Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice shook his head, violently dispelling as much of the water in his hair as he could. He raised the towel to his face and then enveloped it around his waist, cinching it off right below his hip bone.
Proudly, he stepped out of the bathtub/shower combo in Jamie and Emily's bathroom with a wide smile on his face; he had discovered what made Jamie's hair smell so good.
He was actually obsessed with it, and felt like a creep, but he had seriously huffed that stupid pink Herbal Essences bottle for a solid five minutes in the shower, officially making that unfamiliar familiar scent of flowers permanently engrained in his nostrils. Something about roses; he couldn't remember what it was called. All that he knew was that it flipped his stomach again and he had to make the shower even colder to recover before getting out.
He tossed his hoodie over his shoulder, wanting to cover up a little bit but also hoping he wouldn't run into any of the Delacour's on his way down the hall from the girls' old bathroom. He poked his head out of the door and surveyed the dark hall way, light tumbling from the side that led to the family room with the great panoramic window. He tip toed down the hall and turned into the library to find Jamie lying on his bed.
She didn't hear him enter at first, and he was so thankful because the scene was adorable--and that wasn't a word Patrice used very often.
Jamie lay on his bed, her head on his pillows, with the fluffiest white cat he had ever seen. Her hair was knotted in a beautiful bun on the top of her head, and her neck looked lean and long, disappearing into her white v-neck, her collar bone pronounced. She wore dark sea-green corduroys and her bare feet tapped to an invisible song she heard somewhere in her head.
The abnormally fluffy cat lay on her stomach, his paws on her shoulders, affectionately watching Jamie hum as she stroked him. The tip of his tail flicked back and forth, contently.
"Who's this?" Patrice asked, stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind him. He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, careful to not disrupt the scene too much.
Jamie looked up at him, a smile spread wide across her face.
"Hey," she said softly, gently stroking his forearm with her cold fingers. "This is Louie," she smiled, bumping noses with the cat. Her tendons in her neck flexed as she leaned forward, grinning, to cuddle the purring cat.
Patrice warmed with his love for her, as if he himself were being stroked and caressed.
"He's beautiful," Patrice said, offering the cat his knuckle to sniff.
Louie looked at them, unperturbed, and blinked slowly.
"Not much bothers Louie," Jamie giggled, gently rubbing under the cat's chin. "I think he even slept under your bed last night; it's really all he does anymore..."
"Really?" Patrice asked, softly laughing. He timidly ran his knuckle down the cat's back. Louie didn't mind, he even lifted his bum up into the air when Patrice passed his hips. The couple giggled at Louie as he did it again under Patrice's gentle, big hand, as if he were a puppet and Patrice a gentle puppeteer.
"He's old, yes you are," she said, cooing to her old friend as he continuously purred. She picked him up from under his arms and sat up, crossing her legs, her folded ankles up against Patrice's side. "Give my boy a kiss, Louie," she said in a sing-song voice.
Patrice laughed as he pulled his hoodie off of his shoulder and discarded it on the floor.
Louie looked at Patrice as he hung limply from Jamie's tiny arms and hands, her muscles flexed even with just the cat's weight.
"Poor guy; don't make him kiss me!" He joked, stroking under the cat's chin. Jamie giggled and brought the animal softly into her arms, cradling him.
"He's not allowed to anyway, right?" Jamie asked, standing up and turning to face Patrice where he sat. She bent forward and set Louie on the floor, ushering him under the pull out bed to which he eagerly traipsed.
"And why's that?" Patrice asked as she straightened up in front of him.
She smirked at him, walking until she stood over his bent knees, and sat on them, looping her arms around his neck.
"Because after an hour or so ago, we're exclusive, Bergeron," she winked, kissing him on the mouth, full of excitement.

Jamie, her mother, and Emily sat next to the window at a lunch cafe, their salads finished, sipping on water and waiting for the boys to show. Jamie checked her watch again, noting the time when Patrice said he would probably finish with his photo shoot for Varvatos.
