Page 21 of Speak in Fever
The hours between practice ending and the team gathering for their night out at O'Malley's crawl by with agonizing slowness.
Percy finds himself checking his phone obsessively, hoping for a text from Rath that never comes.
He considers driving to Rath's apartment but dismisses the idea—showing up uninvited would probably only make Rath feel more cornered, more defensive.
By the time the team gathers at the bar, Percy is desperate to clear the air, but Rath maintains careful distance, positions himself across the room with other teammates and avoids any situation where Percy might be able to talk to him privately.
It's strategic, Percy realizes—Rath has mapped out the social geography of the bar to minimize the chances of getting cornered.
The bar is crowded, filled with the usual mix of locals and young professionals, the noise level providing perfect cover for private conversations. Which makes Rath's avoidance even more frustrating—they could easily find a quiet corner to talk, but Rath won't give him the opportunity.
Percy spends the evening stealing glances at Rath and trying to figure out how to approach a conversation that clearly needs to happen.
Every time their eyes accidentally meet, Rath's expression goes carefully neutral before he looks away, and Percy feels the distance between them like a physical ache.
He watches Rath laugh at something Torres says, watches him engage with the other players, and realizes that it's only with Percy that Rath has built these walls.
"Just go talk to him," Torres suggests during one of Percy's more obvious staring sessions, leaning against the bar beside Percy with a beer in hand. "Buy him a beer or something, I don't know. Ply him with alcohol until he's receptive."
"It's not that simple," Percy says, still watching Rath from across the room.
Rath is animated now, telling some story that has Morrison and Martinez laughing, and for a moment he looks like his old self.
Then his gaze accidentally meets Percy's and the light in his expression dims, the walls slam back into place.
"What did you do to him anyway?" Torres asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice. "I've never seen Rath shut someone out like this. Usually he's the one trying to smooth things over, make everyone get along."
Before Percy can formulate an answer that doesn't reveal too much, he notices a commotion at the bar.
A guy in an expensive suit—mid-thirties, predatory smile, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no—is approaching Rath.
Percy recognizes him vaguely from previous nights at O'Malley's, one of those regulars who thinks buying expensive drinks gives him the right to anyone's attention.
"Come on," the guy says, loud enough for Percy to hear from across the room. His body language is aggressive, leaning into Rath's personal space in a way that immediately sets Percy's teeth on edge. "Just one drink. I promise I'm more interesting than your hockey friends."
"I'm good, thanks," Rath replies politely, but Percy can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he subtly tries to create distance without making a scene. "I'm here with my teammates."
"Your teammates can spare you for a little while," the guy persists, moving closer to Rath's personal space, his hand coming up to rest on the bar beside Rath in a move that's clearly meant to cage him in. "What's your name? I'm Derek. I've been watching you all night."
The possessive way Derek looks at Rath makes something dark and ugly twist in Percy's chest. Percy's jaw tightens at the predatory tone, his hands clench into fists at his sides, but he forces himself to stay put.
Rath can handle himself. He doesn't need Percy swooping in like some kind of possessive—
But even as he tells himself this, Percy can't look away. Can't ignore the way Rath's body language screams discomfort, the way he looks around as if hoping someone will intervene.
"Actually, I'd rather stay with my friends," Rath says firmly, his voice carrying the kind of polite steel that should end the conversation, but Derek either doesn't hear the dismissal or chooses to ignore it.
"Don't be shy," Derek continues, his hand settling on Rath's forearm in a touch that's clearly unwanted. "I saw you looking over at me earlier. There's definitely some mutual interest here."
Percy's vision goes red when he sees Rath try to subtly pull his arm away and Derek's grip tightens in response.
JP has stepped away to use the bathroom, Torres is distracted by the game on TV, and none of the other guys at the bar seem to notice Rath's growing discomfort.
Percy can see the moment when Rath's polite facade starts to crack, when discomfort shifts toward genuine distress.
