Je t'aime, tu sais?

Jamie hadn't seen Patrice in two whole days and it was driving her mad inside.
Her phone came to life beside her and she jumped, emitting a small yelp and slamming her hand down on the poor device.
It was just her alarm; her laundry was ready to be dried, downstairs in the basement.
She moaned as she pushed herself up from her desk and slipped into her slippers, tying her hair in a big knot on top of her head. She pulled her Harvard sweatshirt down over the seat of her yogas and made her way to the stairs, begrudgingly.

"No girl tonight?" Soupy asked as they lined the hall, ready to take to the ice.
"Thesis stuff, I guess," Patrice said, shrugging and looking a little sullen. They had exchanged texts since he had spent the night after inviting her to Quebec, but now that they were both loosing the upcoming weekend to travel, their work-week schedules had become packed with to-do lists and stress-inducing balding.
"Will she come out after?" Segs asked, stretching next to him.
"I'm not even coming out after," Patrice laughed, bending forward, his gloves holding his stick, pressed to his knee pads. "I'm not even going to bother asking her; she's really busy with this thing."
"This thing?" Chara laughed. "This thesis is most likely the pinnacle of her academic career, Bergy."
"No, oh I know... I know... She's just so busy all the time..."
"So are you," Chara said, nodding to him. He thumped his massive hand on Patrice's chest pad. "Don't forget that," he said, omnisciently. Patrice nodded and looked down at the floor through his knees. Big Z was right; Patrice had no right to fault Jamie for the frustration he was feeling at being separated from her. He was just as much to blame, with morning skate, afternoon lifting, stretching, rub downs and games at night. And then he'd stupidly passed out after their loss the previous night, kind of downtrodden about letting Datsyuk break through his defense and score. He was the one who had been at fault to fall asleep when there could've been an hour or two he could've spent over at Jamie's place before really needing to get some sleep.
The worst part was, he wasn't even sure if he'd get to see her tonight, either. They were about to start a seven-thrity game, which put the ending at about ten, ten-thirty, coach's remarks, media mob, cool down, shower, leaving the Garden, he was looking at getting home about eleven-thirty, midnight; he couldn't ask Jamie to come over then. Not in the cold, not when she didn't have a car. He'd pay for her to come in a cab, but, he couldn't ask her to leave the warmth of her home. Not after he pictured her all cocooned up on her green velvet couch with empty tea mugs around her and laptop on her lap, wrapped up in purple blankets and her big Harvard sweatshirt.
Maybe he'd find it in him to make his way over there. He could stop at his house to refuel and dash over; even if he only got to spend 30 minutes with her before they both couldn't keep their eyes open, it'd be worth it.
God, he missed her.

"We land at 9 in the morning," Jamie told Emily, still beaming from giving her the news of their soon to be weekend spent together at home.
"Oh my god; can I pick you guys up? I HAVE to meet him, James!"
"You can meet him, you can meet him! Jeez! I dunno who's picking us up; he said he'd call CBC and say that he doesn't need totted around the city, as he has his own car and places to stay there anyway, so, I'm not sure if that means we need picked up from the airport or what."
"Can you ask him if I can pick you guys up?"
"And where would you take us?"
"Home! Why doesn't he just stay with mum and dad?"
"Don't you think that's a bit much?"
"Hey, if he's into you, he's gotta meet dad at some point..." Emily said. Jamie could hear her shrugging on the line.
"Fair..."
"You sleep in my room and put him in the library," she suggested.
"On that shitty pull-out couch?"
"Oh he's a big boy! He'll be fine!"
"Aw, Em..." Jamie had been moved out of her parents' apartment in downtown Quebec City for over four years now, and they had taken her room and created an office/library with the extra space. Emily, however, who was still in college and sometimes lived at home still had a room.
"I mean, he can sleep in my bed, but, he might feel awkward..." she offered.
"I'll see, I'll see."
"Are you meeting his family?" Emily excitedly inquired.
"God, I hope so! I mean, I've already met his brother, but, I'd love to meet his parents," Jamie confessed. She was never one to fret over meeting families; she loved seeing where her friends came from, and now with Patrice being such a special, close, intimate friend, meeting his family was very important for her, and she hoped for him.
"Alright, well I've got to hit the studio," Em sighed. "I have a piece for a recital in less than a month; lots of work to come!"
"Well I'm glad we get to see you next weekend. And remember--don't tell mum and dad!" Jamie said, acknowledging the time. How did it get to be ten-thirty already?
"Me too and I won't! I'm so excited you're letting him bring you, James. Really." Jamie could hear her sister smile, and couldn't help but smile herself.
The two exchanged goodbyes and Jamie took note that in forty-five minutes she'd have to grab her last load out of the dryer. She closed her phone and tossed it behind her on the island in her kitchen. She readjusted the laptop on her lap and clicked the TV on with the remote, thinking perhaps that she might be able to catch a glimpse of the end of the game or Patrice.

