Status: just for fun
Je t'aime, tu sais?
Patron//Patron
"He's a funny man, Patrice..." Guilluame thought aloud to the table, as they watched the subject of their thoughts stand awkwardly at the bar with the two new ladies.
"I have never known him to be romantically involved, in the six years I've dated his brother!" Gretta contributed.
"Six years?" Brad asked, his eyes widening. "The man's been dry for six YEARS?"
"Well, I don't know about that," Milan defended. "There was that ESPN chick... she kind of preyed on him..."
"We never caught wind of that!" Gretta laughed.
"I think it was a roll in the hay kind of thing..." Milan shrugged.
"Yeah, she was hot," Brad nodded. "Before your time, kid," he whispered to Tyler, who dropped his eyes and went back to staring at Alex, adjusting the brim of his baseball hat.
Guill thought of his brother, his brother's friends surrounding him, some of which had known Patrice for three or more years, and continued to wonder what he had often wondered about his brother since their young adolescence; why was Patrice so controlled? Why did he monitor himself so much? This cute little girl clearly enjoyed his company, and he still remained distant, quiet, unsure. Guill sighed and Gretta rubbed his back. Not even his best friends knew much about him, other than that he was a guy who stayed between the lines, he thought. Maybe this girl will crack him.
As if she knew what her boyfriend was thinking, Gretta leaned over and whispered, "I hope she softens him up, but it looks as if she's pretty quiet as well." She nodded toward the bar.
Alex took a shot and Jamie and Patrice were shaking their heads vehemently as she repeatedly offered them some Patron. They were cute though. Both with dark, dark hair, his straight, hers curly. She was tiny compared to him, both in height and in general, and she noticed how his eyes followed her every move; from when they'd exchange looks and smile, to when she'd turn to Alex and laugh, how she'd throw her hair back; everything.
"I won't take it!" They heard him say, laughing and holding the shot above Alex's reach. "I phone a friend!" He looked at the bartender and flashed the hand signal for seven and pointed to the table.
"Oh baby, incoming!" Tyler said, rubbing his hands together. Alex took her seat next to him at the head of the table, and Patrice slid in the booth next to Milan, followed rather closely by Jamie.
"I will not be taking part in this debauchery," he announced laughing and rolling his checkered sleeves up. He passed a shot to Milan, to Guill, to Gretta, and Brad and Tyler took their own, Tyler even giving Alex her's with a little wink. Patrice handed the final shot to Jamie and raised his eyebrows.
"To share?" he asked her, in French.
His feet beat the nylon belt that whirred around and around. He shook his head and hit next on his iphone. Faster, he thought. Sweat it out.
Patrice had been beating himself up all morning about going out last night. Not going out, per se, but not sticking to his meal plan or his usual hydration methods.
He closed his eyes and thought, faster, faster, don't stop, faster.
The pounding of his shoes, his weight, his 180 pound frame, the squeak of contact from his sneaker and the nylon meeting, the compact of his knees, the tightening of his hamstring. Faster, he thought. Go faster, Patrice.
"HEY! MORNING KILLER!"
Patrice opened his eyes and jammed the slow button on the treadmill. Andrew Ference stood before him with a concerned look on his face. He maintained a steady jog and as steady of eye contact as he could manage.
"Ya... y'need a towel?" Andy offered, extending a hand with a white hand towel in it.
"Yeah," Patrice huffed, noticing the salt in his eyes, and the little droplets forming and dropping from his brow and nose and jawline. He pressed it to his face, fully aware now of all the eyes on him in the training room.
He pulled the towel down his face and jammed the slow button some more to a walk. His legs ached. The muscles above his knees burned, and his calves already were starting to cramp. He grunted a bit and slipped off the treadmill to stretch them before the pain became unbearable. Andy followed him to the matted area by the mirrors and Patrice heard the typical grunting and sliding of weights return to the gym room.
