, dreaming his calming, strong scent constantly flooding her senses.
Patrice looked so much larger in his gear on the other side of the rink. But when he was close to her, digging the puck out of a corner and sliding alongside the boards in front of her, she could peek down the gap of his shoulder pads made for his neck and she could see the Patrice she knew.
Her Patrice.
He wasn't hulking at all.
In fact, he was quite lean--sculpted, of course, but very lean. His mouth hung slightly ajar and the tendons in his neck flushed and pulsed with exercise and heat much as they had done when they were together, his body moving above hers.
As she watched him skate, perform, labor, she couldn't help but block everything else out around her. She watched him in a heavy silence for the awe he produced in her with his skill and technique. His sheer instinct for the game.
She knew she was always smiling, too.
And chewing her lip.
In her own little world, she began to understand how and why he saw food as fuel, sleep as rest, and showers as maintenance. She began to understand the importance of camaraderie and "the boys" as he heavily stepped into the bench after a shift, lay his helmeted forehead on the boards and heave his shoulders in breathing and spit as Tyler and Paille (she hadn't met him yet, was that how you say his name? She wondered to herself) patted him on the back or his thigh or his helmet. She began to understand the A on his chest hearing him cheer for his teammates, hearing him talk to them on the ice when they were close enough to her, watching him smile proudly or supportively to them, watching him bring Marchy's helmet into his shoulder or the crook of his arm in a quick but warm embrace.
She was beginning to understand hockey.
She was beginning to understand Patrice.

All the while she was enjoying the game, Jamie couldn't help but notice the attention they were receiving from the bench; particularly from a Mr. Brad Marchand.
She wasn't sure if Alex was aware of it yet, but after their first encounter after he and Patrice's starting shift, Jamie had caught Brad staring at Alex well into the double digits of times.
After puck drop and about a thirty second shift, Patrice's line skated to the bench and Brad sat alongside the glass closest to the girls. Alex waved at him, and he smiled with closed lips, making eye contact with her before disinterestedly looking back to the ice.
"Well, that was rude," Alex huffed, crossing her arms and legs and turning her own attention back to the game. "He was nice enough at Chipotle."
Patrice peeked his head out in front of Brad to steal a quick glance at Jamie and smile at her with his eyes only to be betrayed by his mouth-guarded teeth and a full blown smile before the next shift was off the ice and they had to scoot down the bench.
"Yeah. He's usually more personable, I think..." Jaime thought, aloud. "Maybe he's having an off day," she suggested, trying to convince herself of it as well.
But now, in the second period, she was really confused.
He had been gazing at her constantly, even from on the ice! This doesn't make any sense, she thought to herself. Patrice had mentioned he seemed particularly interested in Alex, and Jamie herself had picked up on it at Chipotle, but this behavior was incredibly immature. It was like a boy in Grade 3 expressing interest in you by being mean on the playground. She knew Brad wasn't a very old guy, but was he really that young as to not understand the art of flirting?
Something wasn't adding up.

Claude had finished his obligatory closing remarks and praises for the boys on their win over the Predators and announced, as always, that they had five minutes before the media storm, before he and the staff left the room.
Patrice leaned forward, his newly unpadded elbows resting on his padded knees, fishing for his phone in his gym bag between his skates. He bent further forward to read a text from Jamie, asking where to meet him. He punched some keys in a return note to find Charleen and rose to pull off his shoulder pads, leaving nothing but his under armor black long sleeve to cover his glistening chest. Without getting up, he tossed his dirty pads in their cubby above his head, reread the text he sent Jamie, and tossed his phone back in his bag, with just enough time to rub his temples, his hand engulfing his face, before he felt Marchy beside him.
"Hey."
"Hey," Patrice answered, turning his head to face his liney and propping up his head with his chin in his hand. "Nice goal, by the way."
"Thanks for the assist," he shrugged, a little laugh in his voice. They held an awkward silence for a few beats as men moved around the locker room, joked, threw trash towards the garbage bins in the middle of the room, and ice off their skates at one another, just like in mite league.
Patrice resumed undressing, bending forward to unlace his skates.
"Hey, uh," Marchy said, bending forward to unlace his own. "Sorry I was kinda a dick out there in first period."
Patrice didn't really know how to respond, other than to shake his head and shrug. "We all have off days, March," he said, comfortingly.
Jamie hadn't told him anything about March and Alex, so should he assume otherwise? But if there wasn't anything between them, then why was he being all weird?
"It's just..." Out of the corner of his eye, Patrice saw Marchy give a quick glance around the room to see if anyone nearby was listening or suspicious of the pair and then go back to his skates. "It's just my girl left me--a while back..." Patrice eyed his line mate, who shook his head, focused only on his skates. "I'm not doing so hot, man."
"What do you mean? Your girl left?"
"Yeah, I was seeing someone. I've been seeing her for a long time. She left me, about a month ago."
"Marchy... I didn't even know you had a girlfriend," Patrice breathed, shocked. He pulled his skate off and started on the other, closer to Marchy.
"It's complicated. But she's gone. And sometimes I just get freaked out I'll never get her back," he said softly. He bent forward between his knees and dug his own phone out of his bag. He lit up the front screen and showed him his background. Patrice saw a beautiful blonde woman holding a toddler aged blonde little boy, and then he understood everything all at once and snapped his head toward Marchy.
"She looks just like Alex," he said, pointing to his friend's phone.
"There it is," Marchy said, clicking the phone off and throwing it in his bag. "Just a brunette instead of a blonde," he sighed, unlacing his other skate.
There is was, Patrice thought. He couldn't help but flirt with Alex, and he couldn't help but be upset with Patrice for bringing her around and constantly reminding him of the woman he had lost. Patrice had to admit he didn't know they were dating, but then again he had to admit they had never talked about it and he had never asked. Maybe it was naive of him to assume that Marchy was single based on his commentary around the weight room or out with the boys.
As Patrice zoned out, he could feel his phone rumble through his gym bag.
"Where are you, mon amour? I want to see you soon!"
And just like that, equilibrium was restored to his rushing mind, and that warm, glowing feeling spread through his chest, up through his neck, around behind his ears and through his sweat wet hair, warming him from the outside in, and reminding him that his life was starting to become that much sweeter with the woman who smelt like flowers, waiting for him just on the other side of the metal plated door, stamped with a massive spoked B.