Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice and Jamie fell in and out of sleep tucked away back in bed in his room with the blinds drawn. He lay on his back, his head propped up against the pillows stacked against his headboard as Jamie's head slowly rose and fell on his bare chest. Her hand sat lightly on his taught stomach, her fingers gently stroking him when she was awake, but falling silent when she drifted off in content slumber.
She lay on her side, turned into him, and he supported her position with a strong arm around her back, fastened around her shoulder. One of her legs was pulled over his, resting between his knees.
When he was conscious, he would gently run his fingers along her lean arm or play with her hair, bumping his nose into her kinky locks and smelling her scent of familiar unfamiliar flowers.
He was so happy he could just come right out and love her, now.
He felt as if now that they had said they loved each other he didn't have to sensor anything he did with her. He could really just be crazily obsessed with her and it was safe because they loved one another. He used to think twice about complimenting her every time she did something--even though he noticed it and wanted to point it out--but he figured he'd overwhelm her. Jamie, when you do that little giggle thing and sound like Tigger and scrunch your nose up I just die inside; you turn me into a little girl who can't stop cooing at you and I just have to hug you to make sure you're real. Jamie, when we hold hands my favorite thing to do is see how far my fingers can wrap back around your knuckles and reach up the top of your hand. Jamie, sometimes it looks like I'm off in a daze, but really I'm just watching your chest expand and shrink, marveling at the way you breathe; you're physiological complexity continues to amaze me. Jamie, you don't know how many times a day I think about how we cuddled in my bed from when I was a kid back home in Quebec; I don't think I've ever been so happy; you and the Nordiques, what more could a simple guy like me what? Jamie, I want to take care of you when you get the flu, I want to plan celebratory dinners for when you hit the many milestones in your life I know you will. Jamie, I want you to meet all of my friends and I want them all to adore you like I know they will. Jamie, when you bring my head over your shoulder in your skinny arms for a hug I could just cry because I'm so overwhelmed with how much I just love you.
I just love you.
I love you.
Now, he felt he could literally attach himself to her hip and there'd be no second thoughts, no second guessing.
He was safe with her.
She wouldn't of said it if she didn't mean it.
He knew her.
He loved her.
He replayed the moment in his mind. Her forcing him to look at her as he blushed and tried desperately just to smoother his face into her chest to quell his embarrassment. Je t'aime, tu sais? She had asked, smiling and kissing her favorite spot on his face, where his monstrosity of a nose met his cheek. It was such a simple statement followed by such an innocent action that his heart still melted and his stomach still flipped over an hour later as he continued to think about the moment he had finally been told he was loved.
"Oui?" She had asked him again, kissing him again. He turned an even more violent shade of red and leaned forward, his head bowed, for her to coddle him. He didn't know what to do. His body hummed with a weird contented numbness that made him feel dizzy and overstimulated. He felt as if his heart might leap from his chest.
"Oui," he breathed, laughing in utter disbelief--not for her love but for not expecting it. For wanting it for so long and not realizing that she was just as crazy for him as he was for her. It was a laugh--a sigh--of relief, of finally feeling good about himself.
"Do you love me back?" She giggled in French, wrapping her arms around his back and embracing him warmly as he rubbed his face into her chest and locked his strong arms around his entire body as it goose-pimpled.
"So much," he laughed into her body. "I love you so much," he whispered, his arms moving from her back to her neck as he straightened himself up between her legs and covered her lips with his, delicately holding her head in his hands, cupping her cheeks.
It was a kiss of pure, unadulterated love.
They both sighed into the kiss and one of her hands found his hair and the other wrapped its tiny self around his neck and smoothed the top of his shoulder.
"Oui?" She giggled as they parted for a moment.
"Oui," he beamed, his mouth open as he looked up to her with a goofy, star-struck smile. She giggled and smoothed his cheek with her thumb and pressed her lips to his again and turned his head sideways as their tongues met in the sweetest of embraces and their hearts raced.
Patrice was jolted awake by the sound of something breaking and a "what the FUCK," from outside his room. His jump stirred Jamie but she did not wake, and before she could snuggle back into him he stealthy replaced himself with a pillow and grabbed a sweatshirt.
He gently eased his door shut behind him and made his way into the kitchen.
