Page 36 of Speak in Fever

P ercy is running late to team breakfast, which isn't like him.

Captains are supposed to set an example, show up early, make sure everyone is accounted for.

It's part of the unspoken contract he's signed when they gave him the 'C' - be the steady one, the reliable one, the guy everyone can count on to keep his head on straight even when the season gets rough.

But he gets distracted that morning - specifically by Rath looking so thoroughly wrecked in his bed that Percy spends an extra twenty minutes just watching him sleep.

The younger player is sprawled across Percy's hotel bed like he owns it, dark hair tousled against the white pillows, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.

There is something almost vulnerable about the way Rath sleeps, completely unguarded in a way he never is when awake.

Percy finds himself memorizing the slope of his shoulders, the way the morning light from the window catches on the scattered marks Percy has left across his skin.

He only tears himself away when his phone buzzes with a text from their coach, a pointed reminder about the team meeting over breakfast. Even then, Percy lingers for another moment, fighting the ridiculous urge to climb back into bed and wake Rath up properly.

Now, jogging into the hotel restaurant where the team always gathers before game days, Percy spots the guys at their usual cluster of tables and feels that familiar surge of responsibility.

Good, almost everyone is here, everyone looks focused and ready for another day of traveling.

The energy is good - loose but not sloppy, the kind of controlled relaxation that comes after a solid win the night before.

Percy mentally counts heads as he approaches, cataloguing who is missing and making a note to check on them later.

He sits at an empty spot between Torres and JP, reaching for one of the heavy ceramic mugs stacked near the center of the table.

The coffee is hotel restaurant coffee - which is to say, barely drinkable - but it's hot and caffeinated, and that's all that matters at seven in the morning.

He pours himself a cup from the carafe sitting on the table, inhaling the bitter steam and letting it wake him up properly.

Terrible is telling everyone about some blonde in six inch heels who danced with him for an hour and then left him for a guy at the bar, gesturing wildly with his fork as he recounts his tale of romantic failure.

His theatrical despair is getting laughs from the table, and Torres is adding his own commentary about Terrible's complete lack of game.

The general atmosphere is good - exactly the kind of easy camaraderie that makes this team work both on and off the ice.

Percy finds himself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of team breakfast, the casual chirping and storytelling that happens every morning on the road.

This is the part of being captain he actually enjoys - not the media interviews or the pressure, but these quiet moments where he can just be one of the guys, listening to Terrible's disasters and Harley's increasingly elaborate theories about what makes people attractive.

He's not expecting much to change when he sees Rath walk around the corner out of the corner of his eye, but maybe he should have realized that nothing is going to be that easy. Not after last night. Not after everything that has happened between them in the privacy of their hotel room.

Rath appears in the restaurant entrance looking like he always does in the mornings - slightly rumpled, hair damp from a recent shower, moving with that easy athletic grace that has caught Percy's attention from the moment the rookie joined the team.

He's wearing a navy blue hoodie that Percy recognizes as his own, though he doubts anyone else will notice.

The sight of Rath in his clothes sends an unexpected jolt of possessiveness through Percy's chest.

Rath sinks into an available chair directly across from Percy, close enough that Percy can smell his soap - something clean and simple that mixes with the lingering scent of Percy's own shampoo in his hair.

He looks good - better than someone has any right to look at this hour of the morning - and Percy has to make a conscious effort not to stare.

Rath has barely wrapped his hands around a coffee mug, long fingers curling around the ceramic for warmth, when the conversation at the table abruptly comes to a complete halt.

Not gradually, not a natural lull in the chatter - it cuts off abruptly, like someone has hit a mute button on the entire room.

Percy looks up from his own coffee, immediately alert to the shift in atmosphere.

The silence is sudden and complete, the kind that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

JP is staring with his mouth slightly open, a piece of toast forgotten halfway to his lips.

Terrible has frozen mid-bite, fork halfway to his mouth, syrup dripping slowly back onto his plate.

Even Raul looks stunned, and Raul is usually unflappable.

Percy follows their collective gaze and feels his stomach drop. Oh. Oh, fuck.

The hoodie that has looked perfectly innocent from behind is gaping slightly at the neck as Rath leans forward to reach for the coffee carafe.

And there, visible to everyone at the table, is a dark purple bruise blooming along his collarbone - unmistakably the shape and size of a mouth. Percy's mouth, to be specific.

"Platts," Harley says, sitting down his coffee with an expression of pure, delighted glee that makes Percy's blood run cold. "Is that a hickey?"

The question hangs in the air like a challenge.

Percy can feel his own face heating up, adrenaline spiking as if he's facing down an opposing team's power play.

Oh god, it is a hickey. Bruised right along his collarbone in the shape of Percy's own mouth, a perfect impression of teeth and lips that he's left there in a moment of complete loss of control.

The hoodie he's wearing is hiding a lot of other evidence of Percy's crime - Percy knows because he's catalogued every mark, every bite, every scratch he's left across Rath's skin in the heat of the moment.

But apparently not that one. Either Rath hadn't noticed it when he headed out of the room that morning, or more than likely, he hadn't cared.

There's something almost defiant about the way he sits there, not making any move to adjust his collar or cover the mark.

The silence stretches for another beat, thick with anticipation and barely suppressed amusement.

Percy can practically feel the collective held breath of his teammates.

Then Terrible starts laughing–not malicious laughter, but the delighted kind of laughter that bubbles up without permission, the kind that's impossible to stop once it starts.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Terrible announces with obvious glee, pointing his fork in Rath's direction like he's presenting evidence to a jury. "Someone has had a very good night at the club."

