Je t'aime, tu sais?

"I just know," Sid laughed, shrugging as if she should be impressed as he lifted his massive arm to collect a bag of whole wheat pasta from high up on the shelf.
"Is whole wheat pasta even pasta?" Jamie asked, skeptically as he handed her the bag and wrapped his impressive fingers around the cart again.
He shrugged again. "Sure. Why not?"
"I dunno..." she said, turning the bag over again to examine the front. "I just feel like that isn't how the Italians do it," she laughed.
"Bergy'll want that. I promise you," Sid said, nodding to the cart. "Go on," he urged her, laughing.
She frowned, giving him a look of mock-defeat as she set the crinkly bag into the cart full of groceries and they stepped in tune together again, strolling through the aisles of Whole Foods--the one she and Patrice had happily skipped through now almost three weeks ago.
It had been a week and a half since Patrice's concussion. He was still mostly bed-ridden, sleeping majority of the day, but did trudge out as often as he could for meals; he loathed eating in bed. Guill and Gerard had since returned to Quebec, but Sylvie had been stretching every vacation day she had all year to stay with her son and help nurse him. Jamie appreciated the help from her, Sid, and the team, especially the Ferences, who often cooked meals for the three of them, and of course from Dougie and Adam, who gladly helped Emily concoct less-healthy dinners and treats for when Sylvie sent her back to her own apartment for some rest and some fun, neither of which she could have achieved on her own away from Patrice in his state.
She much preferred to stay with him, especially given the circumstances. Nursing him helped her nurse herself sometimes; it helped her forget about her mother and her thesis... Now that he had a little more tolerance for being awake, they would often lay together in his bed in the dark and whisper and talk. She loved laying her head on his chest and listening to the soft rumble of his voice and the steady beat of his heart, but more than anything, she loved making him laugh.
Just the other day she had propped him up in bed, declaring she was sick and tired of his whining about how scratchy his beard was.
"Nope," she had declared, straddling his hips and helping to lift him up so he could sit against the backboard of his bed as he groaned and laughed. "We're shaving it off!"
"Jamie-e," he moaned, blushing and trying to look away from her. After a week he had been allowed to take off his foam collar, but he still didn't have much strength and she knew to be gentle.
"Nope, I can't stand you moaning and groaning anymore!" She had quipped, jumping off of his bed to grab his shaving kit. She fastened a warm towel around his shoulders and lathered his chin in thick, strong smelling cream.
"Is it okay? Does it smell too much?" She asked, worried as she worked her foam fingers around his jaw and down toward his jugular.
"It's okay," he said, softly, his eyes closed. He was always so embarrassed when she had to help him do menial, every day tasks like help him make food or change clothes or bathe, but she had learned to ignore him and she suspected that somewhere deep down inside him, though it damaged his pride, he also kind of liked it. She could tell because he always closed his eyes and would almost fall asleep, and his hands would fasten around her waist or whatever part of her was close to him, and he would hum as he breathed, totally comfortable, totally at ease.
"Jamie?"
Jamie jumped, startled back into the present by the always remarkably clean-shaven Sidney Crosby.
"Sorry!" She laughed, holding a hand to her chest. "Caught with my mind elsewhere," she blushed. "Those look great though, he loves those," she assured him as he set two stacks of Stonyfield yogurts in the cart.
"I got, uh," Sid said, straightening up holding a carton. "Strawberry, blueberry, pomegranate, and--ew--pear? No pear," he decided, bending back into the cart and picking out two or three cartons to re-shelf.
"Thanks, Sid," Jamie laughed as they pulled away from the refrigerated aisle as she pushed the cart.
"Oh yeah, those yogurts were so heavy," he joked, looking over his shoulder at her with a playful smile as he led the way to find some other obscure health food he was sure Patrice would like. His fingers played with the front of the cart, and Jamie suspected he was helping her steer and pull the cart. She didn't particularly mind or find it demeaning. From being with Patrice this long, she had come to learn that some men were gentleman, and it was better to just let them help with everything as opposed to put up some kind of feminist huff only to put both parties in a foul mood.
Jamie also knew that these guys had strict diets that consisted of fruits, veggies, and lean proteins, but she didn't know this much science went into their nutrition...
"No, like, thanks for everything. This shopping trip and stuff. I... I didn't know this stuff would make Patrice feel better," she admitted as they turned down an aisle for almond butter. That she knew and she loved.
