Page 27 of Speak in Fever
When Percy disappears into the bathroom for his own shower, Rath finally allows himself to breathe normally. The sound of running water gives him a few minutes to process the situation without Percy's presence making it impossible to think clearly.
Rath is so screwed.
His phone buzzes with a text from JP: How's the room?
Rath stares at the message for a long moment, trying to figure out how to respond. JP knows him better than almost anyone, would probably pick up on any weirdness in his response, but there's no way Rath can explain the current situation without revealing feelings he's not ready to discuss.
Great, he sends back. Sharing with Percy. Everything's totally normal and fine.
JP's response comes immediately: Sharing? That's unusual. You okay with that?
And that's the question, isn't it? Is Rath okay with this?
Because on one level, the rational professional level, it should be fine.
Percy is his captain, his teammate, someone he respects and works well with.
Sharing accommodations should be a minor inconvenience, not a source of existential crisis.
But on every other level, the levels that involve Rath's increasingly complicated feelings about Percy and that mysterious phone call and the way his heart races every time Percy looks at him with those dark, serious eyes—on those levels, Rath is definitely not okay.
Yeah, he texts back. All good. See you at the meeting.
The shower shuts off, and Rath quickly busies himself with checking his phone and reviewing the team schedule, anything to avoid thinking about Percy toweling off in the bathroom or what he might be wearing when he emerges.
When Percy does come out, he's fully dressed in his pre-meeting attire—charcoal dress pants and a crisp white button-down that somehow makes him look even more attractive than the casual clothes had.
His hair is slightly damp and he's flushed from the hot water, and the scent of his soap and shampoo fills the room in a way that makes Rath want to inhale deeply.
Percy moves around the room, gathering his wallet and room key, checking his phone for messages. He's put his reading glasses away and transformed back into Captain Percy, all business and professional competence.
"Ready?" Percy asks, checking his watch with the kind of precision that suggests they have exactly the right amount of time to get to the meeting without being early or late.
"Yeah," Rath says, grabbing his room key and following Percy toward the door.
As they walk down the hallway together, Rath catches their reflection in the mirrored wall and is struck by how they look—like two people who belong together, who are comfortable in each other's space.
It's an illusion, obviously, but for just a moment Rath allows himself to imagine what it would be like if it were real.
The elevator ride is quiet, both of them lost in their own thoughts, but Rath is hyperaware of Percy's presence beside him. The subtle scent of his cologne, the way he stands with perfect posture even in casual moments, the quiet confidence he projects without effort.
"Rath," Percy says as they reach the lobby, and the use of his first name makes Rath's attention snap to him immediately.
"Yeah?"
Percy hesitates for a moment, like he's trying to figure out how to say something. When he speaks, his voice is careful, measured in the way it gets when he's dealing with something potentially complicated.
"If the room situation is too weird, I can figure something else out. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
The concern in Percy's voice makes Rath's chest warm with something dangerously close to affection.
Even when they're navigating awkward logistics, Percy is thinking about Rath's comfort, making sure he feels okay about the situation.
It's the kind of consideration that makes Percy such a good captain, but it also makes Rath's feelings for him that much more complicated.
Still, he wants so much to know what Percy's thinking. Does he remember that phone call the way Rath does? Is he regretting it, or does he want it to happen again? The uncertainty is killing Rath, especially now that they're going to be sharing a bed.
"It's fine," Rath says, even though he's not sure if he means it. "We're teammates. It's not a big deal."
The lie tastes bitter in his mouth, because it is a big deal. Everything about this situation is a big deal when Percy has heard him fall apart over the phone, when Rath knows exactly how Percy sounds when he comes.
Percy nods, but his eyes search Rath's face like he's looking for signs of dishonesty. There's something in his expression—heat, maybe, or recognition—that makes Rath think Percy is remembering that phone call too.
"Okay. But if that changes..."
"It won't," Rath says with more confidence than he feels, even as part of him hopes desperately that it will.