The comment breaks the dam, and suddenly everyone is talking at once, a chorus of wolf-whistles and congratulations that makes Percy want to sink through the floor.

Rath shoots Terrible a pointed look from across the table, one eyebrow raised in what might be a challenge, and Percy feels heat climb up the back of his neck like a visible sign of his guilt.

Still, there's something deeply satisfying about seeing his marks written across Rath's skin, even if he has to sit here and pretend he has no idea how they got there.

It's primitive and possessive in a way that should probably concern him, but Percy can't bring himself to regret it.

Not when Rath is sitting right there, wearing Percy's hoodie and Percy's marks, looking completely unashamed about either.

"Just celebrating a win," Rath says, taking a sip of his coffee with studied casualness, as if discussing the weather rather than the obvious evidence of his night's activities.

"I can see that," Raul observes mildly, his tone carefully neutral in the way that means he's filing this information away for later use. "Your mystery date certainly left her mark."

The pronoun hangs in the air like a lifeline, and Percy watches Rath's face carefully for his reaction.

They've never talked about how much Rath wants to share with the team, never discussed what this means or where they go from here.

Last night has been about wanting and taking and the desperate need to finally have what they've been dancing around for months.

Rath nearly chokes on his coffee at Raul's comment, coughing slightly as the liquid goes down wrong. Percy fights the urge to reach over and pat his back, settling instead for pushing the water pitcher closer to his end of the table.

"This is the best entertainment we've had all season," Harley declares, leaning back in his chair with the satisfied expression of someone who's just stumbled onto the gossip of the year. "Our baby rookie got himself thoroughly ravished by a mysterious club hookup."

"So give us details," Terrible demands, clearly settling in for a full interrogation, rubbing his hands together like he's preparing for a feast. "Scale of one to ten, how good was it?"

"Alright, alright," Percy says, falling back into captain mode before this gets anymore out of hand, using the voice that usually gets the guys to focus during practice. "Leave him alone. Man's entitled to his privacy."

"Thank you," Rath says with obvious relief, shooting Percy a grateful look that makes his chest warm in a completely different way.

"Besides," Percy continues with mock seriousness, fighting to keep his expression neutral even as his pulse picks up, "we need him functional for practice today. Can't have our winger too worn out to skate."

The comment earns laughter from the table, but Percy catches the way Rath's lips twitch with suppressed amusement at the double meaning.

It's a dangerous game they're playing, this careful dance of innuendo that only they understand.

Percy can see the challenge in Rath's eyes, the barely contained smile that threatens to give them both away.

"I think I can manage to keep up," Rath replies, and there's definitely a challenge in his voice now, low and warm with implications that make Percy's skin prickle with awareness.

The words send Percy's mind straight back to the night before, to Rath arching under his hands and demanding more, always more, until Percy has been the one struggling to keep up with his intensity.

"Good to hear," Percy says mildly, taking another sip of coffee and trying not to think about how Rath has definitely kept up with everything Percy has thrown at him last night, has matched him stroke for stroke until they're both shaking with exhaustion.

"This is so unfair," Terrible complains, throwing his hands up in exaggerated despair. "Rath gets mystery club hookups and the rest of us get nothing."

"Speak for yourself," Torres protests, straightening in his chair with wounded pride. "Some of us have game."

"Right, that's why you struck out with three different people last night," Harley points out, earning a chorus of "ooohs" from the rest of the table.

As the conversation devolves into good-natured arguing about everyone's lack of game, complete with detailed recountings of various romantic failures from the night before, Percy finds himself watching Rath with growing satisfaction.

The younger player is participating in the banter, laughing at Torres's increasingly defensive explanations and adding his own commentary to Terrible's theatrical despair.

He looks relaxed despite the obvious evidence of their night together written across his skin, comfortable in a way that makes Percy's chest feel tight with something he isn't ready to name.

This is what Percy has been afraid of - not the physical part, not the wanting that has been building between them for months, but this moment after.

The potential for awkwardness, for regret, for the easy team dynamic to shift into something uncomfortable and strange.

But watching Rath now, seeing him settle back into the familiar rhythm of team breakfast like nothing has changed, Percy feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Rath must sense his attention because he looks up, meeting Percy's gaze across the breakfast table over the rim of his coffee mug.

For just a moment, the rest of the team fades away - their laughter becoming distant white noise, the clatter of silverware and the hum of the restaurant disappearing entirely.

It's just the two of them sharing the secret of what has really happened last night, the memory of tangled sheets and whispered names and the desperate way they've reached for each other in the darkness.

Percy can see everything in Rath's eyes - the satisfaction, the challenge, the promise of more to come. It's reckless and dangerous and completely inappropriate for a public breakfast with their entire team, but Percy can't bring himself to look away.

Then Terrible is talking again, launching into another story about his romantic misadventures, and the moment breaks like a bubble bursting.

But Percy doesn't miss the small smile that plays at the corners of Rath's mouth as he turns his attention back to the conversation, or the way his fingers linger on the collar of Percy's hoodie like a secret message meant just for him.

Percy picks up his coffee again, hiding his own smile behind the ceramic rim.

Maybe this morning hasn't gone exactly as planned, but watching Rath sit there so confidently, wearing Percy's marks and Percy's clothes like they belong to him, Percy thinks he can get used to this particular kind of complication.

After all, the season is long, and they have plenty more hotel rooms ahead of them.