The lights in her room were dimmed. Only the lantern above her bed and a few candles on her desk were lit as she sat indian style on her purple bed and folded clothes, listening to Ingrid Michaelson softly singing from her computer.
Tea sat cooling on her bedside table next to her, as her shoulders drooped and her elbows rested on her lean thighs; she limply held a bulky sweater in her fingers, dazed.
"I don't believe in anything but myself,
I don't believe in anything but myself," Ingrid softly sang, her beautiful acoustic guitar ringing in the background. Jamie's eyes were fuzzy, melting into and out of the burgundy sweater she felt between her fingers.
"But then you opened up a door, you opened up a door, now I start to believe in something else."
Jamie moved her lips gently to form the words, and joined Ingrid in the next set of lyrics, softly singing to herself as she moved to fold the sweater, her heart swollen full of missing Patrice and feeling pathetic about it, and then not caring about anything other than being completely taken with him, and letting it all happen.
"And so it goes, this soldier knows, the battle with the heart isn't easily won,
And so it goes, this soldier knows, the battle with the heart isn't easily won."
Jamie lifted herself forward, balancing on her knees as she plopped the sweater on her clean and folded pile of clothes on the ground, a new found energy igniting her.
"But it can, be won,
But it can, be won," she sang, in the beautiful glow of her room, alone in the cold night in Boston, missing and at the same time deeply loving Patrice from afar.

Patrice curled his fingers around his opposite elbow as a microphone bumped up against his chin. He pushed it away, really attempting to control his temper. Speaking to the media wasn't always his favorite thing, but normally he did very well to tolerate it. Tonight, though, for some reason, he felt as if time was moving infinitely slow.
They had lost again, Z let a hole appear in his line of defense and Subban got right in there with a rocket. The team was pissed and quiet while listening to Claude's remarks, and he left them to change with the media, shower up, and head home for an early morning skate tomorrow. Patrice hadn't had time to do much of anything except pull his upper body pads off and jam a few keys in his phone, sending a text off to Jamie asking her if she was still awake and calling her mon amour just because he wanted to and missed her.
"Patrice, you keep looking at your watch; there somewhere you need to go?" One of the guys from the WEEI radio station asked, laughing. Patrice hated sarcasm, mostly because he couldn't identify it as a learned bilingualist. Was the radio host laughing at him and his frustration? Was it that apparent? Or was he using humor as an attempt to connect with him? He could never tell. He knew he was over-thinking everything, too; it was something that happened when he was stressed, only adding to his levels of frustration.
All he could think about was a warm shower in which he would finally be at peace long enough to try to work a visit to Jamie into his schedule for the night, without jeopardizing his much needed rest for tomorrow.
"Hey, we're on our way out. Early morning tomorrow, folks!" Claude said, entering the locker room and clapping his massive hands together, either knowingly or unknowingly releasing Patrice to the late, late night and the solace of a shower.

"Patrice," she whispered, her voice just audible over the soft music lulling from her laptop on the ground next to her bed. Her heart beat big, excited he had taken the liberty to use the hidden key she had told him about to visit her whenever he wanted.
She was surrounded by her clothes not yet folded, her skin glowing in the lantern light gently falling from above her head, and her room smelled of lavender and green tea.
Within two strides he had a knee up on her bed and had softly pushed her back against the mattress, one hand holding the side of her face, the other steadying himself on the plush bed as he gently laid on her, taking her lips in his and sighing deeply.
Her hands wrapped around his neck and played with his still damp hair until they parted for air. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his face to hers, his warm breath cascading down her cheek and to her neck. She held the back of his head with one hand, and with the other, traced his stiff collar and found his tie. She ran her fingers up and down its soft pink body, tracing the paisley lines in it and smelling his freshly applied cologne springing off her fingertips as she rubbed his head with her other hand.
He sighed contently again, laying his head on the pillow next to hers, his nose colliding with hers, their cheeks pressed together, his body still half on top of hers, half turned next to her. His hand traveled up her belly and chest and formed around the side of her neck, enjoy her heat and feeling her pulse.
She angled her face slightly so she could see him, looking up at her with big eyes and a bashful yet playful smirk.
She hugged his face close to hers and softly sang alongside Kate Nash:
"'Cause your smile is beautiful, and it makes me happy,
'Cause your smile is beautiful, and it makes me happy..."