Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice had one more night without her.
Just one.
He waited outside the sushi bar Kaizen, one of his favorite restaurants in the world, fumbling with his phone in his suit pocket. He was cold, but his grey peacoat was thick and warm and his beanie kept his head warm against the pelting snow.
He was waiting for his parents, who should pull up in their Toyota 4Runner any second. He thought fondly of the old SUV. They had bought it for the boys when they entered high school so Guill could drive them to school and early morning or late night hockey practices. Patrice ended up driving the thing down to Boston when he was drafted and it lived with him for his two years in Rhode Island when he was a Providence Bruin, but after that he drove it back to Quebec City because it was rather stupid for his parents to not have an all wheel drive vehicle in the winter. His mom's Camry could only take so much.
Today they had made the not-so-arduous drive from Quebec City to Montreal which took no more than three hours, and had timed it perfectly to meet their son for dinner.
He bought them a hotel room for the night in the same hotel the team was staying in so they could spend the next day together, and then watch his game against the Canadiens in the evening, before driving back home.
His stomach fluttered anxiously as he thought about having dinner with his parents.
About what he was going to tell them.
He heaved an uneasy sigh and turned around, pushing himself back from the fence post on which he was leaning and taking stride over the sidewalk. He concentrated on his feet and watched them push the light white fluff out of their way.
His heart continued to palpitate.
He could feel the sickening icy hot sweat start to prickle under his dress shirt.
Where were his parents?

Dougie slumped back in his hotel bed, his chin resting on his chest and his hand slipping his phone out of his pocket. He coughed into the nook of his elbow.
Adam came out of the bathroom with the flush of a toilet, loosening his tie and sniffing.
The roommates--both on the road and at home--were coming down with colds.
"Do you have anymore of that Zicam?" Adam asked, shrugging his suit jacket off and sticking it on a hanger in their closet. "Here, gimme your jacket," he offered, nodding to Dougie's crumpled coat on the foot of his bed.
Dougie sighed, leaning forward and sloppily tossed it across his bed to him.
"You're welcome, asshole," Adam laughed, tucking Dougie's jacket away with his.
"Shut up," his roommate chuckled. "And yeah, the Ziacam is in my toiletries bag in the bathroom, go ahead and grab it," Dougie said, pointing to the bathroom but not looking up from his phone. His tongue poked out from between his lips and then he laughed.
"Who're you texting?" Adam asked curiously, making his way across the small, carpeted hotel room and back to bathroom to rummage through Dougie's things. The two hardly had their own possessions anymore, after living together all the time. His ankle cracked like it always did.
"Emily," Dougie laughed. "Who else?"
Adam tossed an orange zinc pill into his mouth and furrowed his brow at himself in the mirror.
"Emily?" He asked.
"Emily Delacour," Dougie explained. "Patrice's Emily."
Adam curled his lip in distaste at himself in the mirror. "'Patrice's Emily'?" He murmured to himself, shaking his head. He knew who Dougie was talking about, of course, but, didn't think too much of the nick name.
He waltzed back into the main room of the hotel with his hands jammed in his pockets.
"Y'know," Dougie continued. "Jamie's sist--"
"Yeah, yeah; I know," Adam nodded reassuringly. "She, uh, text you a lot?" He asked, facing those typical hotel floor to ceiling windows that showed the Montreal skyline and unbuttoning his shirt.
"Yeah, of course," his friend answered, totally engrossed in his phone's screen.
"Really?" Adam asked, pulling his shirt off and looking over his shoulder at Dougie.
"Yeah; she says she texts you too but you never answer!" He chuckled, emphasizing the "you" with a joking accusation.
"I answer!" Adam protested, pulling a shirt out of his beaten suitcase and shaking it out. He pulled it over his bare chest and pushed his head through the neck hole. "I answer whenever she texts me," he said, sticking up for himself.
"Yeah, with like a "haha", or an "lol!"," Dougie laughed.
"First of all, I don't "lol"," Adam said, rolling his eyes. "And second of all, what do you mean? What's wrong with a "haha"? She says funny stuff!"