As they join the rest of the team for the meeting, Rath tries to focus on hockey—game plans and line combinations and all the professional reasons they're here.
But part of his mind keeps drifting back to the hotel room waiting upstairs, to the bed they're going to share, to the next three days of navigating this new level of proximity with Percy.
The team meeting is held in one of the hotel's conference rooms, and Coach Reeves runs through tomorrow's game plan with his usual intensity. Rath sits in his usual spot and takes notes on his phone, but he finds himself distracted by Percy's presence a few seats away.
Percy in meeting mode is something to behold—completely focused, asking thoughtful questions, taking detailed notes in his precise handwriting.
He's wearing his serious captain face, the one that makes him look older and more authoritative, and Rath finds himself stealing glances when he should be paying attention to defensive zone coverage.
After the meeting, they have dinner with the team at the hotel restaurant, and Rath manages to maintain normal conversation with JP and Carey and some of the other guys.
But he's aware of Percy at the other end of the table, contributing to conversations about tomorrow's opponent and laughing at someone's story about their last road trip to San Jose.
It's normal, professional team bonding, the kind of dinner they have on every road trip. But Rath feels like there's a current of electricity running under his skin, making him hyperaware of every moment when Percy looks in his direction or laughs at something someone says.
When dinner finally ends and they're heading back to their rooms, Rath's stomach starts churning with anticipation and anxiety. The next few hours—getting ready for bed, actually going to sleep, waking up in the same space—feel like uncharted territory.
"I usually read for a while before bed," Percy says as they walk toward the elevators. "That okay with you? I can use the lamp on my side, keep it pretty dim."
It's a considerate question, the kind of roommate courtesy that shows Percy's thinking about Rath's comfort and sleep schedule. But it also means Percy's going to be in bed, next to Rath, reading and relaxed and probably looking like something out of Rath's increasingly inappropriate dreams.
"That's fine," Rath manages. "I'm usually pretty tired after travel days anyway."
When they get back to the room, they move around each other with careful politeness—Percy gathering his toiletries for his nighttime routine, Rath checking his phone for messages and setting up his chargers.
It feels almost choreographed, this careful dance of two people trying to coexist in an intimate space without acknowledging the intimacy or the fact that they've heard each other come.
Rath changes into his sleep clothes in the bathroom—boxer shorts and a t-shirt that he hopes strikes the right balance between comfortable and not too revealing.
When he emerges, Percy's already in bed, propped up against the pillows with his book and reading glasses, wearing pajama pants and a tank top that shows off his arms and shoulders in a way that makes Rath's mouth go dry.
It's the same kind of casual sleepwear Percy probably wears every night, but seeing him like this—relaxed and domestic and barely dressed—brings back vivid memories of that phone call.
Of Percy's voice rough with arousal, of the things he'd said he wanted to do, of how he'd sounded when he came with Rath's name on his lips.
The bed is big enough that they're not touching when Rath slides under the covers on his side, but he can feel the warmth radiating from Percy's body, can hear the quiet sound of pages turning and Percy's steady breathing.
It's torture, being this close to Percy after what they shared, not knowing if Percy wants it to happen again or if he's regretting it completely.
"Light okay?" Percy asks quietly, and his voice has that same rough edge it had during the phone call, making Rath wonder if Percy's thinking about it too.
"Yeah," Rath says, his own voice strained. "It's fine."
But it's not fine, not really. Because Percy is right there, solid and warm and barely clothed, and Rath can smell his toothpaste and the faint scent of his soap, and every small sound—the rustle of pages, the adjustment of pillows, the quiet sigh when Percy finds a comfortable position—seems amplified in the intimate darkness of the room.
And underneath it all is the memory of Percy's voice in his ear, rough and wanting, and the knowledge that Percy has heard him at his most vulnerable, has guided him through one of the most intense sexual experiences of his life.
It's going to be the longest road trip of his life.