"It's not a problem, really Jamie," he assured her, bending down to grab the Justin's kind. He stood and put the container in the cart and gave her a promising smile. "Really," he said, nodding. "Although, I can't promise this stuff will make the symptoms of his concussion feel better but, I know Bergy. If he can keep eating healthy and clean it'll help him mentally, y'know? He's not going to be able to do much of anything for a while. But, if he can keep to a strict, clean diet, he'll feel like he's at least doing something, y'know? It'll help. It helped me. I got a little too obsessive over it, measuring out grams and calculating macronutrients. It wasn't as much for health reasons as it was for my sanity. We're used to working, and when we can't... well..." he laughed, shrugging, turning the cart so she wouldn't have to push it anymore. "I guess we lose touch with reality," he said, shrugging somberly.
Jamie looked at him tentatively, wondering where in his recovery he was. She knew he had been cleared to exercise but she was not sure at which level. He talked often of physical therapy and doctors appointments, CAT scans and concussion tests, but, he functioned throughout the day just fine. Do she dare ask how long he was bed-ridden for?
"You're doing alright," she said, giving him a soft knock with her elbow.
He gave a soft laugh. "He'll be just fine. He's got you, y'know? You'll keep him grounded; you won't let him loose touch. He's got a nutritionist to cover macronutrients," he joked.
"You did as well, right?" She confirmed.
"Oh yeah, yeah," he nodded. "God, I had too many people. Doctors, specialists, team trainers, nutritionists, my mom," he listed, chuckling. "No one like you, though," he added, a little sheepishly.
Jamie looked up at him, asking for an explanation with her eyes.
"Sorry," he quickly stated, shaking his head and giving a feeble laugh. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be dramatic, I just... it's hard enough as it is, y'know? Going from being a fully competent and able-bodied player in the NHL to learning to walk again. He's lucky to have you by his side, y'know; someone to grin and bear it with."
Jamie smiled, understanding. She wondered who took care of Sid when his mom had to return to work, like Sylvie will soon have to. Sadly, she was fairly certain she understood how his obsessive eating habits may have developed. Men like Sid and Patrice were always working toward something. If they couldn't work toward driving their team, and they couldn't drive their strength, chances are they were going to drive themselves and control their fuel.
Jamie saw Sid's point though. Patrice had become depressed being unable to do anything in the short week and a half he had been unable to move. If he felt like he had a little control over his diet in the upcoming recovery weeks--or, God, would it be months?--he might feel like as if he were actively working to get back into shape.
He was smart, Sid.
"Bergy'll be fine, though," he promised. "Give him some healthy food options and he'll feel like he's at least sticking to a plan. You guys'll be fine," he smiled.

Jamie unlocked the door, the cardboard Whole Foods bags swinging around her lean arms, wrapping her eggplant peacoat around her tightly. She grimaced as she leaned into Patrice's apartment, stumbling as she cursed lightly in French.
She pushed the door back into place with her boot and moved toward the breakfast bar, stopping dead in her tracks hearing a sharp inhale. She whirled around to see Patrice slump back on the couch, unable to stand on his own, his hands holding either side of his head, clamped tight around his ears.
"Patrice what are you doing?" Jamie hissed, dropping her bags on the hardwood floors and rushing over to the white couch.
"No--I just..." he breathed, leaning heavily into the back of the couch, his neck leaning over the top of it and one hand wrapping around his sickly thin torso.
"Are you going to be sick?" Jamie asked hurriedly, backing up to grab a bag, knowing a rush of blood from the head to the legs could result in nausea.
"No, Jamie," he moaned. "I just wanted to help," he said softly but frustratedly.
"What are you doing out here?" Jamie asked sternly, ignoring his deployment of chivalry, although she did appreciate it. "Where's your mom?"
"Getting ready," he whispered, lifting his head up to look at her with apologetic, honey-brown eyes. "I just got sad in my room so I came out here to wait for you."
"Baby," Jamie cooed. "You walked by yourself?"
"Kind of," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. "I like, slid along the wall, kinda."
She sighed, standing in front of him, her hands on her hips.
Then, her lips curved into a smile, a genuine one.
He looked up at her with his gentle eyes, sorry for disobeying the doctor's orders about moving on his own.
"You're so cute," she grinned, leaning forward and rubbing her hands along the tops of his shoulders, up his neck and cupping his jaw as he blushed madly and looked away. "I just love you," she giggled, bending one knee and placing it on the couch, next to his and leaning close enough to kiss his temple as he gave a soft laugh. She held his cheeks and pushed her nose into his ear and gave him another kiss.
"Mm," she hummed, releasing him and giving him the once over again. His bruised eyes had lessened in purple and turned a sickly yellowy color, but they were getting better. The stitches had since been removed but a long, thin red line still puffed its way across the top of his cheek and the bridge of his nose. The nose itself had reduced in swelling but now had a more severe hook to it. Other than that he looked like a poor little boy with a cold, his body achey and tired. Three days worth of scruff itched at his cheeks, his hair was long and sticking up in different directions, and his clothes hung loose on him, a black bruins strength and conditioning shirt smoothed over his chest and grey, Reebok sweatpants warming his lean legs.
