Page 12 of Speak in Fever

Percy emerges from the tunnel after grabbing some extra pucks, looking relaxed in a way Rath rarely sees during team practices.

His usual captain intensity has been dialed down to something more approachable, and there's something almost playful in his expression as he dumps the pucks at center ice.

"Ready to work?" Percy calls, and his voice echoes slightly in the empty space.

Rath pushes off from the boards, hyperaware of Percy's presence beside him as they warm up with some casual skating.

Everything feels magnified without the chaos of team practice— the sound of their blades carving through the ice, the way Percy's breath creates small puffs of vapor in the cold air, the graceful efficiency of his movements as he works through his routine.

Even warming up, Percy moves like poetry.

There's something hypnotic about watching him skate—the way he transitions effortlessly between forward and backward, the perfect balance when he takes tight turns, the unconscious power in every stride.

Rath has skated with hundreds of players over the years, but Percy's technique is something special, so fluid it looks effortless.

"Let's start simple," Percy says, positioning himself across from Rath with a pile of pucks between them. "Basic passing, work on timing and communication."

They start with elementary exchanges, and even these simple passes feel charged with electricity.

Percy's passes find Rath's stick with perfect weight and timing, the puck arriving exactly where Rath expects it to be.

When Rath returns them, he watches Percy's eyes track the puck's path, notices the slight nod of approval when the placement is exactly right.

There's something meditative about the rhythm that lets Rath focus entirely on the feel of the puck on his stick, the way Percy moves to meet each pass, the growing synchronization between them.

Without the pressure of a game situation, they can take time to find each other's tendencies, to build the kind of instinctive understanding that makes great line mates.

"Try to hit me in stride," Percy says after a pass that forces him to slow down slightly, and there's something about having Percy's complete attention focused on him that makes Rath's chest tight.

"Try skating to where the puck's going," Rath shoots back, but the banter feels different now—less defensive, more like testing boundaries.

Percy stops skating, fixing him with that captain stare that usually precedes a lecture about respect and team hierarchy. But instead of anger, there's something almost amused in his expression, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold in a way that makes him look younger, less untouchable.

"Fair point," Percy says, and when he smiles, it transforms his entire face. The serious lines around his eyes soften, and suddenly Rath can see what Percy might have looked like as a kid, all enthusiasm and joy for the game. "Let me try that again."

The next sequence flows perfectly—Rath reads Percy's route and leads him with the pass, Percy catches it in full stride and returns it with a backhander that arrives right on Rath's tape.

It's a simple exchange, but it feels significant, like they've unlocked something that was always there but needed the right conditions to emerge.

"Much better," Percy says, and his praise makes warmth spread through Rath's chest so fast he has to clutch onto his stick to keep a hand on it.

There's something addictive about earning Percy's approval, about being the focus of that intense attention.

Rath has always been motivated by recognition—it's part of what drove him to excel in juniors, part of what keeps him pushing for more ice time and better line assignments.

But Percy's approval feels different, more personal, like it means something beyond hockey.

As they work through increasingly complex drills, Rath finds himself cataloguing every detail.

The way Percy's jaw tightens in concentration when he's thinking through a play.

How his hands look gripping his stick—strong and sure and exactly the right size, with calluses from years of playing and a small scar across his left knuckle from a fight he got into as a rookie.

The fluid power in his stride, the unconscious authority in his posture even when he's being instructional rather than commanding.

"Let's try some two-man rushes," Percy suggests, setting up behind the net with a puck. "Work on our entries, see if we can find some chemistry in transition."

Percy moves like he has all the time in the world, holding the puck until the last possible second before making his decision.

When he does pass, it's with perfect timing—not too early, not too late, but exactly when Rath is in position to receive it cleanly.

Rath takes the pass and drives wide, aware of Percy moving into the high slot, and when he cuts back to find him, Percy is exactly where he expected him to be.

The connection feels natural in a way their game play has never felt before.

Without the pressure of opponents and coaches and teammates watching, they can experiment, can take chances, can learn each other's tendencies without the fear of failure.

Percy reads Rath's movements like he's been studying game tape for months, anticipating his routes and timing his passes accordingly.

"Better," Percy says after a particularly smooth rush, and there's genuine pleasure in his voice that Rath feels cascading down his spine like a lover’s touch. "That's the kind of chemistry we need in games."

Because Percy is being playful, Rath realizes with growing fascination.

Away from the pressure of team leadership, Percy lets his guard down enough to attempt a ridiculous spin move during their breakaway contest, laughs when it almost works, looks genuinely delighted when Rath compliments his hidden creativity.

"Didn't know you had that in your bag," Rath teases after Percy nearly dekes himself out of his own skates attempting some kind of between-the-legs move.

"I don't, usually," Percy admits, grinning in a way that makes him look about ten years younger. "But this is fun. When's the last time we just played around out here?"

It's a good question. Hockey has been Rath's life for so long that he sometimes forgets it started as play, as pure joy in movement and competition and the simple pleasure of being good at something.