It's probably a bad idea, but he's full of those lately, isn't he?
"Sorry I'm late," Percy says, appearing at Rath's side and sliding his arm around his waist with possessive confidence that feels both natural and terrifying.
The solid warmth of Rath's body against his side sends an electric shock through Percy that he tries to ignore.
"Got held up talking to Torres about practice tomorrow. "
Rath goes completely still under Percy's touch, every muscle in his body tenses like he's been electrified.
His eyes go wide with surprise as he looks up at Percy, and Percy can see the rapid flutter of his pulse at his throat.
But instead of the gratitude Percy expects to see, Rath's expression is complicated—hurt and confused and something that looks like betrayal.
Derek takes the hint with minimal grace, his predatory smile faltering as he realizes he's been outmaneuvered. "Didn't realize you had a boyfriend," he says with poorly concealed irritation, stepping back but not without one last lingering look at Rath that makes Percy want to punch something.
"Now you do," Percy says evenly, his arm tightening fractionally around Rath's waist in a move that's both protective and possessive. Derek retreats into the crowd, leaving Percy and Rath alone at the bar in a bubble of sudden tension.
But instead of appreciation for the intervention, Rath immediately steps out of Percy's embrace, putting physical distance between them with a movement so sharp it might as well be a slap.
"What are you doing?" Rath asks quietly, his voice tight with controlled emotion. There's something raw in his expression, something wounded that makes Percy's chest ache.
"That guy was making you uncomfortable," Percy says, suddenly uncertain. "I thought—"
"I was handling it," Rath says, his voice sharp with something that might be anger or might be pain. "I didn't need you to rescue me."
"I know you can handle yourself," Percy replies, confused by Rath's reaction. The gratitude he expected is nowhere to be found, replaced instead by something that looks almost like betrayal. "I just thought—"
"You thought what? That I needed my captain to swoop in and save me from an awkward conversation?
" Rath's eyes are bright with hurt and frustration, his voice drops to a harsh whisper.
"Or maybe you were worried about how it would look if one of your problem players got into a scene at the team bar? "
The words hit Percy like a slap to the face. "Rath, that's not—" Percy starts, desperate to explain, but Rath is already turning away.
"Thanks for the help, Captain," Rath says with bitter formality, the title falling from his lips like a curse. "Really appreciate you looking out for your difficult teammates."
He walks away before Percy can explain, leaving Percy standing alone at the bar with the growing realization that whatever miscommunication JP told him about has created a rift that will be much harder to bridge than he anticipated.
God, he's fucked this up so bad. Every attempt to fix things only seems to make them worse, every gesture misinterpreted through the lens of Rath's hurt and Percy's own inability to communicate what he really feels.
Although it's not like Rath is making it any easier.
Does he have to be so god damned stubborn all of the time?
If he would just listen for five minutes, just give Percy a chance to explain—
But even as he thinks it, Percy knows it isn't fair. Rath thinks Percy betrayed him, thinks everything between them was a lie, and Percy can't blame him for being defensive.
Across the bar JP gives him a shrug, like what can you do?
But Percy isn't prepared to give up that easily.
He won't just let this get worse and worse.
They have a game next week and he needs Rath to play his best—needs him to play with him—and they can't have this hanging between them any longer.
It's destroying the team and the team is everything.
He drains his beer and sets the glass down with more force than necessary, decision made. This ends tonight.
Percy follows Rath's path through the crowd, past the pool tables and the dartboard, toward the back of the bar. The hallway leading to the back exit is dimmer, quieter, the noise from the main bar fading to a dull roar. Percy pushes through the heavy door and into the night air.
It's still September, so it isn't cool enough to need a jacket, but the air is welcoming after the warmth and noise of the bar.
The alleyway is mostly empty, save for a couple a little further down sharing a cigarette, their voices a low murmur in the darkness.
Rath is there, leaning against a brick wall with his head in his hands, and the sight of him looking so defeated makes something twist painfully in Percy's chest.