"What's your mom getting ready for?" Jamie asked, now aware that the second bathroom door was shut and the hairdryer was blowing.
"She's going out to dinner with the Lapointes," he told her, turning on the couch so that he could watch her move to the kitchen. He still didn't have a full range of mobility in his neck.
"Sorry?" She asked over the breakfast bar, pulling out the groceries.
"Is that kale?" He asked, his voice high as his interest piqued, eying the leafy green.
She tried to keep herself from smiling.
"Yup," she said, pulling out his Stoneyfield yogurts, some Chia seeds, a heap of bananas, and almond butter.
"And almond butter?" He asked, craning his neck as much as he could to get a look at everything she was unbagging.
"Yup," she said again, smiling. "And I got you a ton of blueberries," she announced, holding up a stack of four quart cartons.
They shared a smile.
"Brain food," they said together, followed by a shared chuckle. They held eye contact for a few seconds and then Patrice looked away, blushing.
Busted, Jamie thought to herself, laughing. Sid had been spot on with his prediction that Patrice would want to regulate his intake to make up for his lack of outtake. In all honesty though, as he hung his head to examine his fingers, she could see the vertebrae at the top of his neck and wished deeply she could convince him to eat chocolate peanut butter shakes and heavy clam chowders to fatten him up. With all his muscle his metabolism was through the roof; now that he wasn't eating, his body was eating whatever stores he had left in his usual nourishment's absence, which wasn't much. He seriously looked like he was wasting away to her.
Patrice played with his fingers, avoiding Jamie's gaze. She'd have to get used to this skinny Patrice.
She'd also have to get used to this shy, demure Patrice. He had been apprehensive when they first started dating, not wanting to come on too strong or push boundaries, but, this was different. He was embarrassed. He did not wish to need this much help.
Especially from her.
"Thanks for uh, thanks for shopping for me," he said, his gaze moving from his fingers to her hands, quietly, watching her continue to unpack.
"Of course, mon amour," she smiled, not wanting to push him, not wanting to frustrate him and tell him he didn't have to say thank you, that she was just doing her job in taking care of him, that she loved him and wanted to feed him. If he felt better saying thank you, she'd just have to let him and not take offense.
That's all there was to it.
"Sid helped me pick out stuff; he told me about some of the stuff he used to do to help with the headache pain with chewing. Gave me some good soft food ideas."
"Yeah?" He asked, looking up, an eyebrow raised.
"Mm-hm," she hummed, moving to put groceries away in the fridge. "But tell me about who you're mum's going to dinner with."
"The Lapointes. Remember, the family that took me in my first year, I told you a little bit about them. Marty was a winger?"
"Oh, yes! I do remember," she called from the freezer. "You used to play with his kids, they gave you a bedroom in their house in Milton."
She caught him smiling to himself, remembering the time fondly as he nodded. "Yeah... my mom loves them and they're in town; they're going to meet up for dinner. My mom loves them and is still really grateful for their hospitality toward me--"
"They should come here, mon amour!" Jamie cried, shutting the fridge, full of excitement. "We should see them, too; no?"
"No," he said, gloomily, shaking his head and letting his gaze fall back to his fingers. "No, I don't think so... I want you to meet them and them to meet you, but... not like this..." He said, lifting his arms to show off his too-big t-shirt and a scruffy neck beard.
"But Patrice," Jamie said softly, gliding over to him as she pulled off her coat and draped it over the back of a bar stool. "You should see your friend. He's in town for just a short time?"
"Yeah..."
"C'mon, baby," she urged him, leaning on the back of the couch. She sunk to her knees so her head was level with his. She held the bottom of his chin and directed her eyes at his. "I'll help spruce you up," she promised.
"I can't go anywhere, Jamie," he said, sulking, his eyes saddened.
"No, you can't" she giggled. "But they can come here!"
Patrice shook his head, his gaze cascading down his bruised cheeks.
"Yes, mon amour," she persisted, standing, pressing a kiss into the side of his head, rubbing her nose in his hair, and then pushing off from the back of the couch. "Just for drinks after dinner. They can stop by to deliver your mother back."
"Jamie," he whined, giving her a pleading look.
"You have nothing to be ashamed about, Patrice," she told him sternly, pointing a cardboard box at him.
He looked at her, ashamedly, and then blushed because he was doing so.
