Chapter 432: Patty XLV--Things Not Believed

Although his sore shoulder didn't feel completely better, Patrick rolled under the sheets and motioned for Katrina to stop. He propped himself up on his hands, sitting on his bottom and he peered at her in the dim room. Pale cheeks, tight lips, he knew well enough the face of a harried woman. "What's wrong?" she asked at the same time he asked her. They both stayed silent for a moment, and he wondered if she felt awkward. "I asked you first," she said quietly, and he heard none of her usual fire, or bite in her voice.

"I am fine," Patrick said, "But you're crying, why?"

"I am not!" Katrina said in a soft, breathy voice. "Why... I just have some allergies." She turned from him and grabbed a Kleenex to emphasize her point, blew her noise in a quiet, sniffling, almost subdued way most women had. "This God damn city. Does it to me each time."

"You haven't said a word to me since I've been on your table," Patrick pointed out. He'd heard her shudders, her sniffles, her fingers had been weak on his skin, and his muscles, tentative, no confidence. Not only worried about her emotional state for her own sake, but for the sake of his aching back, especially with a game today.

"Christ do I always have to talk to you?" Katrina snapped with a flash of her usual attitude, "Sometimes I'm just not in the mood for flirting okay? Can't I have a break?" He saw her pale hands, the fingers curled, she held them tightly against her sides as if glued there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Patrick asked, compassion and curiosity, they often went hand in hand.

Katrina turned away from him, a long pause, her intake of breath, her refusal to sob, "I'm sorry," she muttered and her voice sounded unnaturally high, like a small child's, and funnily enough as she spoke, Patrick heard the traces of an accent, an odd one he couldn't quite place. "I just ain't feeling good, I just ain't... I understand if you don't pay me today, I'm just crappy okay? I don't want to talk about it though if it's all the same to you."

He thought about her, what little he knew about her, but also of what he did remember, the little girl with the teddy bear, the mother with the broken nose. Of course she would have a lot to cry about, and she would be entitled to cry as well. Women held a special right to a great many things, and they ignored their instincts to others, sooner or later things surfaced and always at inopportune times. "Have you heard bad news, from your family?" Patrick asked, and he tried to remember if Katrina's mother still lived or not. Michele had told him some about her, but he had barely listened at the time.

"I lost her, I promised I wouldn't," Katrina whispered and she began to cry, not sob, she just trembled, grabbed another tissue and held it to her face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Patrick assumed that the sorry wasn't meant for him. "Who did you lose?" He slid off the table and gathered his clothes, putting them on as smoothly and quietly as possible, to avoid startling her.

"I lost her, I lost her, I lost her."

For a brief moment, Patrick had a suspicion, just an inkling, but he didn't say anything. "Do you need help? Can I help?" And he squashed his suspicion; he shelved it away, for now.

"Do you know what it feels like to be a fingertip away from something you want, you've wanted so much, and realizing that you just lost the last chance, the best chance you'd ever have to finally get it?" Katrina said, clearing her throat and dabbing her eyes with the tissue. Apparently, she'd already burned all the energy she ever would need to on crying. "Have you ever felt that?"

Patrick nodded.

"Of course you would," she said, "Of course."

Katrina didn't say anything more, and Patrick didn't ask. He pulled some money out of his wallet, he pressed it into her hand and softly kissed her forehead, and she let him. All the while, in his brain, he flickered; he brought up that image, a little girl with big green eyes, two little girls, one with a teddy bear, and the other in his bed. Too similar to be a coincidence, Patrick was smart enough to realize that. He also was too smart not to bring it up to her, he could only imagine how the woman would kill him, he doubted she'd have enough foresight not to. "Take care of yourself, little one," he said to her in French.

"It's all I know how to do," she replied.

At the arena, in the locker room, Patrick had barely enough time to unzip his duffel bag when his phone rang. "Yes?" He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and he sat down on the bench.

"Patrick you've really, really outdone everyone this time."

A man's voice, Patrick squinted, he didn't even recognize it at first. "Eh?"

"Patrick," his name used as a rebuke, a chide, and the voice American, it dawned on Patrick and he smiled.

"Hello Arthur," he grinned. "You already got it?"

"It?" Arthur scoffed. "It? Well that's a great word to use, It. And call me 'Reverend' you unholy little tit."

Patrick laughed and he stood up, wandered into the bathroom, looking for a little privacy. "Reverend already? With a mouth like that?"

"Oh never mind," Arthur Sullivan said briskly, "But I really would have appreciated some sort of warning, a phone call at least? Did you ever think of that? But no, you just love your Quebecois melodramatic sensibilities, of course I couldn't expect any sort of consideration for my..."

"Oh who doesn't like a gift?" Patrick said crossing one arm over his belly, a little irritated now, he could only take being railed at by another man for only so long. "Everyone loves surprises." In fact, he felt a little hurt now, he'd expected some protest from Arthur, but overall he thought the man would be at least a little grateful.

"It! Gift! Surprise!" Arthur sighed. "Patrick you really are depraved, you know this?"

"Sure," Patrick said not hiding the bite in his voice. "Sure I have been told."

"And so have I," Arthur said with a heavy finality.

Patrick rolled his eyes, "Well if you want to send it back, you can, my conscience will not be bothered either way I have done my part, yet?"

"Of course I wouldn't," Sullivan said softly. "I'm not..."

"Neither am I," Patrick cut in, "Whatever you might think I am, right now." Sullivan sighed and he didn't sound defeated or angry, just tired. Patrick couldn't help being a little coy as he added. "Pretty, yes?"

