Note:This takes place after "Awards Show" and you probably need to go read that first if you haven't already done so. No, really. No. Really. Go do that now, because if you haven't, you'll have no idea what's going on here. This takes place from Jose Theodore's point of view, just so you know, and it's concerning what went on if Patty hadn't made that phone call in "Awards Show."

Carry on.

Love Song For No One

I wake up in time to see bright sun, streaming through the cheap hotel room curtains, through the windows, and onto the bed.

I sit up, stroke my hair down, and squint at the clock, my eyes blurred with sleep. Seven. Seven?!?! It can’t be, but it is. I leap out of bed, careful to not disturb the still-sleeping form beside me, and collect my clothes that were scattered with centrifugal force the night before. I don’t have time for a shower, and I feel disgusting, but I’ll just have to deal until I get home.

When I pick up my shirt, which is lying crumpled in a heap next to the bed, I stand up and I’m mesmerized by his form.

What a perfect night I’d had. How absolutely wonderful. Two awards, a night with my idol, who I am convinced that I love. I grin while I button the wrinkled shirt.

I scribble a quick note, half French, half English, and stand at the foot of his bed. He’s curled on his side, bare-chested, looking like an angel. His hair is rumpled and a thin layer of stubble rests on his face. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and I wish he would open his eyes for just a minute, because they are the most beautiful things I’ve seen in my life.

But I resist the urge to touch him, instead heading for the door. Once it’s closed behind, I sigh once and think again about last night.

After my plane lands, I stroll through the airport and pull out my cell phone, dialing the number I scribbled on my wrist. I listen to it ringing once, twice…the third time is interrupted by that lovely accented voice.

“Hello?”

“Bonjour, Patrick,” I say quietly.

“Urrrm, bonjour,” he says, sounding troubled and a little odd.

“Are you all right? You sound off. A little weird.”

“Um, no, no, I was just thinking, you know. Thinking. I’m fine,” he stutters. Something is wrong.

“About what? Can I ask?” I pry

“Um, last night.”

Ahhhhh….the words sound pleasant, and I roll them around in my mouth a few times.

“Last night. Laaaaasst night. Last niiiiiiight,” I stretch them out under my breath, cherishing the way my tongue hits my teeth in the proper places.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just playing with the words.” It’s a habit of mine, feeling the words, tasting them, chewing on them, savoring them, knowing that that I control them in my mouth. “But last night was fantastic, wasn’t it? I mean, I could come over to your house all summer, or you could come here, and then we could see each other during the regular season,” I ramble.

“That’s just it,” he says haltingly.

“What’s it?”

“Last night, I was stupid as well as—let me see, kind of delirious with this weird, weird feeling, and—how can I say this?—I suppose it overwhelmed me.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying. “What?”

“I should have told you this last night before we did anything, but I—”

“Oh, God.”

“No, no, no! Don’t panic! It’s just that I’m kind of committed and involved with someone,” he begins.

“Who?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me.”

“Dominik Hasek.”

I’m silent for a moment, trying to comprehend what Patrick has just said to me, trying to think about how short ago I was so happy.

“That’s news,” I say bitterly, and with the words a flood of rage flows through my beins and consumes me, totally and completely.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing? Did you think it was fun? Did you think that just because you’re so famous you can do that stuff? Because you can’t!”

I realize that I’m in an airport, a public place, and quickly consider my option.

Seconds later I hit the ‘end’ button on my phone with as much energy as I can muster. It gives me a weird satisfaction in hearing his voice, the voice that I so recently thought beautiful, end abruptly. Cut off sharply. It’s my fault.

I stay in a dense haze all the way to my car, and when I’m safely locked in, I dare to pick up the phone again. I push the numbers, listening to their mechanical song while watching them appear on the miniature screen, and then I watch my fingers pressing the ‘send’ button and lifting the phone automatically to my ear.

“Allo?” Patrick doesn’t even bother to answer in English. He sounds haggard and tired. I never believed that Patrick Roy could sound like this, but he does.

“It’s me.” With the words, the rage flows out of me as quickly as it came in, and suddenly I’m close to tears.

“Oh, Jose,” he says softly, voice sounding flowing and soothing and musical to my tired ear. “I can’t believe what I’ve done to Dom or to you. I swear to God I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I have…I don’t believe who I am. I’m awful,” he says slowly. I wish he wouldn’t talk like that.

“You’re not awful,” I say. But what if he is? “You made a mistake. It was a big mistake, but it’ll be OK.” What if it wasn’t a mistake, though? What if that’s just how he is? I’ll die.

“I want to think I’m not awful. I really do.” I can’t bear to hear him talk like this. I want to think he’s not awful, too…

“I don’t know.” There I go again, brilliant as can be. I don’t know what? Then it hits me; I don’t really know what to think of this. This has never happened to me before, no one’s ever slept with me, then told me they were dating someone else.

“I’m unbelievably sorry,” he says again.

I really just want this to be done with.