"Stop that!" She chided, shaking the cardboard box still pointing a him, unable to hide her giggle. His lips pulled into a smile. "No matter the pout, I will not give in," she declared. "Seeing old friends and being in good company will be good for you. Doctor's orders--a.k.a. I've made the executive decision," she laughed, with one final shake of the box.
"What are those?" He asked, curiosity finally getting the better of him.
"Dinner," she said, happy her little teasing plan had worked. "But you're not going to get any of it unless you pinky promise we can invite the Lapointe's over for drinks or dessert after their dinner. You can nap before they come."
"Fine," he said, defiantly, but with a hint of a smile.
"Good," Jamie nodded, putting the box down. She watched him eye it, longingly.
"Good," he said, when he discovered she was watching him.
"Good," she laughed.
"Fine. Get over here, then," he instructed.
"Porquoi?"
"Because I gotta kiss your thumb if we're gonna pinky promise," he said, as if it were obvious.
Jamie shook her head, pretending to be exasperated with the man she loved to the moon and back.
"What? Come on," he asked her, a smile still playing on his lips. He waved her over again.
"You kiss your own thumb when you pinky promise, my love," she told him, sauntering over to the couch to take his outstretched hand in her own.
"Oh," he said, obviously unaware. "Never mind then," he said, pushing her hand away.
"Patrice!" She gasped, giving him a gentle shove as he cracked a genuine smile and gave her a great belly laugh, clearly finding himself clever with his little trick.

Patrice lay with his back on the couch, his shoulders spreading Jamie's lean thighs and his head propped up on her hips. He was freshly scrubbed with a warm washcloth and clean shaven, his hair was smooth as it dried naturally, free of any styling cream. He was still in light grey sweatpants but they were fresh and clean, and he wore a white waffle knit long sleeve, thick enough to keep him warm, but soft enough for him to push the sleeves up over his elbows if he got too hot.
Jamie sat with her back up against the arm of the sofa, cradling Patrice's head in her lap. The warmed box of sweet potato fries lay on his chest as they shared them, Patrice still needing to eat slowly and Jamie still needing to monitor his fine motor skills from afar. Earlier in the week he had had a horrifying discovery that he couldn't find his mouth with his hand, even though he could watch his hand try to deliver the fry. With some practice, a few supportive back rubs and some physical therapy it had gotten better, but feeding himself could be emotionally and physically trying at times, and it was up to Jamie to take over and make him feel spoiled and like a king as opposed to inept.
"Where are your shorts?" He complained, looping his arms underneath her thighs, bent at the knee, and rubbing his hands up and down her shins, clad in dark washed jeans.
"Not all of us get to lounge in the most comfortable clothing ever, my love," Jamie teased, bending forward with half a sweet potato fry stuck between her teeth as a peace offering.
Patrice chuckled as she lowered her face to his, eyes closed as if she were going to give him a kiss. He lifted his chin in anticipation of her arrival, the tips of his lips curved in smile, took the fry from her and was just able to graze his lips against hers before she disappeared.
"Plus, I have to look respectable for our guests," she quipped, tossing another fry in her mouth.
"Are you sure I look good enough?" He asked her worriedly, furrowing his brow as he looked up and behind toward her.
"Don't crane your neck, mon amour," she cautioned him, wrapping her thin hands around his voice box and the back of his neck. Her touch elicited a smile in response from him. "And you're not allowed to ask me that, because you always look 'good enough' for me," she giggled, running her hand through his soft hair as he turned and rubbed the unharmed side of his face into her hip. "I'm extremely biased, y'know."
"I love you," he told her, kissing her inner thigh and hugging her leg toward his face. "So much," he breathed into her jeans, his lips curving into a smile yet again. She watched his ear rise as his jaw tightened in happiness.
The action awoke the butterflies in her stomach and she shook with a shiver. Since he'd been so sick the past week and a half she hadn't even taken a moment to remember what their last couple days together before the concussion had been like. He'd been so supportive of her mother's trip to Boston, he'd been so loving and sweet despite her recent academic failure. He had even gotten that HPV shot in her name... and their romp before the game that ended it all had been some of their most passionate sex yet.
She hadn't even remembered it until now.
But now, things were different.
There was a knock at his door and he looked up at her, his forehead creased in worry.
"Just a minute!" She sang over her shoulder toward the entrance of his apartment. "Don't worry, my love," she cooed to him, giving him a supportive grin as she wrapped her arms around his chest and leaned forward, helping him to sit up. "They love you, just like I do," she promised him, giving him a kiss on his temple as he cautiously slid his legs right side round on the couch.
"I want to stand," he whined softly, giving her a pathetic look.
"Patrice," she whispered, her face creasing in worry, not thinking it was a good idea.
