Page 32 of Speak in Fever
R ath is having the best night he's had in months.
The game had been perfect—two goals, chemistry with Percy that felt almost telepathic, the kind of performance that makes coaches and teammates take notice.
His confidence is riding high, boosted by Percy's assists and the way their captain had looked at him after each goal like Rath was doing something extraordinary.
Every time he replays those moments—the perfect passes, the way he and Percy seemed to anticipate each other's movements, the satisfaction in Percy's eyes when their plays worked exactly as intended—Rath feels a warm surge of pride mixed with something deeper and more complicated.
It's not just that he played well tonight.
It's that he played well with Percy, that their connection translated so seamlessly from whatever's been building between them off the ice to pure hockey instinct.
Coach's praise after the game had been specific and meaningful: "That's the kind of offensive awareness we need, Platts.
Keep building on that chemistry." The words had felt like validation for more than just his hockey skills, like recognition that he and Percy work together in ways that go beyond standard line combinations.
Now they're at some upscale club in downtown San Jose, the team scattered across a VIP section that Torres somehow convinced management to reserve for them. The venue is exactly what Rath would expect from Torres—stylish without being pretentious, expensive without being stuffy.
The VIP area gives them enough space to celebrate without being constantly approached by fans or media, but it's positioned so they can see the main floor and dance area.
The music is good, the drinks are flowing, and Rath feels loose and happy in a way that has nothing to do with the way Percy keeps watching him from across the room.
Okay, maybe it has a little to do with that.
Every time Rath glances toward the booth where Percy has established himself with a beer and what appears to be determined people-watching, he finds Percy's attention already on him.
Not obvious staring, not the kind of focus that would attract notice from their teammates, but consistent awareness that makes Rath hyperconscious of his own movements and expressions.
It's confusing, and he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't know what to do with Percy.
The morning in their shared hotel room feels like it happened weeks ago instead of hours.
The memory of waking up in Percy's arms, of the careful way Percy had touched him, of the quiet admission that they both wanted something more—all of it seems surreal now, like something that happened to someone else.
But Percy's continued attention suggests it wasn't just a dream or a moment of temporary insanity.
There's intent behind the way Percy watches him, calculation that goes beyond casual team bonding or professional interest. Rath just doesn't know what Percy plans to do with that intent, or what he expects Rath to do with the knowledge that Percy is watching.
"Two goals, baby!" Torres shouts over the music, throwing his arm around Rath's shoulders in celebration. His enthusiasm is infectious, the kind of genuine excitement that makes team victories feel personal. "That's what I'm talking about!"
Rath grins and accepts the congratulatory contact, letting himself feel proud of the performance.
This is what he's worked for—not just the goals, but the recognition, the sense that he's finally found his place in the team dynamic.
Torres's celebration feels like acceptance, like confirmation that Rath has earned his spot through performance rather than just potential.
"You were feeling it out there," Torres continues, gesturing expansively with his drink. "That second goal? Pure instinct. You didn't even look, just knew where the net was."
The praise is accurate and appreciated. Rath had felt that moment of pure hockey flow, when conscious thought disappears and muscle memory takes over. It's the feeling every player chases—complete integration of skill, timing, and opportunity that results in something beautiful.
"Captain set you up perfectly," Terrible adds, appearing at Rath's other side with a drink that's definitely stronger than beer. His timing suggests he's been listening to the conversation, waiting for an opportunity to contribute his own analysis. "You two were great out there."
The comment makes Rath's pulse spike slightly, wondering if Terrible has noticed something beyond normal line chemistry. But his teammate's expression remains casual, focused on hockey rather than interpersonal dynamics.
Rath glances toward the booth where Percy is sitting, nursing what looks like his second beer of the night and watching the team celebrate with the kind of quiet satisfaction that Rath has learned to recognize as Percy's version of happiness.
When their eyes meet, Percy lifts his beer slightly in acknowledgment, and Rath feels warmth spread through his chest that has nothing to do with alcohol.
Percy's smile is subtle but genuine, the kind of expression reserved for moments when he thinks no one is paying attention.
It transforms his face completely, softening the serious lines that captaincy has carved into his features and revealing glimpses of the person he might be when he's not responsible for everyone else's success.
"Seriously though," Torres continues, his voice taking on the philosophical tone that alcohol sometimes brings out in him, "chemistry like that doesn't happen overnight. Takes trust."
Trust. The word resonates with Rath in ways Torres probably didn't intend. Trust on the ice, trust in each other's abilities and decisions, but also trust in the growing connection between them that extends beyond hockey systems and tactical preparation.
The music shifts to something more danceable, and several of his teammates migrate toward the dance floor with the enthusiasm of athletes who spend most of their time focused on structured physical activity.
Dancing represents freedom, expression without tactical requirements or performance pressure.
Rath follows, partly because he's feeling good and partly because dancing gives him something to do with all the restless energy that's been building since their hotel room situation started.
The post-game adrenaline hasn't fully faded, combining with alcohol and social energy to create a need for movement, for physical expression of internal satisfaction.
He's not trying to put on a show or attract attention—just moving to the music, letting his body work through the adrenaline and satisfaction of a game well played. But he's aware of Percy watching from the booth, and there's something thrilling about being the focus of that intense attention.
The dance floor gives Rath space to lose himself in movement while remaining connected to his teammates' celebration.
Torres attempts moves that look like they were choreographed in the 1990s, while several younger players show off skills that suggest they've spent more time in clubs than they probably admit to coaches.
Rath finds his own rhythm somewhere between Torres's enthusiasm and the younger players' technique.
Dancing has always come naturally to him—balance and spatial awareness transferring from hockey to music without conscious effort.
Tonight, with confidence high and inhibitions lowered, he lets his body express the satisfaction and joy he's feeling.
But part of his awareness remains focused on Percy, on the way his captain's attention never wavers from the dance floor. Every time Rath glances toward the VIP section, Percy's gaze is there, intense and unreadable but unmistakably focused.
The attention is both thrilling and frustrating.
Thrilling because it suggests Percy's interest goes beyond professional courtesy, that whatever happened between them this morning has created lasting awareness.
Frustrating because Percy's restraint, his determination to maintain appropriate distance in public, leaves Rath guessing about intentions and next steps.
After twenty minutes of dancing, Rath returns to the VIP area for water and a brief break from the crowd.
The music and energy are exhilarating, but he needs a moment to process the evening's events and figure out how to navigate the complicated dynamics between celebration, team bonding, and his growing attraction to Percy.
That's when she approaches.
Rath watches from his position near the bar as an attractive woman in her early twenties makes her way toward their VIP section with obvious purpose.
She's professionally styled, confident—exactly the kind of person who would feel comfortable approaching a table full of professional athletes.
Her dress is expensive, her makeup is perfect, and her body language suggests someone accustomed to getting positive responses from men.
She walks straight to Percy.
Rath's stomach drops as he watches Percy look up from his beer, clearly surprised by the intrusion. Percy's body language immediately shifts into polite-but-distant mode—the practiced courtesy of someone who's learned to handle unwanted attention without being rude.
From across the VIP section, Rath can't hear the conversation, but he can read the dynamic clearly enough.
The woman leans in close, invading Percy's personal space with the confidence of someone who expects to be welcomed.
Her hand settles on Percy's forearm as she speaks, a casual touch that claims familiarity she hasn't earned.
Percy doesn't pull away immediately, but his posture becomes more rigid, more careful. He responds to whatever she's saying with polite attention, but there's distance in his expression that suggests professional courtesy rather than genuine interest.