"Dude, chill," Dougie giggled, sounding like he was stuffed up, per usual.
"What? I'm chill; it's whatever." Adam shrugged, as if he didn't care. He unbuckled his belt and undid his pants and let them slide down his legs as he sat on his bed, not facing his roommate. He rolled his eyes at himself for being exceptionally un-chill.
He kicked his suit pants off of his ankles and used his toes to slide his dress socks off of one another's foot.
He kicked his way under the bed.
"You're going to bed already?" Dougie asked, finally looking away from his device and across the beds at Adam.
Adam shrugged.
"What do YOU say when she texts you something funny?" He asked, after a moment of silence anyone else would've found uncomfortable, but the boys found to be quite usual.
"What... what do you mean?" Dougie asked, going back to his phone, his thumbs going a mile a minute.
"When she says something that makes you laugh; what do you say?"
Dougie slowly looked at his roommate with narrow eyes. He lifted one questioning eyebrow, as if to convey "no, I am not picking up what you're putting down...".
After making him hold his confused look for a few seconds, Adam's smile finally split into a laugh and the two decided on watching TSN and going to bed as opposed with trying to meet up with some of the guys in the hot tub downstairs.
After a few minutes of watching highlights from around the NHL and a live look-in at the Blackhaws/Kings game, Adam turned slightly away from Dougie and sent Emily a carefully thought out, calculated text message:
"Hey :)"

Patrice pulled half of his lips into a smile as his dad placed his beer back on the table and gave his son his undivided attention.
So far, dinner had gone well.
Really, anything he did with his parents always went well. He had never had a volatile relationship with them; their relationship had always been one of understanding and love. When he didn't connect with one about a given topic, he almost always connected with the other. He was really blessed to have such amazing, devoted parents.
But, this was really, really uncharted territory.
For all of them.
"So, uh," Patrice laughed, nervously. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. For some reason that had always helped calm him down. His mother looked at him from across the table, excitedly. Her eyes were big and loving and warm and inviting.
"So?" His father asked, resting his chin on his hand, his elbow propped up on the table and smiling in that charming way Patrice knew he was lucky enough to have inherited.
Patrice blushed profusely again. He laughed, loosening some nerves, and sat up.
He reached for his mother's hand.
"Mom," he started, smiling. He rubbed his thumb over the top of her knuckles, as if preparing her. Sylvie's eyes grew wide and she looked at her husband. She tightly held her boy's hand in both of hers. In turn, Gerard narrowed his eyes at his son, curiously, as he addressed him as well.
"Mom, Dad," Patrice breathed.
He chuckled.
Then he shook his head.
Then he shrugged.
But not in the kind of way that showed he didn't care, but, in the kind of way that seemed to say that he wouldn't have it any other way, as if there was nothing else in the world that made more sense to him.
He sighed, smiling.
"I've met the woman I'm going to marry."
Sylvie squealed before she could cover her mouth with her hand and her eyes welled up with tears.
"I'm going to marry Jamie," Patrice said, nodding confidently and smiling. "I know it. I just know it," he beamed. "She's the one for me. She's all I need."
"Oh, Patrice!" His mother cried from across the table, fanning herself with one of her hands.
"Mo-om," he laughed, reaching across to her again. She shoed him away, needing both her hands to hide her crying face.
"Oh my boy, my boy," she quietly cried from the other side of the table.
"Mom!" Patrice laughed, quickly glancing around the restaurant to see if anyone had taken notice of his hysterical mother. He slid into the chair next to her, across from his father and slipped his arm around her shoulder. She sobbed and grabbed both sides of his face, kissing his cheeks and exclaiming wonderful things about motherhood and watching her little boy grow up and smearing her lipstick all over his face.
When she finally had to let go of him to breathe, she drew her cloth napkin up from where it was laid to rest during the meal across her lap to pat his face makeup free and then smooth her own cheeks free of the stuff.
Patrice stole a look at his father, rubbing his mother's back as she shook her head and apologized for getting so emotional.
Gerard Cleary reclined in his chair with his arms folded.