"He says he will, but I doubt it," their mother said, rolling her eyes and setting her water back down on the table. They were discussing Mr. Delacour's recent decision to discuss his retirement with his wife. None of the women believed him.
"He'll work until the day he can't, mom," Emily said, punching the keys of her blackberry. "Don't let him fool you."
"I agree," Jamie nodded, looking passed her mother and onto the snowy street of Quebec, in search of Patrice and Guill.
"I just never see him anymore," she sighed, shaking her head. "He's obsessed! Now that neither of you girls are home, he never spends anytime out of the office," she confessed.
"He hardly spent any time at all with Jamie besides last night," Emily said, raising her eyebrows at her mom. "And it's a SUNday," she emphasized. "Day of rest? No?"
"I know! And we had company!" Mrs. Delacour said, upsettedly.
"I couldn't tell if Daddy liked him," Jamie frowned, stirring her water with her straw.
"Oh, I think he did, sweetie," her mother said, fondly. "He's so sweet, really. And he's not all hurly-burly and gruff; he's very strong but gentle."
Emily looked at her mom with her mouth hung open. Jamie laughed, knowing whatever remark about to dispel itself from between her younger sister's lips would be humorous.
"What did you just say?" She asked in disbelief.
"What? I like him," Mrs. Delacour answered, confidently folding her hands in her lap. "He's very dashing," she winked at Jamie.
"Dashing? Hurly-Burly?! Hold OLD are you?!" Emily asked, laughing and having to push her drink away.
"What?!" Mrs. Delacour defended herself against her beautiful, laughing girls. "I'm hip!" She tried, putting a hand on her jean clad hip and striking a pose.
There was a knock on the window and the girls jumped.
"Holy shit is that his BROTHER?" Emily asked, pointing to the source of the noise. Guill stood in front of the shop, looking back away over his shoulder, calling to Patrice. He was in a beautiful suit jacket, paired excellently with his black jeans and pointed dress shoes. His shirt underneath had some kind of logo printed on it, but Jamie couldn't make out what.
And then she saw Patrice.
He was in dark wash jeans, a white v-neck and a black leather jacket, squinting through his new sun glasses at her through the window. Patrice followed his brother's pointed thumb to see the three women sitting on the other side of the glass. His face broke into a smile as he waved.
"Shut up, look at their outfits," Emily whispered excitedly.
"Why do you always tell everyone to shut up?" Mrs. Delacour asked, curiously.
"Oh my god, stop," Emily squealed as they rounded the corner and entered the cafe. Jamie felt herself grow hot in Patrice's presence.
That leather jacket.
Those obnoxiously big sunglasses.
The men made their way over as Jamie and Mrs. Delacour shook their heads at Emily, who they insisted needed to learn some couth.
"I'm just the honest one!" She said, surrendering as Patrice stood behind Jamie, his sun glasses hanging from his shirt and his big hands finding their way to her skinny shoulders. Guill approached Mrs. Delacour and shook her hand.
"Mrs. Delacour, this is my brother, Guillame," Patrice introduced.
"Pleasure," they both said, smiling and nodding.
"And c'est Emily, the younger sister," Patrice said, motioning to Emily and winking. She smirked back, outstretching her hand to shake Guill's eagerly.
"Nice shirt, I love the Wallflowers," she winked, noting the band on Guill's tee.
"Top band," he said, praising her for her knowledge of music before bending forward to embrace Jamie and kiss her cheek, his rough, trim beard scraping against her blushing skin.
"Good to see you again," he smiled, uncanny in his resemblance to Patrice.
"You as well," she smiled, releasing him from a hug.
"Are you boys hungry? We can order something quickly if you must go soon," Mrs. Delacour suggested, waving over their waitress.
"I'm actually ravaged," Patrice said, taking a seat next to Jamie, his hand still wrapped around the back of her cafe chair, as if another moment apart would physically pain him.
Emily pushed a chair out from under the table with her foot for Guill, flashing him a smile.

She swore that every time she discovered something else about Patrice her heart melted and rebuilt itself with a little more extra space for him.
