Je t'aime, tu sais?

She looked at her feet, her boots covered in snow. She saw his feet shift and exchange weight from his left to his right. Her heart was beating so fast, she was blushing, worried he could hear it.
Patrice had been wondering where the walk might take them. It was freezing outside, and they were both covered in snow. He had picked up coffee and tea on the way over, but it lasted only a few minutes as they both drank to keep the heat in. They had walked around Boston Commons and looked at the lights and decorations; made idle chit chat about their families and holiday traditions. He wasn't surprised when she said her family all read The Night Before Christmas before bed. She wasn't surprised when he told her his family played pond hockey a few roads down from the house he grew up in.
She wanted to invite him inside, but was nervous. It had little to do with her modest living arrangement, and more to do with whether or not he'd presume her to be moving too quick. Quite honestly, she enjoyed his soft company, manners, and quiet laugh, and wouldn't mind spending more time with him, albeit early Christmas morning or not.
Quite honestly, he was feeling very similarly.
"Well," she started, looking up at him for a moment, catching his eye and dropping her head in a bashful smile again.
"Thank you for inviting me on a walk," he rushed to fill the silence.
"I don't want to take anymore of your time," she breathed simultaneously. Both were quiet and smiled.
"No," he replied softly. "It was quite nice." There was a beat of silence while they both considered going upstairs unknowingly. "I was just leaving a friend's house when you asked. It was perfect timing."
"I'm sorry I've kept you out so late, then," she laughed. "Not-so perfect timing, anymore."
He looked at his watch, which read 2:30 in the morning. He wasn't bothered.
He decided to go for it; he was already up late, he had four more days to himself without work, and he just had this feeling that they might just be on the same page...
"It was a very nice, unexpected Christmas gift, to see you again, Jamie," he told her softly. His heart thumped like it did after cardio; he felt the heat rise in his body and the cold pit in his stomach. Had he said too much? His legs felt weak like they did after morning skate in early August. Like they wanted to skate harder, but just couldn't. He didn't understand what was happening to him emotionally, and was further perplexed at such a physical response to the knotting in his stomach and the beating of his heart.
The snow fell on them in the soft glow of the orange light outside her apartment.
"Would you like to come in?" She offered.

"I have wine," she announced. "It's a red, yeah?" She showed him the bottle as he peered over the island from his seat on the couch. Wine really wreaked havoc on him, but couldn't see the downside to a glass; he had passed up a Lucic pie, so he figured himself due for some Christmas calorie intake. He'd drink it slowly and head home whenever he felt her getting tired. He felt nervous at overstaying his welcome.
"I figured it might help with the warmth. Sorry, the heat isn't very good, is it?" She sat on the opposite end of the couch and crossed her legs Indian style. He took hold of the glasses and steadied them for her as she poured.
"I think it's fine in here," he told her.
"You would, Mr. Hockey," she joked. She set the bottle on the floor and they toasted, smiled, and drank. "Joyeux Noel."

An hour later, Jamie had her head tipped back and was laughing, a blanket draped across her lap, and her Harvard sweatshirt pulled down to expose her collar bone. Patrice had loosened up with his second glass of wine, tilting his own head back to imbibe the tart liquid.
He had discarded his tie and tucked it into his coat pocket on the hanger by the door. His shoes lay at the foot of the couch, and he sat with one knee pulled up, and the other planted on the floor. He faced her, and watched her laugh and smile and flush with the gentle alcohol. She had really amazed him; a mathematician just a few years younger than him physically, but ages older in wisdom and conduct.
The two were rosie in the cheeks with wine and embarrassment, feeling foolish but happy at the same time.
She hadn't asked much more about his career; which he liked. Since his debut in the NHL, he never exactly found himself short of interested women, but never exactly found himself being pursued for much more than a status. Women in America seemed to him to be less shameless than the women in Quebec. Rebecca, the news intern he met with periodically a few years back had been the only one interested in much more than physicality, which at first Patrice found encouraging, but then found himself disinterested when she began to speak opening about their relations to members of the staff. He knew she was not happy with him for being so private, but he couldn't help not wanting to attract attention to himself, and and feared to be labeled inappropriately as an accessory of a much older, experienced, attractive woman. When she returned to cover games for ESPN, it was always awkward.
"Can I offer you some more?" Jamie asked, leaning forward with the bottle of wine, half empty.
"I should drive home soon," he confessed. "It's late."
She nodded and made a soft sound of understanding. He hoped he hadn't offended her, but also didn't want her to believe he had any kind of physical expectations for the evening.