Watching Percy rediscover that sense of play is mesmerizing and he looks lighter somehow, less burdened by the weight of leadership and expectation.

"I forgot how much I used to love just messing around out here," Percy admits during a break, leaning on his stick with his hair mussed up and his cheeks pink from exertion. "Before everything got so serious."

This version of Percy—relaxed, almost vulnerable, willing to try impossible plays just for the joy of it—is devastatingly attractive. It's the difference between seeing Percy as his untouchable captain and seeing him as a person, complex and real and so appealing it makes Rath's mouth dry.

"We should all do this more often," Rath says, because he needs to say something and his brain isn't providing many coherent options.

"Yeah," Percy agrees, and there's something wistful in his voice. "Hard to find the time, though."

There's a moment of comfortable silence where they both catch their breath, and Rath is hyperaware of how alone they are, how the empty arena amplifies every sound.

Percy's breathing is still slightly elevated from exertion, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down his temple that Rath wants to reach out and wipe away.

"One more drill?" Percy suggests, and his voice has that focused tone he uses for important tactical discussions. "I want to try something we've been struggling with in games."

When Percy explains the play, Rath finds himself leaning closer, drawn by the intensity in Percy's voice and the way his eyes light up when he's talking strategy.

This close, he can see the serious line of Percy's mouth, the way his pupils dilate slightly when he's concentrating, the subtle confidence that radiates from him even in casual conversation.

"You sure about this?" Rath asks about the complex play Percy wants to try, and he's close enough now to notice the way Percy's lips part slightly when he's thinking through the details.

"I'm trusting you to be where you need to be," Percy says simply.

Trust. That thing that’s been missing between them for almost two years now. The thing he hasn’t been able to give Percy, no matter how many times he’s asked for it. But he can do this, can’t he? He’s part of this team, and he wants to trust Percy. God, but he wants to.

"I'll be there," Rath promises.

The play develops like something out of a highlight reel.

Rath commits to his route without hesitation, trusting that Percy will read the play correctly and deliver the pass exactly where it needs to be.

When Percy does thread the needle with a perfect pass through traffic, Rath is in exactly the right position to receive it cleanly and bury the shot top shelf.

"Yes! Just like that!" Percy shouts, skating over with his face bright with excitement and his arms raised in celebration.

The pure joy in Percy's reaction is infectious.

This isn't just professional satisfaction—this is genuine happiness, the kind of unguarded emotion that Percy rarely shows during team functions.

Rath realizes he's never seen Percy look so genuinely delighted about anything, and the knowledge that he contributed to that happiness makes something warm unfurl in his chest.

"That was perfect," Percy continues, reaching Rath and grabbing his shoulder in celebration. It shoots a jolt of electricity through his frame that makes him feel warm down to his toes, warm and glowing underneath Percy’s happiness and praise. He wants to drown in Percy’s words, in the way he’s looking at him like he did something fantastic.

"Did you feel how clean that was? The timing, the trust—that's exactly what we need in games. "

Percy's hand is still on his shoulder, and Rath is just so aware of him all of the time—the warmth of Percy's palm through his jersey, the casual strength in his grip, the way his thumb brushes across Rath's collarbone when he gestures.

It's the kind of teammate contact that happens hundreds of times during a season, but somehow this feels different, more charged, like it means something.

Rath realizes how alone they are at that moment, how the empty arena amplifies every sound, how Percy's face is flushed and bright with exertion and excitement.

All Rath wants to do is close the distance between them, to see if Percy would kiss him back or punch him in the face.

The temptation is so strong it makes his hands shake, makes his common sense disappear, makes him forget all the reasons why this is impossible.

This is the dangerous part of this attraction—the way it pulls at him constantly, like Percy is something he could ever have.

Percy is untouchable, unattainable, seven years older and infinitely more experienced and so far out of Rath's league it's almost laughable.

Every hour spent in his presence is just a reminder that he's not something Rath gets to have, not something Rath even gets to want without risking everything he's worked for.

But standing here in the empty arena, with Percy's hand on his shoulder and genuine joy in his eyes, it's hard to remember why those barriers exist. It's hard to remember anything beyond the way Percy is looking at him.

"We should probably call it," Percy says finally, and Rath hears the reluctance in his voice. "Our time is about up."

Percy's hand drops from Rath's shoulder, and the loss of contact feels more significant than it should. They've been out here for over an hour, but it feels like minutes—time compressed by focus and flow and the kind of pure hockey joy that Rath had almost forgotten existed.

As they collect the scattered pucks and head toward the tunnel, Rath steals glances at Percy, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the lingering smile, the way he moves with less rigid precision than usual.

This hour has felt like discovering a completely different person hidden beneath the captain exterior—someone playful and trusting and willing to be vulnerable, someone so attractive it makes Rath's chest tight with want.

"Same time next week?" Percy asks as they reach the boards, and there's something almost hopeful in his voice that makes Rath's pulse skip.

"Wouldn't miss it," Rath replies, like it costs him nothing.