They pulled up to the Bergeron house, it's roof adorned with snow and white Christmas lights in the nearing of the evening dark.
Guill's F-350 crunched the snow as it pulled into the driveway, and from his seat behind her, Patrice leaned forward over his tightly packed knees and wrapped his arm around the top of her chest and shoulders.
"Welcome to l'chateau de Bergeron," he laughed, pressing his nose into her hair, his lips on her ear. She blushed madly as her heart began the melting process.
The house was tiny for what seemed like the two gigantic children it had reared. It was a cottage, pale yellow in color with faded blue shutters. The garage was attached, a light on in the room above it.
"Mom's already in my room, probably making a fuss over needing clean sheets for you or something," he said, nodding to Patrice in the backseat. "I think I spelt over like, a week ago before I went to Alaska," Guill said, parking in the driveway behind an older looking Toyota 4Runner.
"I don't care," Patrice scoffed, shaking his head. "She gets so worked up about company," he sighed, laughing at his mother.
"What were you doing in Alaska?" Jamie asked.
"Just work," Guill smiled, bending forward to look into the room again. They saw an outline through the curtains of someone folding sheets.
"That's her! Mom's totally making my bed for you," he laughed, gesturing to the tiny silhouette.
Patrice heaved a sigh, "I told her not to make a big deal about this."
"Yeah, sure," Guill laughed. sarcastically.
The porch light was on, waiting for the boys, and the steps had been freshly shoveled. Leaned up against the garage were a family of hockey nets, some ancient looking. Now that she thought about it, there were black flecks etched into the garage door at every level; hockey pucks, she expected. Jamie pushed open the door and Guill raced around to help lower her out of the massive pick up, Patrice leaning over the front seat to hold under her arms. She giggled as they lowered her, protesting that she could fall out of the car unhurt on her own accord; but they insisted, careful not to let her slip.
She turned to watch Patrice kick forward the front seat and hop out himself, admiring his long taught legs in his dark wash jeans as he stretched to reach the driveway.
"It's not much," Guill said, shrugging, a laptop case hung round his shoulder.
"But it's home, yeah?" Patrice laughed, clapping him on the back and taking hold of Jamie's hand. He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. There was a plate that hung above the doorbell that had the Bruin's spoked B etched into it.
"Now, my mom'll probably be all over you, fair warning," he said, before pushing the door open and kicking the snow off of his boots.
Her heart hammered with excitement as she heard someone descending from the old staircase that led into the kitchen.
"Here she co-omes," Guill sang from behind her. Jamie looked over her shoulder at him, laughing.
"Patrice?" a tiny woman called from the top of the stairs, her accent thick and excited.
"Who else would it be?" a grumbling laugh came from the next room over, through the open door and into the living room. She was shocked to see that his father was no where near the height of his towering sons. He was about her father's size, and also like him rounder with age, but more jovial and sincerely happy as he made his way over to Patrice and embraced him in a rough hug.
"My boy," she heard him laugh into Patrice's shoulder.
"And you're back, great," he laughed, hitting Guill on the shoulder. "Didn't I just drop you off at the airport a week ago?"
"Thanks, pops," Guill laughed, setting his laptop bag in a chair at the kitchen table.
"Can't get rid of 'em," Mr. Cleary grumbled in jest.
"My boys!" Mrs. Bergeron sang, reaching the bottom of the stairs and making her way straight into Patrice's chest for a hug, her arms tightly wrapped under his arms and around his back. She was adorned in a camel brown cable knit sweater and jeans, with big moccasin slippers. Her hair was short and so was she, but she was one of the warmest, sweetest looking women Jamie had ever seen.
"And, ooh my," she cooed, turning and looking at Jamie, a smile on her lips. She folded her hands under her chin and looked up at Patrice for his introduction.
"Mom, this is my girlfriend, Jamie Delacour," he said, his bad hand attaching itself to Jamie's small back, feeling the tough material of her black peacoat and her slim shoulder blades underneath. "And Jamie, my mom, Sylvie, and my dad, Gerard."