"You want to marry this woman?" He asked, quietly.
"Yes, undoubtedly," Patrice confirmed with a nod.
"And you're sure?"
"Yes," Patrice answered again. They maintained eye contact while his father nodded slowly. "It doesn't have to be anytime soon or anything, but, I just know, and, I uh, wanted to share it with you guys," he said diplomatically, smiling.
"Oh Patrice," his mother cooed, clutching his thigh and leaning into her son.
His father continued to nod.
"So..." Patrice said, not quite sure how to read his father's reaction.
"Oh, YOU," Sylvie said, biting her lip to avoid crying again and pulling Patrice into another one of her motherly death grip hugs. "You were just a boy the last time I checked," she whispered into his ear. "I'm so happy for you, my little prince," she whispered in French.

"I dunno, I just had a really good dinner with my parents and I just wanted to call and say that I really love you," Patrice laughed, his breath battering the receiver of the phone.
Jamie stood in the lobby of the library where cell phone usage was permitted, blushing profusely.
"Mon amour," she giggled.
"I just love you so much," Patrice laughed. "I dunno what to do with myself!"
"Baby!" Jamie laughed, covering her mouth with the sleeve of his navy cable knit sweater she had officially adopted but liked less every day more she wore it because it stopped smelling like him. She could actually spin it so it was quite stylish with a pair of black spandex, some fine tanned leather knee-high boots and her messy bun.
"What?" He giggled, making his voice quieter, like hers, as if remembering she was in the library.
"Ugh, when are you coming home tomorrow night!?" Jamie pleaded. A group of undergraduate girls had made their way into the lobby and stood in line at the coffee shop, creating some noise to help hide her private conversation. "I don't think I'll make it through another night without yo-ou," she moaned, closing her eyes and remembering what his body felt like, the heat it radiated, the smoothness of his chest, his strong, thick hair and his hot lips. His hard body.
"Ah do-on't," he laughed, groaning. "I can hardly sleep enough as it is, don't get me all wound up."
"I'm sorry baby. I think I actually went crazy with out you," Jamie joked.
"I most certainly am crazy without you," Patrice said very convincingly.
She laughed. "What was so good about dinner with your parents, Love?"
"I dunno," he said, lightheartedly--it was the happiest she had heard him since he left. "It just went really great. I dunno why. I guess I like seeing them," he shrugged.
"And you're in the lobby of your hotel waiting for your dad?"
"Yeah, figured we'd have a beer together, y'know," he said nonchalantly.
"That's great, mon amour," she smiled. "And you get in tomorrow night?"
"Unfortunately around two in the morning," he sighed. "But, technically."
"God, I can't wait," Jamie said, shaking her head.
"Me neither," Patrice agreed. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Hey, I see my dad. I'll give you a call in the morning? Or call me before you go to sleep?"
"Enjoy your dad, mon amour. Call me when you wake up," she smiled.
"Okay," he answered. She could hear him and his father exchange greetings over 500 miles away. "But you can call me before you go to bed, too," he reminded her. Just in case.
"Alright, alright," she laughed. "Now go spend time with your father!"
"Fine!"
"I love you," she sung in French.
"If only you knew," he laughed.

"So," Gerard said, swirling his whiskey on the rocks. Next to him, Patrice laughed, playing with the toe of his shoe against his barstool.
"So?" He asked his father.
"So... how do you know?"
"How do I know Jamie's the girl I'm going to marry?" Patrice clarified. He hadn't taken a seat yet. He was a bit antsy. Instead, he stood with his knee bent, his foot resting on one of the posts held between the barstool's legs and held his beer on the bar. He faced his dad, sitting on his own stool.
He was ever aware of the presence of a few of the guys, seated in the low couches facing the city through the windows behind them. With the jazz music they were out of earshot and when Patrice and his dad first came in, they had rushed to shake his hand and chat. Marchy, Looch, Horton, and Seguin were respectful though, when Gerard turned to his son and said "Shall me?" gesturing to the bar.
The teammates nodded to one another and the boys sat back down in their sofas, giving the father and son some family time.