"You're a monster, God help me," Sullivan said with a laugh, "But a good man, if that's possible, I don't think history will ever be able to accurately portray that."

"I'm charmed," Patrick said feeling a little uncomfortable. "So you will call me back later? I have a game to prepare for; you're setting me behind on my schedule."

"Ah of course," Sullivan said calmly, "Of course, and remember Patrick, I have a phone number as well, and I do not expect to be left alone on this."

"Certainly," Patrick replied and he bade his goodbyes before hanging up. Now he felt heavy, his entire chest, it felt solid and hardened as if it were a lump of lead or rock. Even Katrina's tears and vulnerability hadn't moved him so much as he felt right now, and felt didn't seem a proper word, and neither did numb. He smiled softly to himself, and he decided amused, yes, he could feel amused and then not think about it at all, until Arthur stopped calling that is. He slipped his phone into his pocket and then washed his hands, twice.

"Is your wife unhappy with a gift?" purr, slurr, soft and silk, and lightly, David Aebischer touched the small of his back before leaning on one hand against the bathroom wall. "It sounded like she isn't accepting, an apology perhaps?" Soft mouth, David smiled and Patrick felt his skin prickle all over, his body trembled inside with wanting, and memory. He could fast lose his head over this one, if he had nothing better to do. "Please don't tell me that she knows about us. How would you ever recover your image in front of her eyes? That would just be, well, terrible."

Patrick grinned. "Are you threatening me with something?" He had a hilarious image in his mind, David skulking to Michele, whispering into her ear about the horrible things, so horrible that Patrick drove him to do, and how she should know to protect the sanctity of her children. How would Michele react, would she feign horror, or would she just simply, laugh?

"What would I threaten you with?" David said casually looking at his fingers. "What would I have to gain?"

Patrick pinched David's cheek, pretty, blushing cheek. "Nothing, now or later."

David half closed his eyes, he didn't seem off put or annoyed. "Yes, yes, I wouldn't believe otherwise."

The locker room seemed in a promising state of relaxation and casual company when Patrick left the bathroom. Everyone seemed to be present, undressing, dressing, talking, and smiling, not one of them looked worried that anything could be wrong or off with their game even after losing the last few. Patrick decided to take that as a good sign, perhaps things although not easy, would be just as they needed to get back on track, and his hands went to that empty spot on his breast, Smittens or no Smittens.

Peter Forsberg's pale, muscled body caught his eye and he smiled. And how did Peter feel this morning, and he wondered if anything had changed for him and his life in the course of the last twelve hours. He'd felt Peter's pleasure, watched the man's insatiable appetite, thoroughly enjoyed the complete maleness of him, and really that's the best way to describe him. Male! Not soft or slim or fading in anyway, like owning, as Bob Hartley would describe it no doubt, a fine piece of stallion flesh. But he didn't crave for another taste of him, he didn't want another go, he could sense danger in some things and in Peter the danger would be that the stupid man, fresh off his own heartbreak would fall in love with him, or become self loathing and destructive and expose them both in an act of foolishness.

One night would be enough, far more than he would ever need. Peter could sort out his own head in his own way, Patrick didn't need to deal with that sort of baggage.

"Coach make him tell!"

Hartley, who had just entered the locker room with his clipboard and grim expression, sure sign that he had prepared a let's win one tonight for the gipper speech, stopped short and looked at Derek Morris. "What are you whining about Mo?"

"Danny and Alex won't stop smiling," Morris said pointing at them, and Patrick looked at the two and noticed that they both were indeed beaming ear to ear in, well a naughty sort of way. "And they won't tell us why! Make them tell coach please!"

Hartley pursed his lips and looked at boys. "You two still under orders by Joe to get along eh?"

"Yup," they both said.

Hartley shrugged, "Well as long as they're smiling, eh? None of our business."

"It's all the man-loving," Scott Parker said matter of factly. "It's too much togetherness."

Everyone laughed and the boys blushed and Patrick imagined how Michele would react to finding out her baby boy and her baby boy had found carnal pleasure together. In fact, even though it wasn't true, he figured he'd tell her that anyway just to get a reaction.

"Oh I'll tell you when I'm good and ready!" Tanguay snipped.

"Tell us now!" Derek whined.

Danny grinned. Alex waved his hand flippantly, "Oh Penelope Cruz came onto me again. You know, the usual."

"Did you sleep with her this time?" Foote asked.

"Nope," Alex replied.

Patrick smiled.

“Oh God!” Chris Drury exclaimed. “Why not? You know how devastated Footer would be to hear you turned her down again?”

"Well maybe I would have," Alex added with an evil grin, "If Danny hadn't interrupted us."

"You shall die Danny Hinote!" Derek Morris roared, Danny blanched and Patrick grinned.

It looked like a good game for today, which is why Patrick could not believe it when the fourth goal stung over his shoulder in the second period. With that the Kings had the lead in the game, and they never looked back. Patrick felt his neck and cheeks burning as he held his body straight, didn’t look at anyone or listen to anything as he brushed by David Aebischer, yanked from the game, taking to the bench. “You just need a rest Patty, eh?” Bob Hartley said, patting him warmly and firmly and his teammates voiced that opinion.

Don’t need a God damn rest! Patrick thought to himself. He still couldn’t believe it. Aebischer did not allow another goal, and Patrick saw the team fall by one goal, just one, the one he had allowed. He closed his eyes, felt inadequate and shamed, and most of all, just bored, and unfulfilled and irritated and… he sighed. What did it matter?