Mrs. Bergeron gave her a quick and excited hug, clearly having been lectured by the boys to not be over-affectionate.
"It's so lovely to finally meet you," Jamie smiled, making sure to hug back. She shook hands with Mr. Cleary, who didn't appear to be as openly affectionate as his wife, even though he gave her a very warming, welcoming smile and shook her hand with both of his. Their kitchen was yellow in color and warm, dinner cooking in the oven and smelling of chicken and vegetables. There was a round table in the middle of the room, where a small stack of mail had sat with the morning's paper and an empty coffee mug with the National Geographic logo on it.
"Here, here, why don't you get her situated, dear," Sylvie said, taking Jamie's coat from around her shoulders and ushering Patrice into the kitchen. "Ah ah!" She said from inside the coat closet, as if she had eyes in the back of her head to see Patrice and Guill examining what was in the oven, curiously about to open the door. "You'll let out all the heat!" She scolded, swatting at her two full-grown boys with a nearby oven mitt. She smacked both of them on their arms with it as they giggled and tried to back away from her, running into the cupboards.
"Take Jamie upstairs; she's in your room, right?" She instructed. "I made up your bed."
"Good, cause I sure as hell don't fit in it," Patrice laughed with Guill, picking a slice of tomato out of the salad they had found next to the sink and popping it in his mouth. "I will sleep on le couch--"
"--Oh, Patrice!" she began to say, barking in dissatisfaction.
"--It's really no problem, mother!" He cut her off, laughing, pressing a kiss on her cheek. "It's the only place big enough around here to fit me anyways," he promised, lifting Jamie's bag for her and beginning to make his way up the stairs, ducking under the frame of the second floor.
Mrs. Bergeron heaved a sigh as Patrice's open hand showed between the railings of the stairs and he gave a short, calling whistle.
"Ah ah!" Mrs. Bergeron chriped, waving her hands in the air, but it was too late, Guill tossed his brother a cucumber over their short mother's head and hands and received a "thanks man," from the second floor.
"Boys," Mr. Cleary laughed, shaking his head. "Always eating."
"You just go right ahead and follow him, love," Mrs. Bergeron told Jamie, smiling.
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bergeron," she smiled, sure to step out of her boots and leave them on the mat.
"Please, dear; Sylvie and Gerard," Mr. Cleary said, fastening his arm around his wife's shoulder. "No need for formalities here," he smiled.
"Thank you," Jamie smiled, making her way up the stairs behind Patrice.

The carpet upstairs was a soft, dark blue and the walls were a light tan in color. Patrice stuck his head out of the last room in the hallway and waved her over. She passed the bathroom, a closet, and what she assumed must be the master bedroom on the way, and then at the end of the hall led another short hallway to what she assumed was the room over the garage.
"That's Guill's old room," Patrice confirmed, nodding in the direction she was looking. "If he heads back into the city tonight I'll sleep there."
"And if not?" Jamie asked, following him into his old room. The blue carpet flowed from the hall way into his room, which was painted a lighter blue and adorned with framed jerseys of all shapes and sizes. His bed was a tiny double, so small she couldn't even imagine Patrice as having fit comfortably in it, and his headboard was a wooden shelf with a few books in French leaned to one side, and trophies and pucks displayed throughout the remaining space.
"Le couch," he smiled, tossing his leather jacket on his bed. She wondered if they had let him keep the clothes he took his photo shoot in today; he was in an entirely different outfit than when she had kissed him (rather lengthily and with quite a good bit of tongue) goodbye at her family's own apartment in the city.
His bedspread was navy with a crimson red symbol she couldn't decipher in the middle. It looked like a lower case "n" or maybe some kind of cartooned elephant. It's trunk was definitely a hockey stick, though, that she could make out.
"What's on your bedspread?"
"L'Nordiques, don't you remember?"
"Who?"
"They were the Quebec hockey team; in the NHL. They were bought out and moved to Colorado in '95. They're the Colorado Avalanche, now," he said, running his hand along the emblem.
"I don't remember," she confessed.
"I was ten," he helped.
"So I was only six."