"Need help with your gluts?" His friend offered. His throat too dry to talk, Patrice nodded as he laid back on the matts, his chest heaving. Andy grabbed the arch of his sneak and pushed it up toward Patrice's chest as he grimaced. Andy held in there for a few seconds, and then eased it further towards his friend's chin, holding it again. When he released, he asked, "Everything ok, bud?"
Patrice nodded, his chest still heaving and gave Andy his other leg to stretch.
"Ya sure?" His friend prodded.
"I went out last night," Patrice breathed, clenching his teeth.
"Yeah he did!" Marshy called from the leg press, his hands in the air, forming "rock on" signs. "Can't say I've ever seen our Alternate Captain struggle through a shot of Patron before." His line mate cackled. Andy chuckled too, then released Patrice's foot. He nodded a "Welcome" and extended a hand. Standing in front of Patrice, Patrice held onto Andy's shoulder and pulled his foot up behind him, stretching his hamstrings.
"Just had to sweat it out, y'know?" He said to his worried friend.
"Via sprinting on the treadmill?"
"Yeah, you gotta make--"
"You don't have to make up for everything, man. Today's a day off. You make up for it in sleep."
"Preferably with that girl last night!" Marshy called, giving Tyler a quick neck rub between reps. The two laughed and wiggled their eyebrows across the room toward Patrice. Tyler went as far as to lick his lips. The pair high fived. Trouble, Patrice thought, laughing a bit.
He rolled his eyes and smirked, giving off good vibes but not really enjoying the personal jokes. After all, Brad's and Segys' good evenings were on his bill. And, he had been nothing but a gentleman to Jamie, and had merely driven her home after dropping the two rambunctious ones off.
As soon as he finished stretching, he left the weight room and hit the showers.
As the hot water worked its way into his hair, he turned it to cold. The varying temperature helped to prevent sore muscles in the days to come, but it was Patrice's least favorite part about post-work out showers. He forced himself to go through the hot-cold cycle twice more, just to be safe. He momentarily thought of where to take Guill and Gretta for lunch after, but then got back to thinking about Jamie and their night at the First Amendement less than twelve hours ago. In his state--which wasn't much intoxicated as it was jovial, nervous, and slightly tipsy--he had managed to touch the small of her back, and wrap his arm around her waist. Just thinking of it made his stomach pitfall and he had to take a deep, steadying breath.
Slinging a towel around his waist, he slowly made his way back to his stall to find Andy sitting next to it, holding his phone.
"You left this," he said, showing him the device. Patrice nodded, gently taking the phone from his friend and tossing it into his open gym bag in front of him.
"Thanks," he said.
"And eat this," Andy said, offering him a protein bar.
"Thanks, will do," Patrice replied.
"What's up, man? I go to Cananda for four days and come back to hear you've been having a great time but to see you kicking yourself in the training room..."
"There's always room to be better, you know?" He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his wet hair. A few beats of silence passed.
"Patrice..."
Patrice looked at his friend dead in the eye. He knew Ferry wanted to talk; he knew he desperately wanted to talk, but Patrice had never done such a thing. He had never spoken about his feelings because outside of the realm of hockey, he had never really been emotional about anything before. This wasn't to say that he was particularly unemotional; to the contrary he was very emotional, just only concerning one thing: hockey. He currently was suffering because of the mental occupancy Jamie took in his head; she was in his every thought, every second, of every day since they had met. He didn't think he had ever thought about something with such a devotion before that didn't involve ice. He was frustrated with himself for being lax, for letting his guard down, letting her in, letting wine in, letting thoughts in, letting his life get in the way of his profession, of his ultimate love, of what he was born to do. He was also frustrated with himself for his thoughts about Jamie; they had begun to wonder, they had begun to become more intimate, more longing; he wanted to see her every day, to kiss her, to touch her; it was distracting. And he didn't know how to stop it.
"You know I'm always here to talk, bud," Ferry said, not breaking eye contact with him. Patrice dropped his head and sighed.
A few beats of silence passed. Someone dropped a weight in the training room next door with a loud thud and a squeal, followed by laughter. Patrice crinkled the protein bar's wrapping.