Just because they were polite though, didn't mean they weren't trying their damnednest to snoop. Every once in a while Patrice would cast a glance their way over his shoulder.
"Yeah, how do you know?"
"I just... I dunno. I just know," Patrice shrugged, taking a sip of his Peroni.
"The only thing that has me thinking..." his dad began in his infamous way of attempting to get his two boys to expand their thinking that he adopted so many times when they were young.
"Oh, here it is," Patrice laughed, setting his beer back on the table.
"No, no," Gerard laughed. "I'm not giving my opinion, I'm just thinking."
"Just thinking, right," Patrice nodded, giving him a sly look.
"That's all. Just thinking," Gerard said, innocently.
"Alright, go on," Patrice chuckled.
His father heaved a sigh. "I'm only wondering how you can know when you've never loved another woman before, Patrice," he said, very seriously.
Patrice made a face and almost shook his head, as if to dismiss the question.
"I've had girlfriends," he said in defense of himself.
"You've never loved them though," his father said diplomatically.
"So? Isn't marriage about loving one person?" Patrice shrugged. "I mean, amongst other things, of course, but, it's complete devotion to one other person... until you have kids, I guess," he reasoned aloud with himself as he tipped another sip of his beer back.
"Will you have children?" Gerard asked, eagerly.
Wh--I mean, like; I dunno. I guess," Patrice blushed. "I mean, I want them--off topic, off topic," he said, shaking his head out of his day dreams.
"Sorry, sorry," his father laughed, raising his hands and asking for forgiveness. "Don't tell your mom that's on your mind; she'll die of pure joy!" He joked.
"No--what? Kids aren't on my mind, dad," Patrice quickly corrected.
"Well, you said it," his father teased.
"Dad! No, like," Patrice's heart was hammering. He wanted to be taken seriously. He also didn't want his dad thinking he was diving head first into a mistake, into something he was too young to understand.
He pulled the stool out from underneath him and took a seat, facing his father.
"I know I want to marry Jamie Delacour because I love her. It doesn't matter that I've never loved anyone else because when I think about her, when I look at her, I know. I know there's no room left in my heart for anything else besides hockey and her. I don't need to love anyone else to know that, just like I didn't need to play any other sport to know I loved hockey."
Gerard slowly nodded, thinking.
"Dad. You know how happy I was playing Juniors? And how happy I was that day I got my name called at the Draft? How we went back to the hotel room at the end of the day and jumped up and down and cried and celebrated? Just you and me? Do you remember how on my first day as a Bruin, that very first game I played in a Black and Gold uniform, October 8th against the Devils--you remember?"
Gerard nodded.
"Remember how you and mom sat in the stands and cried, and then after the game I got to meet you guys outside the locker room and we were all crying, and laughing and hugging? Remember?"
"I do, I do."
"I've never needed anything else dad. Ever. I've never needed anything other than hockey. That's all I needed. Save for you guys, a loving family, I never had a need or a want for anything else. Anything."
Patrice maintained eye contact with his father.
"And then I met Jamie, Dad. I met her, and I fell in love with her. And I've just never been the same since. As cliche as it sounds. But honestly; if you took her out of my life, there'd be as big of a hole in my chest as there would be if you took hockey out of my life."
The silence between them was thick, but not in a menacing way.
Patrice licked his lips.

Gerard could sense the passion in his son.
He and his wife constantly lived in fear of a day that their son might have hockey taken out of his life.
They feared it so much that they prayed that he never have to face that day every night before bed.
After a while, his son became nervous and pulled the left side of his lips back in that typical Patrice half smile and he looked down at his beer. He lifted it and took a sip, and Gerard admired him.
What a creation, he thought to himself. He and Sylvie had really done well.
He was so sure of himself. From that first day they dressed him and pushed him out on the ice; he never committed to anything unless he was sure of himself first. He sat in the net at five years old, with all of his hockey gear on, his legs straight out in front of him laced with skates, and he watched.
And he waited.
And he learned.
Then, about a month or so later, Patrice got up and skated away, playing hockey.