Marchand stood in his clothes from last night, one hand holding his white phone up to his ear and the other suspended, his fingers holding onto his scalp, unable to grasp his buzz-cut hair. He didn't face or acknowledge the new presence of his teammate, but instead was turned toward the bay window that displayed sleepy Boston out the back of Patrice's kitchen, glowing in a warm, orange morning light.
He was clearly in a position of distress.
There was a broken coffee mug on the tiled floor behind him.
He whirled around, panic in his eyes the phone pressed to the side of his face. He pointed at the mug, acknowledging that he did it, probably about to apologize, but Patrice waved him off mouthing "don't worry about it," pulling his hoodie over his bare chest and knowing his liney was calling his girl in response to that text he accidentally snooped on.
"Katrina?" Marchy breathed, pulling his hand from his head and covering his mouth that hung open in some kind of deranged hurt and awe and shock. He hadn't heard her voice in over a month.
Patrice tried to mind his own business, squatting in front of the broken pottery and collecting the smaller pieces in a bigger piece that was connected to the handle.
He glanced up at Marchy, who had moved his hand from covering his mouth to covering his eyes. As he listened to Katrina, he bit his lip and futiley tried to hold back tears.
"No," he moaned, sniffing. "No, no, no; don't baby, don't cry" he begged, letting out a single sob he was quick to suck back in and clamp behind his lips. He moved forward to rest both of his elbows on Patrice's dark granite counter top, still hiding his face behind a big, strong hand. "Please... don't cry" he whispered through labored breathing, attempting to control his own emotions.
Patrice rose with most of the mug collected in another chunk of pottery and quietly set it in the trash. He pulled a new mug from the shelf and poured Marchy a cup of coffee, his own heart pounding for his little liney.
Marchy squatted on his knees facing the counter in the kitchen in desperation, all other movements becoming meaningless to him, his hand resting on his forehead, squished between his skull and the wood of the counter, covering his crying eyes.
"Katrina, come back. Come home baby, please, I can't... I can't..." He sat back on the tile, his back resting against Patrice's chrome refrigerator and Patrice sat his new mug of coffee to his side so he could see it. "I can't just sit here and listen to you cry, Katrina," he said frustratedly, through gritted teeth, gesturing with his hand. In the few seconds he revealed his eyes his line mate could tell he was crying.
As Patrice stealthily made his way back to his bedroom, anxious to slip underneath the covers and hold and kiss Jamie, he heard Marchy sniff and say, his voice crackling with strain: "Baby you can always come back... always... please don't cry..."

Greg quietly and swiftly pulled the bathroom door between the guest room and Patrice's room shut before mechanically pulling the rim of the toilet seat up, sliding to his knees, and tipping his stomach into the porcelain bowl graciously.
Vomiting, unfortunately for Gregory Campbell, was not an unusual thing.
There were never very many things his stomach could take, thinking back on it. Any kind of funky smell always made him lurch, having to pick up his dog's shit and swallow whatever came up had become a daily ritual, hearing or seeing anyone else toss their cookies instantly rendered him nauseated and useless, and any kind of food or alcohol binge always ended in a good buff.
Oh, and exercise.
The way his stomach worked was an exact science he hadn't quiet figured out yet. Sometimes he could eat before games, other times he couldn't and it would all spill out between periods. Sometimes he couldn't eat before games and he'd have to take chances shoving bananas down his throat in intermissions and pray they wouldn't come back up on the bench. He couldn't count the number of times DelNegro and Babs had had to rehydrate him after practices or games if he couldn't keep stuff down.
He was just finicky. He didn't know why.
The fact of the matter was, puking was just a fact of life for Greg. And there just wasn't very much he could do about it.
He flushed and pushed himself up off the floor, knowing exactly where Bergy kept the clorox wipes under the counter. In fact, he kept them there just for Soupy, as they liked to frequent this building's gym when the weather was too pour to hike to the Garden for a workout on a day off.
Greg wiped down the toilet, bowl and all, and flushed again after spritzing some febreeze--not that he had been particularly messy or anything. He was a professional at this, afterall.
He stood in front of the sink, propping himself up with his hands and looking into his face for a while. He didn't look too shabby, especially for a night of clubbing. He had some circles under his eyes from not sleeping very well, crammed three in a bed, but, he had had fun, so, might've been worth it.
