"Je suis malade." Yoann Gourcuff One Shot

    “Are you going on a date with Yoann tonight?” Frances asked while flipping through Amalie’s collection of fashion magazines as her friend held various outfits in front of the mirror with a slight frown on her face.

    “How did you guess?” Amalie inquired mildly. She sighed, exasperated. She had already run out of options.

    “You should wear the red dress.” Frances said, coming to her aid.“It looks especially striking against your hair.”

    She picked up one of her friend’s already curled, raven-black tresses and held it against the dress in question.

   “See?”

    Amalie looked doubtful. “But don’t you think it’s going to rain today?”

    “Since when was the Lyon weather network ever right?” Frances waved her arms impatiently.

    “Now get in there and change! You’re going to be late.”

    “Merci, mon amie.” [Thanks, my friend]

    When Amalie exited the washroom 15 minutes later, Frances did a double take.

    “Wow,” she teased. “You’re really going to eat his heart out.”

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    They have been going out for a month and Amalie had yet to be late, Yoann thought as he watched his girlfriend weave her way towards their table with all the grace of the dancer that she was. Watching her tonight, he felt more liberated than he had been for the whole week. He had yet to regain his ideal form with Lyon this season and he feared that the ugly weight of his frustrated anxiety would seep out, tainting his relationships with his teammates, his friends, and with Amalie.

    “Je suis malade.” [I am sick.] He thought to himself. It was true; he was disgusted with his seeming inability to improve, to reach the previous high level he had had with his team.

    Amalie blushed as she felt the eyes of various men in the restaurant stare at her. The porter at the hotel door had offered to escort her to her table but she had refused, not wanting to make Yoann jealous. Now, she regretted not taking him up on his offer; what was she thinking when she bought the dress anyway? The stop sign red was like a siren’s call, luring men out of their seats for any excuse to brush by her. She ignored their advances and kept her eyes on a steady pair--the deep green colour of water in an enclosed cove---watching her from the other side of the room.

    He got up as she approached, holding her chair out for her.

    “Merci.” She said a little breathlessly. She could smell his expensive cologne as she brushed by him, and his hands lingering on her bare shoulders after he helped her out of her woollen coat sent shivers down her spine.

    “How has work been?” Yoann asked after their orders were taken.

    “It’s going pretty well. I’ve been teaching the students this new dance move...” Yoann listened attentively as Amalie launched into a brief description of the dance she had choreographed for the dancing school she works for, taking a sip of wine now and then while hers remained untouched.

    “How was training?”

    His forest green eyes suddenly hardened.“It was more or less, the usual.” His expression was closed, and Amalie couldn’t help but feel there was something going on that he wasn’t telling her about, but did not get the chance to ask as the food arrived.