"Just help me stand, I won't walk I promise," he pleaded with her, his mahogany eyes pooling. "Please Jamie?"
She huffed and hopped off the couch, outstretching her arms. She figured if he had to swallow his pride this much to ask for her help in standing, there was a lot more at stake to his dignity in meeting up with the first Bruin he ever knew again.
If it was important to him then it was important to her, too.

Sid sat in his hotel suite, his tired back pressed up against the soft, padded backboard, the TV remote next to him, a stark contrast from the white sheets. He'd been in hotel rooms throughout his entire life and knew better than to sit on the comforter, so that had been folded around to the foot of his bed.
He was in athletic shorts and a Penguins t-shirt, and only the soft, yellow light from his bedside table lamp poured over the room.
The TV sat untouched, because, although Sid had brought the remote to bed, he had forgotten he wasn't yet allowed to watch TV again.
"What we're worried about now is over-stimulation, over-exertion, and out-doing yourself." Dr. Wright had told him, quietly. "In anything." He emphasized, sternly.
"Right," Sid had replied obediently, when, in his mind, he was crumbling. He was living alone in a city where no one either knew him, or the ones that knew him didn't like him. He couldn't live with the one friend he had here anymore, and now he had to go back to not even being allowed to watch TV?
"I don't want you on a bike for more than twenty minutes every six hours, and I don't want you watching TV for more than a half hour a day--and never before bed. I don't want you reading, the radio's okay, but before bed: nothing. No phones, no skype, no computer. The light is harsh Sid, it's a lot of stimulation for your eyes to handle. We don't want you unnecessarily stressed."
So that's what he was doing.
Absolutely nothing.
He stuffed a pillow between his knees and huffed, rolling sideways deeper into his king sized bed and looking toward the floor to ceiling windows of his hotel, out over Boston's harbor. He folded his hands and shoved them between his cheek and the cool pillow supporting his jaw.
At least my jaw doesn't hurt anymore, he reasoned with himself, moodily.
He reached for his phone, knowing that he shouldn't use it because the bright light was harsh before bed, but figured he was allowed one moment of weakness, right?
C'mon, he's human too, after all.
He cradled the phone and watched his tendons tighten around their knuckles and pull his thick fingers around the device. His skin was dry.
He knew he'd sleep either way, especially with the help of melatonin, so he figured breaking this little "no stimulation rule" couldn't be the worst thing he'd do all day...
He activated the iPhone and scanned through his most recent texts with a quick flick of his thumb.
Everything felt normal.
His eyes didn't feel strained; his head didn't hurt.
He popped open the messages button.
His reaction speed was efficient enough to run a smartphone, he noted. Not bad.
If he felt so normal and usual, why couldn't he act normal?
Kale and flax seeds were a big hit :) Jamie had texted him.
He felt half of his face pull into his usual, lopsided smile as a new but now familiar warmth spread through his gut.
Then, with a quick shake of his abused head and gasp of shock, he reminded himself that Sidney Crosby didn't cut corners, and he deactivated the phone and threw it away toward the other side of his massive, empty bed.
He didn't cut corners; he didn't cheat.
And most of all, he didn't care about anything other than hockey.

Patrice smiled, his lips firmly pressed together in an effort not to because he was embarrassed.
"Mon amour!" Jamie purred, her face crumpled as if melting like her heart had.
"We'd come home from dinner or a charity event and he'd have them all asleep in bed--just not their beds," Mrs. Lapointe recalled, an eyebrow raised as she retold stories of when Patrice lived with her and her family during his first year as a Bruin.
"They'd be in his bed," Jamie giggled, finishing the story for her.
"Oh, but of course!" She laughed, throwing her hands in the air as Patrice looked up to watch the two women exchange warmheartedness over him as he continued to blush. They all sat around on his white couch, he and Jamie on one end, his mother on the other, while the Lapointe's split up and sat each in an arm chair on either end.
It had been the first time in a long while Patrice had felt semi-normal again. He was surrounded by people he had come to believe were his family: his mother, his Boston billet family, and maybe even his future family in Jamie...
For the first time in two weeks, he didn't feel sick.
"We'd peek into his bedroom and he'd be pushed up against the wall, his arm outstretched like this--" Mrs. Lapointe mimed how Patrice usually slept on his side, his arm laid out for Jamie to rest her head on, "--and he'd have the two girls curled up in front of him, their heads on his arm, and his knees bent like this--" she mimicked him again "--and Guyon would be asleep behind him, and he'd just lay there and prop his head up with a pillow and watch Sports Network, happy as a clam."
"God, he never complained," Marty Lapointe reminisced. "He was so easy going."