He ran a hand down his cheek, pulling his eye lid away from his eye. His cheeks looked sullen and lean and he frowned, straightening up and pulling his shirt up his trunk.
He heaved a sigh upon looking at his pale stomach and dropped his white undershirt. It and its black and white checkered button down counterpart raced down his smooth, emaciated looking abs.
"Gotta eat more," he mumbled, reminding himself as he rubbed his eyes and yawned.
He desperately hoped Emily wouldn't mind if he crawled back in bed to sleep off his headache a little more as he checked his watch and it only read 8:30.
He laughed to himself as he remembered their night, all piled on top of Bergy's guest bed, drinking his gatorade and laughing and listening to music. At a certain point in the night Marchy became a drunken mess, talking about his girl and how he really loved her and needed her back, and Emily had coddled him all night, giving him hugs, rubbing his tough back and wide shoulders, roughing him a bit, chirping him. She was a tough kid, but a good girl.
They talked about Meghan and how Soupy thought he maybe regretted some of the years they spent together; he didn't really know. He couldn't remember. But he remembered Emily coddling him too.
And he remembered--as sweet as she was--she didn't offer up any of her own relationship history.
But, all that being said, he couldn't imagine a woman who was taken would be that touchy-feely with two other men about her age.
He knew he'd certainly be jealous if he were her boyfriend.
He eased the bathroom door back open, hitting the lights off as he made his way out.
He heard sniffing and looked toward Patrice's kitchen, seeing Marchy sitting on a barstool at the breakfast bar, his head in his hand, on the phone. He shook his head and sniffed again.
Gregory made a nervous face and quietly snuck back into the guest room with Emily.
He shut the door behind him to hear soft acoustic guitar picking.
Emily lay in the middle of the bed, facing away from him, still wrapped tightly in her blanket he and Marchy had drunkenly tucked her in with.
"You'll like this one," she whispered, giggling, as Greg tried to crane his neck to see who she was talking to.
Then he heard a massive sigh.
The voice began to sing from whatever device was playing Emily's music. It was a song he knew. A song he was pretty familiar with. He could hear Emily softly singing with the song.
She was singing to Wally.
He gently shut the door, but was horrified when it squeaked and Emily 's head flew over her shoulder.
"Ohmygosh," she gushed, laughing. "You scared me!"
"I'm sorry," he laughed, blushing a bit, ensuring the door was shut. "Marchy's just out there having a pretty private conversation on the phone so... do you mind?" He asked, nodding to the bed.
"Oh, no, not at all!" She said, scooting over. "Are you alright?" She asked, sitting up and crossing her legs, indian style. She pulled her crazy hair into a crazier bun and set it on top of her head. "You sounded ill," she said, worriedly.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry about that. I have a sensitive stomach..."
"No, that's fine. I was going to check on you, but, I dunno, didn't want to make it awkward or anything..." she trailed off... awkwardly.
They shared a beat of silence and then a laugh.
"Do you mind if I..." he asked again just to be certain, gesturing to the side of the bed he slept on.
"No, no, not at all," she said, scooting over some more.
"I just have a headache I wanna nurse..."
"No; of course," she smiled. "I stole your dog, though," she said, nodding to her other side where Wally lay, snoring. "Here, let's share." And with that, she began the immense battle of pulling the 80 pound bulldog over her lap so he could rest between them, with little to no success.
Greg laughed, smiling the widest he had yet all morning, watching the tiny ballerina try to pull the dog that probably weighed as much as her over her legs, only to have her wince and laugh as he crushed the first of them.
"Here, here," he laughed, kneeling on the bed and helping her. Wally groaned, perturbed.
"Oh, get over it," Gregory scolded him, flopping him down between them, and laying on his side, running his calloused hand over the dog's back.
Greg heaved a sigh and let his head fall on his arm that rested in the pillows, and closed his eyes contently.
"So happy to be back in bed," he moaned, laughing.
"Yeah? I had a lot of fun last night," she remarked, leaning back on the dark wooden headboard, the blanket still covering her legs. She wore one of Patrice' hoodies and she was absolutely swimming in it and a pair of athletic shorts he had lent her last night that--if he remembered correctly--slide all the way up her toned thighs when she hugged her knees to her chest late in the night, giggling up a storm. Her dress lay crumpled behind the bathroom door, still, he had noted upon his gut-wrenching trip to the bathroom.