Jamie bit her lip, still leaned forward with the bottle outstretched toward Patrice on the other side. She was going to do it.
She had loved the two hours they had spent together not moving from her green, velvet couch. They moved seamlessly in and out of French and English, laughing in whatever common language known as happiness. She wished desperately he wouldn't be as shy as he was, but felt guilt at being hypocritical. With one last look at her newfound, extremely attractive friend, Jamie decided to take a risk and enjoy the holiday season; she leaned forward still and poured him another glass. "It's nothing to worry about," she encouraged him.

Jamie woke with the soft warmth of the sun gently cuddling her down comforter. She could feel the lull of a headache forming somewhere near the back of her brain, but smiled knowing there was a certain weight on the other side of her small full bed.
She bit her lip and smiled, looking up at the ceiling, unable to contain her happiness.
After a few minutes of collecting the butterflies floating around her middle, she stole a glance toward the lefthand side of her bed.
Patrice lay facing away from her, his head resting on his left arm, his hand dangling off the bed. He breathed very slowly, and had been careful to fall asleep on top of Jamie's light purple comforter.
She bit her lip, noticing the hard curve of his ear, the turn of the back of his jaw. He was sculpted beautifully, and she could only thank the company that made the white shirt that fit so perfectly over his back so many times. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his feet clad in dress socks dipped off the end of her bed. She hadn't noticed how much bigger he really was than her until last night, and marveled again at his physique this morning.
She tried to review the night. They finished the bottle of wine and although he drank a few glasses of water, he still wasn't fit to drive home. She remembered he had suggested starting another bottle, then, and she smiled again, unable to contain her excitement. Apart from that, she didn't remember getting to the bed, and she was sure nothing physical happened given his currently sleeping position. He took no space in her bed, and slept lightly on top of her covers. His undershirt was still tucked into his dress pants.
Had they kissed? She would be infuriated with herself if they had and she couldn't recall.
Her phone buzzed on the floor beside her bed. Quickly removing herself from her sheets, she reached for the device and left for the kitchen, shutting her bedroom door, and thanking God for being able to leave the room to Patrice.

He heard himself make a noise and forced himself to regain consciousness. He did not feel well rested, but couldn't help smiling. He pressed his face into the mattress, the soft sheets smelling of a particular floral scent he couldn't place. His stomach froze; he had forgotten he had spent the night.
This is not happening, he told himself. He remained calm and attempted to determine whether or not she was next to him without giving out the fact that he had woken up. After a few beats of silence, he heard her laugh and coo "oh dad" into the phone in French from outside the bedroom. He felt relieved and took the moment to toss his legs over the end of her bed and assess the situation.
A half empty bottle of wine sat on the desk next to him; the two glasses were empty. He laughed softly and shook his head, leaning forward to place his knees on his hands and prop up his aching head. He remembered being completely enamored with Jamie for the entire evening. Her yoga pants, her legs, her dark maroon Harvard sweatshirt. Her laugh, how smart she was, the wine reddening glow her cheeks acquired when he spoke to her in French.
He checked his clothes, sure he had maintained his composure all night, but just to be sure. His shirt was tucked in, although his dress shirt had been discarded somewhere else in the apartment, as well as his shoes, and his belt was still on and everything. He was happy he was in his right mind enough to sleep on top of the covers; he was less impressed with himself that he did not exercise enough control to sleep on the couch.
The couch. He had tried, he recalled, looking out the window of the desk and furrowing his brow in thought. He had tried to sleep on the couch, but she had deemed him too big, and refused to let him sleep where his head and shoulders were scrunched so close to his knees. She had bent forward in the dark of the apartment, her judgement and perception curved because of the alcohol and the new darkness of extinguished lights, and her lips had bumped his ear.
"You can't sleep here, on this couch, my friend," she had whispered in French.