"Oh he raved about the TV you guys put in his room," Sylvie recollected fondly. "He just thought he was king of the world!"
"Patrice!" Jamie cooed, leaning from her spot on the couch and onto his shoulder, wrapping her hand around his back.
"And we'd tiptoe in there and each take one of the girls and carry them to bed and by the time we'd turn around to get Guyon Patrice would already be lugging him to his own bedroom," Marty laughed. "You were a good kid," he assured the younger, current Bruin as Patrice gave him his lopsided smile and played with his fingers. Jamie watched him tap his left pointer finger to the tip of every finger on his right hand slowly and meticulously, a drill she had come to suspect he had developed for himself over the last week of rehab.
"God, it took us weeks to get a grocery list out of him," Marty recalled.
"Oh that was horrible! All I wanted to do was feed the poor boy and he was too bashful to tell us what he liked!" Mrs. Lapointe laughed in memory.
"I'm not picky!" Patrice shrugged in self defense, chuckling. He played with his sock-clad toes, deliberately raising his one foot to touch his heel on the top of his other foot.
Jamie wasn't stupid.
He was putting himself through more fine motor skill drills.
"He never asks for anything. Ever," Sylvie said proudly, reaching out to pat his knee.
"But we cracked him, didn't we, babe?" Marty asked, pointing at his wife across the coffee table in the center of the living room and giving her a wink.
"We sure did," she said, crossing her arms, proudly.
"You know what this boy loves?" He asked Jamie, pointing to Patrice.
She blushed, giggling.
"Do you?" He asked, a smile playing on his face. "And we're talking about food here--PG" he joked, just to get Patrice to groan as if his own father was embarrassing him.
"Marty!" Mrs. Lapointe called from across the room, keeping her husband in check.
"Sorry, sorry!" The massive man grumbled, the fun still playing in his eyes as he bent forward and gave Patrice's shoulder a little push. "Just playin', you know," he chuckled, his Canadian accent deep and thick. Patrice gave him a sheepish grin and soft laugh. "But do you know the secret? Do you know what this kid'll binge on?" Marty asked, straightening up and looking at Jamie with eyebrows high in question. "There's not a lot he over-indulges in..."
"Sorbet?" She tried, her voice small. Patrice squeezed her hand in her lap and looked at her with a big smile, remembering the night they laid in bed and fed each other the raspberry dessert and talked about dessert etiquette and puppies.
"Close!" Marty laughed.
"We did buy tubs of that, too," Mrs. Lapointe recalled, a finger in the air.
"Peaches," the billet father continued. "The boy loves peaches."
"Really?" Jamie asked, giving Patrice an astounded look. "I've never seen you eat a peach!"
"They're not in season," Patrice answered without a second thought.
"My, aren't you the just the peach aficionado!" Jamie laughed, giving his hand a small tug as he gave her that toothy grin and wrinkled his nose at her.
He leaned in to bump noses with her but was unable to connect them, instead rubbing into the side of her cheek.
She held his face to the side of hers and quickly gave him a reassuring rub, hoping that through the osmosis of love and affection she could communicate to him that it was okay, he couldn't nail every drill every time.
And at the same time hoping no one else noticed how wobbly he was, for his own pride and dignity.

"I'm sorry?" Jamie asked, her voice light. She shook her head and raised her eyes from her lap, politely meeting Mrs. Lapointe's gaze.
"You're from Quebec as well, aren't you, my dear?" Patrice's billet mother asked, repeating her question.
"Yes, yes I am," Jamie answered, continuing tracing circles on the back of Patrice's hand, which sat open in his lap as he and Marty talked about Guyon's budding hockey career as a 15 year old in Chicago. As talk had gone on, he had continued to test himself. Patrice was never one to fiddle, but Jamie caught him moving incessantly, scratching his face, touching the tops of his knees, playing with his fingers or his toes.
She was onto him.
She had secured his hand in her lap firstly as a distraction for him, and secondly to keep him calm. The longer the Lapointes stayed and chatted, the worse Patrice's fine motor skills got, and they both knew it. "I was born in Canada, but my parents moved there a few years before they had me," Jamie replied to Mrs. Lapointe.
"Oh, lovely! From whereabouts?"
"Paris. My dad is actually French and my mum's Portuguese, they met at university in Paris and fell in love," she smiled, thinking of her parents fondly. "So, they're not nationally Canadian at all, really... But, they've been there long enough to be citizens but my dad works in the French embassy in Quebec, so he had to maintain his innate citizenship." Patrice played with her fingers, tickling her palm. She looked back over her shoulder at him and he gave her a sleepy smile.