"Oh, me too," Greg assured her, opening his eyes and nodding. "I think I really needed to get out and have a good time."
"I think so too," Emily nodded, smiling.
Greg smirked and rolled onto his back, his checkered button down unbuttoned and twisted up underneath his back, heaving a sigh. He still wore his khakis from last night but figured it wasn't worth bothering Patrice for another pair of sweats.
"Do you mind the music?" Emily asked, showing him her iphone.
"Oh no, no, not at all," Greg said, showing his hands innocently.
"We talked so much about music last night I had to dig deep into my old tunes to quench my acoustic thirst," she laughed.
"Hah, I forgot; we talked about all sorts of music, huh?"
"Yeah, including this guy," she said, showing him her device.
"Oh yeah," Greg said, nodding and smiling, remembered how much he had liked her taste. "I knew that sounded familiar. Gabrielle Aplin--Mountains" he read from the iphone's screen. "We did talk about her," he nodded, smiling.
"Yeah; I couldn't believe you knew her; not many do."
"Of course I do, I listen to a lot of music," Greg chuckled.
"Even the girly music, hey?" Emily teased, smiling with her lips sealed, playfully.
"It's not girly..." Greg laughed, blushing.
"Just a little," Emily giggled, showing him her fingers measuring out about an inch.
"Oh whatever," he chided, playfully pushing her measuring fingers away. "You said you had a dance to this song, you'll have to show me sometime," he persisted, changing the object of their laughing, smiling.
She bit her lip, hiding a smile in return.
And a blush.

Jamie laughed, pulling on Patrice's hoodie that he had discarded while they were cuddling and shuffled out of the bedroom to follow her sleepy, stiff beau into the kitchen to meet the new guests that had just barged through the front door.
"We brought you low-lives some brek-its!" Dougie cheered, setting a big cardboard box of muffins and bagels on the dark granite countertop.
"Brek-its?" Patrice laughed, slicing the tape holding the cover to the box and opening it, nodding approvingly.
"Yeah, y'know, breakfast," Dougie shrugged in his down jacket covered in snow.
"In Hick," Adam laughed, smirking.
Jamie pulled the hoodie over Patrice's Bruins shirt she had slept in and wrapped her arms around herself, slowing waking up. She peeked over the back of the white couch in the living room to see Brad turned on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest, hugging a pillow with his phone tightly clutched in one hand, passed out.
"Aw guys," she cooed, pulling a blanket off of the arm chair behind her and draping it over their little liney. She hushed them and pointed to their sleeping friend.
"Oh he's fine," Dougie laughed, reaching over the back of the couch and slapping Brad's cheeks to wake him up. Jamie laughed, making her way into the kitchen to help Patrice crack eggs into a big bowl and whisk.
Adam took a seat opposite them at the breakfast bar, and Jamie slipped her hands around Patrice's trunk to help stir the eggs from behind. Relieved of his egg whisking duties, Patrice pulled a cup down from his cabinet and filled Adam glass of 2% milk.
"Thanks man," Adam nodded, raising his glass to Patrice and chugging.
"You got it, bud," Patrice said, taking the whisk and the bowl from Jamie and looking over his shoulder at her snuggled into him from behind, laughing. She blew him a kiss, disconnecting herself from him and going to fill a mug of coffee.
"How was lifting?" Patrice asked, dumping handfuls of cheese into the egg mixture. "Oh, I also have protein powder if you want to mix it," he said, nodding to the glass of milk.
"Nah, don't worry about it," Adam said, waiving him off. "Thanks though. Lifting wasn't so bad, we didn't really get enough sleep though, got home at about two last night; when did you guys get going?"
"I can't remember, to be honest," Patrice laughed, shaking his head.
"Oh, Bergy," Adam laughed, pretending to be disappointed, holding his hand to his heart and shaking his head.
"Hey did you guys steal Soupy's dog? I remember that being the plan," Dougie asked, making his way back over to the breakfast bar and eyeing Adam's milk, jealously. They were recently showered from their work out but still in sweats and windbreaker pants, their hair damp and smelling strongly of Red Zone and Polo.