"Too young," he laughed. He sat on his bed and it creaked a bit under his weight. She admired the muscles in his shoulders and back, creasing his white v-neck shirt as he turned to examine a few pucks on his headboard.
"Here," he said beckoning her over to him, smiling. He pulled her on his knee and gave her a puck to hold. "My first goal, ever," he laughed, flipping it over in her open palm. "Patrice, 1989" was scribbled in a silver sharpie. "My dad helped coach so he took it, I was five, I think?"
"Four, hun," Jamie laughed, doing the mental math efficiently.
"Whatever," he laughed, embarrassed, tossing the puck back on the shelf and tickling her. She squirmed and giggled, promptly hopping off of his knee and whirling around to give him a challenging look. They shared a laugh and she kept on exploring his old room.
She made her way to his wooden bookshelf, full of books in French from school and a rather impressive collection of magazines about hockey.
"Guill and I always got a new copy of the NHL yearbook after the first day of school every year," he said, smiling in remembrance. "We would wait for my dad to get home from work every day and he'd take us in his old truck to the gas station and buy us each one." She ran her finger along the tattered spines of all the editions. "It was a big deal because we each got our own. We got in a big fight in Grade 1 because I started writing in it, and at the time we shared and Guill got REALLY mad," he laughed.
"REALLY mad?" She asked, laughing a bit at such a strong emphasis.
"Yeah..." Patrice answered, trailing off a bit awkwardly.
"You'd write in them?" She asked, changing the subject.
"Mh hm," he nodded, from his seat on the bed. "My parents encouraged it because it promoted the writing I was learning in school," he shrugged. She picked the '98 edition and pulled it from its place. It fell open to the Colorado Avalanche page and terrible, scribbled handwriting covered all of the margins and space between the text and the pictures.
Her face split into a smile and she felt her heart do that melt-y thing again, witnessing her young boyfriend's handwriting.
She laughed, and curiously, Patrice made his way over to her. He knelt next to her, smiling as well.
"See?" He asked, pointing to someone's statistics. "I predicted FRosberg to earn over 44 points that season..." he said, following his own, private writing. It was like he had written the entire book just for himself. She could see him in his pajamas, laying on his stomach on the ground, watching as many hockey games as Sylvie would let him, his one hand in a bowl of baby carrots and his other scribbling away in his little magazine. Every time someone shot, he'd record it excitedly, his tongue sticking out, his left hand cramping from all the writing practice. "...and he did! He got over! I remember that!" Her bigger Patrice with slightly better handwriting said, finally finding the end of his own record.
Jamie looked at him, admiring his passion, jealous he had it from such a young age.
She passed the book to him, and he rested it on his knee as he continued to read his young handwriting. She pressed a kiss to the side of his face and continued to make her way around his room.
The plaques that were under the displayed jerseys in frames all denoted teams he had played for in his youth and young adult hood. She examined each and every one of them as Patrice knelt in front of his book shelf, chuckling lightly to himself as he read his chicken scratch.
From down below, they heard Sylvie call for dinner.
Jamie looked over her shoulder at the amazing man, folded and balanced on one knee, reading his magazine intently.
She didn't know she could love someone so much.
She understood him now, much, much more than ever before. She understood where he grew up, how he grew up, his loving family. She understood his passion, his obsession, his dreams.
He bit on the tip of the velcro around the fingers on his bad hand and continued to decipher his writing.
Jamie made her way over to him and knelt at his side, wrapping her arms around his thick shoulders and rubbing her face into his.
It was amazing how such a simple feat as reading could make her even crazier for him than ever before.
"What?" He laughed, flipping the magazine shut and turning his head to face her. He caught her lips and with a sigh she hugged him close to her, her fingers affectionately running up and down the back of his head.
Sylvie called for dinner again from downstairs.
"Let's go eat," he whispered, stroking her cheek.
She smiled and he kissed her again.
"I'm hungry, as you know" he said with a sly grin, taking her hand and standing up with her, leading her through the halls of his house, his bad fingers tracing the sides of the walls he used to passed through daily just years before.