"Her dad is actually the French ambassador to Canada," Patrice pointed out, smugly. "Neglected to tell me that until I was about to shake his hand, mind you," he told Mrs. Lapointe, fishing for empathy only half jokingly.
"Oh, you're such a baby," Jamie laughed, giving his hand a shake. "And he likes you just fine so quit your worrying," she teased him, giving his cheek a quick kiss and pushing him back to Marty to discuss hockey.
He only departed from her for a few moments before his hand snaked back into her lap, though. She hoped it was because she was calming to him.
As she unveiled a little of her own personal history to Mrs. Lapointe and Sylvie, she checked her watch, shocked to find that it was nearing 10:30 and Patrice was still going strong.
"--I actually do," Jamie blushed, laughing a bit.
"You're so gifted, my love!" Sylvie cried, her hands raised in surprise. "Patrice!" She called to him harshly across the front of the couch. He obediently turned from Marty to her with a quizzical look on her face. "Do you know Jamie plays the piano?"
"And the violin, mother," he said, unmoved at her test. He gave her a smug look.
"So cheeky!" She laughed, shooing him away again.
"Anyways, I'm very out of practice," Jamie continued. "But my mother--"
Patrice swung back around, cutting her off. "Hey mom, did you know Jamie also dances?"
"Patrice!" Jamie cried, flushing again and shaking his hand in her lap.
"Do you?" She asked, excitedly.
"Not anymore!"
"She dances ballet," Patrice said, matter-of-factly. "She also graduated with perfect grades and a perfect attendance record two years after I graduated with less-than-perfect grades and a sorry attendance record," he continued, much to Jamie's demure dismay. "Her favorite color is lavender, she has a twelve year old cat named Louie, she broke her arm when she was six, falling off of a ski lift and her cast was pink, and her freckles on her nose come out after she's seen the sun for a couple of days straight."
"Look at you!" Mrs. Lapointe laughed, grabbing his forearm and giving him a good--yet gentle--shake as his cheeks rouged beyond a normal blush. He didn't seem to mind though as he looked at Jamie with a steady grin.
"Look at this one!" Marty chuckled, pointing across the coffee table to Jamie, who was also blushing madly, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes cast down.
"Oh, you too are precious," Mrs. Lapointe cooed, holding a hand to her heart and leaning to bump Sylvie with her elbow next to her. "Aren't you just thrilled?" She asked her in a whisper, mother to mother, except loud enough for everyone to hear, like all mother's do.
Patrice and Jamie exchanged a look with eyebrows raised, and then shared a laugh.
"I guess everyone likes us?" She whispered to him in a giggle.
"What's not to like about you?" Patrice asked her, his voice still light and airy.
Jamie was smiling so wide that her nose crinkled. She leaned toward him to give his cheek a quick kiss to add to his blush.
"Alright, now you're makin' me sick," Marty joked, giving Patrice an eye roll. His face quickly cracked into a smile as he asked for forgiveness for his joke.
All continued to chat as the clock broached 11.
Jamie continued to hold Patrice's hand in her lap, meshing her fingers with his and running her nails along his knuckles, but, before long, she could feel him getting restless again.
When she got some time for a breath as Marty took over conversation and she sensed the groups gaze drifting from them toward him, she lifted the back of his hand to her lips for a quick kiss. He turned his head the little that he could to give her a lazy smile, to which she responded by propping her arm up along the back of the couch and cupping the back of his head, running her fingers back and forth in his short, stick-straight hair.
He played with his fingers in the palm of her hand as the elders of their little crowd continue to tell stories. To them, it was almost as if they were alone, tired and warm in one another's company. The rest of the world appeared fuzzy to them, out of focus and slightly less relevant than the other, sitting right next to them, linked through their hands and through their hearts.
Patrice tapped the center of her palm as if to get her attention. She quickly turned her head to face him and gave him a questioning look.
He pulled his lips into that lazy smile again, letting his head rest back on the couch with her hand behind it. Continuing to smile at her, he traced a letter in her hand.
"T?" She mouthed toward him.
His crow's feet around his eyes, heavy with bags and left over bruises creased with his smile. He nodded.
He pulled the pad of his finger down through the center of her palm.
"I," she whispered, her lips twisting in a grin as well.
He repeated the motion, this time, adding another squiggle.
"R," she whispered again.
Then, he drew a "D."
She looked at him with a blank stare.
She was sure of it; it had to have been a "D". He finished the letter with two strokes, one for the hard line, the other for the curve. An "E" was made with a least four short, straight lines; there was no curve in an "E."
He rose his eyebrows at her, his smile dipping a bit.
He was confused.
He didn't even notice the spelling error.