"I know," he said. "I'm just frustrated; I'm having a hard time concentrating. I just don't think I'm ready to talk about it just yet."
"I have never known him to be romantically involved, in the six years I've dated his brother!" Gretta contributed.
"Six years?" Brad asked, his eyes widening. "The man's been dry for six YEARS?"
"Well, I don't know about that," Milan defended. "There was that ESPN chick... she kind of preyed on him..."
"We never caught wind of that!" Gretta laughed.
"I think it was a roll in the hay kind of thing..." Milan shrugged.
"Yeah, she was hot," Brad nodded. "Before your time, kid," he whispered to Tyler, who dropped his eyes and went back to staring at Alex, adjusting the brim of his baseball hat.
Guill thought of his brother, his brother's friends surrounding him, some of which had known Patrice for three or more years, and continued to wonder what he had often wondered about his brother since their young adolescence; why was Patrice so controlled? Why did he monitor himself so much? This cute little girl clearly enjoyed his company, and he still remained distant, quiet, unsure. Guill sighed and Gretta rubbed his back. Not even his best friends knew much about him, other than that he was a guy who stayed between the lines, he thought. Maybe this girl will crack him.
As if she knew what her boyfriend was thinking, Gretta leaned over and whispered, "I hope she softens him up, but it looks as if she's pretty quiet as well." She nodded toward the bar.
Alex took a shot and Jamie and Patrice were shaking their heads vehemently as she repeatedly offered them some Patron. They were cute though. Both with dark, dark hair, his straight, hers curly. She was tiny compared to him, both in height and in general, and she noticed how his eyes followed her every move; from when they'd exchange looks and smile, to when she'd turn to Alex and laugh, how she'd throw her hair back; everything.
"I won't take it!" They heard him say, laughing and holding the shot above Alex's reach. "I phone a friend!" He looked at the bartender and flashed the hand signal for seven and pointed to the table.
"Oh baby, incoming!" Tyler said, rubbing his hands together. Alex took her seat next to him at the head of the table, and Patrice slid in the booth next to Milan, followed rather closely by Jamie.
"I will not be taking part in this debauchery," he announced laughing and rolling his checkered sleeves up. He passed a shot to Milan, to Guill, to Gretta, and Brad and Tyler took their own, Tyler even giving Alex her's with a little wink. Patrice handed the final shot to Jamie and raised his eyebrows.
"To share?" he asked her, in French.
His feet beat the nylon belt that whirred around and around. He shook his head and hit next on his iphone. Faster, he thought. Sweat it out.
Patrice had been beating himself up all morning about going out last night. Not going out, per se, but not sticking to his meal plan or his usual hydration methods.
He closed his eyes and thought, faster, faster, don't stop, faster.
The pounding of his shoes, his weight, his 180 pound frame, the squeak of contact from his sneaker and the nylon meeting, the compact of his knees, the tightening of his hamstring. Faster, he thought. Go faster, Patrice.
"HEY! MORNING KILLER!"
Patrice opened his eyes and jammed the slow button on the treadmill. Andrew Ference stood before him with a concerned look on his face. He maintained a steady jog and as steady of eye contact as he could manage.
"Ya... y'need a towel?" Andy offered, extending a hand with a white hand towel in it.
"Yeah," Patrice huffed, noticing the salt in his eyes, and the little droplets forming and dropping from his brow and nose and jawline. He pressed it to his face, fully aware now of all the eyes on him in the training room.
He pulled the towel down his face and jammed the slow button some more to a walk. His legs ached. The muscles above his knees burned, and his calves already were starting to cramp. He grunted a bit and slipped off the treadmill to stretch them before the pain became unbearable. Andy followed him to the matted area by the mirrors and Patrice heard the typical grunting and sliding of weights return to the gym room.
"Need help with your gluts?" His friend offered. His throat too dry to talk, Patrice nodded as he laid back on the matts, his chest heaving. Andy grabbed the arch of his sneak and pushed it up toward Patrice's chest as he grimaced. Andy held in there for a few seconds, and then eased it further towards his friend's chin, holding it again. When he released, he asked, "Everything ok, bud?"