Jamie noticed Dougie's longing for a glass and poured him one herself, to which he seemed eternally grateful.
"Marchy, how we doin'?" Patrice called into the living room to Brad, who had sat up, his head hidden in his hands as he rubbed his eyes, still sleepy. He slowly lifted a hand to flip off Patrice as he yawned.
"No eggs for you!" Patrice called, pointing the spatula at him as he poured the uncooked mixture onto his skillet.
"Did he sleep on the couch?" Dougie asked.
"Yeah, where's Emily and Soupy?" Adam chimed in before they could answer Dougie's question, sitting up straight and looking around the apartment pretending to be nonchalant.
But Jamie had caught him.
As the sneaky older sister, she had kept her eye out on Emily all night and had noticed Adam's quiet blush whenever she was around all night. Usually he was pretty quiet, but, she had noticed that he didn't seem to mind talking to her for hours on end between dancing.
She wasn't able to get him on the dance floor though, try as she did.
As if on cue, the guest bedroom door opened up and Jamie's heart sunk about as fast as Adam's face did.
Wally, Gregory, and Emily all trailed out of the room, Emily wrapped in a Bruins throw blanket, yawning, and Greg rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
"Oh," Jamie heard Adam say, shifting his gaze back to his half empty glass of milk.
"Hey guys!" Dougie called, waving.
"You're so loud," Greg moaned, rubbing his eyes with the butts of his fists.
"Right?" Emily laughed, pulling the blanket over her head and groaning.
"Rough night?" Dougie chuckled as Adam laughed, but Jamie thought it sounded more like a scoff. He turned his glass of milk a couple times, watching the white liquid swish.
Before Emily and Greg could answer though, hopefully with a remark about how their night was completely PG rated, Brad made his way to the breakfast bar, his arms raised above his head half in a morning stretch and half in a romantic, elated gesture.
"Katrina's coming back to Boston!" He announced, absolutely beaming.
"What?" Patrice asked, tossing the egg bowl in the sink, his hands out by his sides exhibiting his enthusiasm.
"She's coming tonight!"
"You're kidding?!" Jamie asked, just as excited.
"Nope! She's coming tonight!"
"Yes Marchy!" Patrice rejoiced, hugging him tightly around the neck and sharing a good, well deserved laugh with his teammate, who was so happy his cheeks ached as he mashed his face into Patrice's strong, shirted shoulder.
"I told you!" Patrice laughed, jabbing playfully at his giddy little liney. "I told you."
Marchy laughed, blushing madly and took a seat between Dougie and Adam as everyone resumed breakfast activities. Asking him about when she was coming in, how fast Greg had to change aparments, if Owen was coming, and such. Brad reached for a jelly filled donut with the widest grin Jamie had ever seen plastered across his face.
"Hey!" Dougie said, a plume of powdered sugar puffing away from his lips with his breath as he devoured a donut.
"Morning," Brad nodded, his lips covered in sugar.
"Not you," Dougie said in mock disgust. "You!" He said, pointing to Emily as she took a stiff seat on the barstool next to Adam, nursing a cup not yet filled with the coffee Jamie knew she was craving.
"Hey," Emily laughed, crossing legs at the knee and blowing on her coffee. "Good morning?" she teased, noticing she was being ignored by Adam. She bumped her shoulder against his, gently.
"Hello," he responded, quietly, raising his eye brows and taking a deep breath.
"What's up? How was working out?" She asked them. "Tired?" She asked Adam specifically, feeling him out. Jamie cringed, holding onto Patrice from behind and banging her forehead onto his back. He laughed, oblivious to the intricacies of what was happening in front of him at the breakfast bar, per being typical man.
Adam shrugged in response to Emily's question, not really making any direct eye contact with her. Dougie gave her a thumbs up, powered sugar all over his lips again. Emily giggled.
"Here ya go," Gregory said, making his way over to the breakfast bar with a mug for him and Brad and a new pot of coffee. He poured Brad's and slid the mug down the granite to him, and then poured Emily a mug full.
Adam stood, and Emily watched him with a frown, the sweet aroma of dark coffee filling everyone's tired nostrils.
"You take milk?" He asked her, holding out his glass to show her.
"I do..."
"Here, it's yours," he said, tipping some into her mug. "Say when."