"What?" He mouthed to her in their private conversation, leaned back into the couch cushions together. His eyes drooped tiredly.
He was barely holding on.
Without caring how openly affectionate she was being, she sat up on the couch and leaned over him, cupping his cheek.
"Hey, I think it's time for your medicine, mon amour," she said, a pleasant smile on her face to hide her worry.
"Oh my God!" Mrs. Lapointe cried, noticing the time. "We have to go, Marty, the poor dear's probably exhausted."
"Oh, he's fine," Marty laughed, making to stand as he groaned with age. He stretched his back, a few of his joints popping as he did so. "See what you have to look forward to, kid?" He asked, laughing in jest.
"You play the game a lot rougher than I do," Patrice chuckled, lifting his head from the back of the couch.
No... Jamie prayed, silently, willing him not to rise.
"You'll last a lot longer than I did," Marty chuckled, straightening his collared shirt over his chest and pulling on his sports jacket.
Patrice's hands found the side of the couch, and Jamie had a split-second decision to make. Call him out in front of some of the people that meant the world to him and make him feel weak? Or let him try and--potentially--fail or hurt himself.
But she had hesitated a moment too long, and Patrice slid himself forward to the edge of the couch and pushed himself up.
Jamie stood immediately, a small hand pressed into his lower back to provide stability should he need it.
And he did.
Marty took hold of his hand in a firm handshake that everyone knew was a quick grasp to steady him, but all pretended not to notice, too, for his sake.
Jamie slowly rose behind him.
"We're good, we're good," Marty told her gently, smiling at her over Patrice's shoulder. Jamie cautiously let her hold of her lover go, and she gave them some space to say goodbye, but not enough to be out of earshot to hear Marty sigh and whisper "I really love ya, kid. Like one of my own."

"He told me to take care of you, too," he said as Jamie pulled his sheets up and over his bare chest. She couldn't stand looking at his scrawny chest; it wasn't right, he wasn't healthy. She promised herself she'd get up and make a thick breakfast shake for him in the morning.
"Did he, now?" she asked, smiling.
"Yeah," he replied softly, a grin on his lips as he closed his eyes for a yawn, reliving his final moments with his dear old friend from a few minutes prior. "Said I'd never find another girl like you in a million years," he praised her. "Said he could see it in the way you looked at me."
Jamie met his gaze and he gave her a wink.
"So cheeky, Bergeron!" She chastised, giving his shoulder a swat as he giggled and she went back to fiddling with the pillows around him, preventing him from rolling over and aggravating his bruised neck. However, with the pain killers and the muscle relaxants, he should be dead to the world when he sleeps.
"It was good to see him; thanks for making me," he confessed, looking up at her as she pulled a pillow from the floor and tucked it under the blankets next to him.
"Of course baby," she smiled, giving him a kiss on his forehead and making her way around his room to tidy before she turned the lights out. She didn't want to trip up in anything should she need to rush to him in the night.
"When will you start to sleep with me again, Amour?" He asked, changing directions.
Jamie froze, collecting some of his dirty clothes from around the foot of his bed, not expecting the inquiry.
"What's that?" She asked, bending forward again for a pair of cotton boxer briefs.
"Does it make you uncomfortable with my mom around?" He asked, diplomatically. Jamie gave him a reassuring smile over her shoulder. He lay on his back in bed, his lean arms untucked from under the blankets and resting at his sides, pulling the light blue sheets taught over his chest and belly.
Jamie's body gave a yearn.
"A bit," she reasoned aloud, even with herself. She shrugged, making her way to his closet and dumping his clothes in the hamper he hid in there. She'd do his laundry tomorrow.
"Can you come here?" He asked, softly, before his mouth stretched into a great yawn yet again.
Jamie tip toed over to him and sat on the edge of his bed. He closed his heavy eyes and held around her waist with his arms. She leaned toward him and gently tucked his hair behind his ear over and over again, just as she had done when he was in the hospital.
Within seconds he was fast asleep, his lips parted in exhaustion.
"Oh, mon amour," Jamie breathed, smiling at him weakly. She continued to stroke his hair and trace the back of his ear as his breathing became heavier and slower.
She frowned as he brought his lips together in swallow, only to let them part again in a mumble.
"Oh how I miss you, Patrice..." she whispered, letting her hand slip down the curve of his jaw, the nape of his neck, letting it rise and fall over his collar bone and trace his soft pecks and glide down the dip in his chest. It took all of her strength not to round the hip bones she could so easily see jut from the meat of his legs, separated from her by a mere 1,000 thread count sheet.
"So much..." she whispered, holding his hip in her hand and bending forward to kiss where his nose met his face.
Still her favorite place to kiss him.