Patrice nodded, his chest still heaving and gave Andy his other leg to stretch.
"Ya sure?" His friend prodded.
"I went out last night," Patrice breathed, clenching his teeth.
"Yeah he did!" Marshy called from the leg press, his hands in the air, forming "rock on" signs. "Can't say I've ever seen our Alternate Captain struggle through a shot of Patron before." His line mate cackled. Andy chuckled too, then released Patrice's foot. He nodded a "Welcome" and extended a hand. Standing in front of Patrice, Patrice held onto Andy's shoulder and pulled his foot up behind him, stretching his hamstrings.
"Just had to sweat it out, y'know?" He said to his worried friend.
"Via sprinting on the treadmill?"
"Yeah, you gotta make--"
"You don't have to make up for everything, man. Today's a day off. You make up for it in sleep."
"Preferably with that girl last night!" Marshy called, giving Tyler a quick neck rub between reps. The two laughed and wiggled their eyebrows across the room toward Patrice. Tyler went as far as to lick his lips. The pair high fived. Trouble, Patrice thought, laughing a bit.
He rolled his eyes and smirked, giving off good vibes but not really enjoying the personal jokes. After all, Brad's and Segys' good evenings were on his bill. And, he had been nothing but a gentleman to Jamie, and had merely driven her home after dropping the two rambunctious ones off.
As soon as he finished stretching, he left the weight room and hit the showers.
As the hot water worked its way into his hair, he turned it to cold. The varying temperature helped to prevent sore muscles in the days to come, but it was Patrice's least favorite part about post-work out showers. He forced himself to go through the hot-cold cycle twice more, just to be safe. He momentarily thought of where to take Guill and Gretta for lunch after, but then got back to thinking about Jamie and their night at the First Amendement less than twelve hours ago. In his state--which wasn't much intoxicated as it was jovial, nervous, and slightly tipsy--he had managed to touch the small of her back, and wrap his arm around her waist. Just thinking of it made his stomach pitfall and he had to take a deep, steadying breath.
Slinging a towel around his waist, he slowly made his way back to his stall to find Andy sitting next to it, holding his phone.
"You left this," he said, showing him the device. Patrice nodded, gently taking the phone from his friend and tossing it into his open gym bag in front of him.
"Thanks," he said.
"And eat this," Andy said, offering him a protein bar.
"Thanks, will do," Patrice replied.
"What's up, man? I go to Cananda for four days and come back to hear you've been having a great time but to see you kicking yourself in the training room..."
"There's always room to be better, you know?" He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his wet hair. A few beats of silence passed.
"Patrice..."
Patrice looked at his friend dead in the eye. He knew Ferry wanted to talk; he knew he desperately wanted to talk, but Patrice had never done such a thing. He had never spoken about his feelings because outside of the realm of hockey, he had never really been emotional about anything before. This wasn't to say that he was particularly unemotional; to the contrary he was very emotional, just only concerning one thing: hockey. He currently was suffering because of the mental occupancy Jamie took in his head; she was in his every thought, every second, of every day since they had met. He didn't think he had ever thought about something with such a devotion before that didn't involve ice. He was frustrated with himself for being lax, for letting his guard down, letting her in, letting wine in, letting thoughts in, letting his life get in the way of his profession, of his ultimate love, of what he was born to do. He was also frustrated with himself for his thoughts about Jamie; they had begun to wonder, they had begun to become more intimate, more longing; he wanted to see her every day, to kiss her, to touch her; it was distracting. And he didn't know how to stop it.
"You know I'm always here to talk, bud," Ferry said, not breaking eye contact with him. Patrice dropped his head and sighed.
A few beats of silence passed. Someone dropped a weight in the training room next door with a loud thud and a squeal, followed by laughter. Patrice crinkled the protein bar's wrapping.
"I know," he said. "I'm just frustrated; I'm having a hard time concentrating. I just don't think I'm ready to talk about it just yet."