This wasn't any different. Although his son had never really been romantically involved in his young life, it didn't mean he didn't know what it was and what it was meant to be. He had always run with an older crowd. Even now, some of his closest friends were married with kids. Patrice knew how love worked. He knew what to give in a relationship.
Although he had yet to have the opportunity to be one, Gerard and Sylvie had raised a lover.
A true romantic.
And Gerard believed him when he said he met the woman he was going to marry.
He truly did.
And he knew this was coming.
He had been waiting for his moment.
"I mean, I don't have to marry her tomorrow. I don't even have to marry her this year. Or next year. Or even the next. I don't care when I marry her; she can tell me when she wants to get married. I just know I want to," Patrice mumbled, slumping forward in his bar stool, letting his toes dangle toward the floor. His skilled fingers thumbed with the soggy Peroni beer label.
"I believe you," Gerard said softly. Gently, he lifted his heavy hand and held the back of Patrice's neck, like he used to do to him when he was a child who needed comforting, but was too shy or felt he couldn't ask for it at the rink. Unfortunately, that was the only place Patrice ever needed comforting.
"Yeah?" Patrice asked.
"Yeah," Gerard said, nodding for confirmation. They shared a quiet smile, like they always did.
Gerard took his hand back and fished for his wallet.
"No Dad, I got it; really," Patrice said, catching his hand.
"No, now it's my turn," Gerard chuckled, not having even thought of the bill.
"No Dad," Patrice begged.
"No Patrice now you listen," Gerard said, pointing at him. Patrice looked at his father questionably, laughing. "Listen here," his father said, pulling an old, folded picture from his wallet. He unfolded it and slid it across the bar to his son, still so young.
"What's this?" Patrice asked, smiling, picking up the photograph.
"It's you," Gerard smiled. He watched his son's eyes narrow as he examined the picture, and then he did as the father expected. His mouth broke into a big, goofy smile.
"Is it really me?" He asked.
"Oh yes," Gerard chuckled. His son's smiled widened. He examined the photo with his son, who had been captured in time at seven years old, his head laying asleep on the kitchen table in a royal blue Nordiques fleece and a black hockey helmet with a cage. The picture was taken from above him to display the sleeping boy and the bowl of macaroni and cheese that lay untouched next to him.
"You still had your skates on, too."
"That was the first year you built me and Guill that backyard rink."
"Yes, exactly," Gerard laughed.
After a few more moments of examining the picture, the green plastic bowl, the Kraft macaroni and cheese, the chopped up bits of hot dog in it, the untouched spoon on the other side of it; the sleeping child, Gerard finally spoke.
"I don't want any woman you marry to forget that that's you, Patrice."
Patrice placed the picture back on the bar and looked at his father sincerely. Then, he raised an eyebrow, as if asking a question.
"I never want you to forget who you really are; and the woman you marry should never forget it either," he explained. "Or try and change it," he added, carefully. "This is you," Gerard said, pointing to the blonde boy asleep in the picture. Patrice held the back of his head, unsure of what to say but particularly warm inside. "This is you before you knew the kind of man you would grow up to be."
The boys all stretched and rolled their ankles and yawned as they made their way out of the bar, Patrice could see them over the shoulder of his father. They all nodded to one another, bidding each other good night.
"Never forget your passion, your devotion, and your love," his father said. "They can grow outside of hockey, you can be passionate about, devoted to, and love Jamie, too, but never forget this little boy. This is who you are, Patrice," Gerard said, showing him the picture again.
Patrice pulled his smile to the side and took hold of the picture again, gazing at it.
Some time passed before Gerard got up and tossed a 10 dollar bill on the bar counter. His son didn't even notice, he just sat and examined the photo of his younger self, smiling.
"You're your mother's little prince, a stubborn but compassionate man, my son, a passionate player and Jamie's future partner for life. You're everything you've ever wanted to be. Don't forget where you started," Gerard whispered, his hand holding the back of his son's neck. He kissed the top of his boy's head and wished him good night.
It was a father's way of telling his son he approved, and that he loved him.
Very, very much.