Page 45 of Speak in Fever
It hits him like a blindside check—sudden, devastating, and completely undeniable.
Percy is curled against his side, one arm thrown across Rath's chest, his breathing deep and even.
There's something vulnerable about the way Percy sleeps, his usual controlled composure replaced by soft relaxation, and the trust implicit in that vulnerability makes Rath's chest ache with the magnitude of what he's feeling.
This isn't just attraction anymore, or even the comfortable affection they've developed over months of being together.
This is the real thing—the kind of love that changes everything, that makes every decision revolve around another person's happiness, that feels big enough to reshape his entire world.
The problem is that Percy is probably going to break his heart.
Not intentionally, maybe not even consciously, but inevitably. Because as Rath lies there in the darkness, cataloguing all the ways Percy has been careful with him, he starts to see a pattern he'd been too caught up in the moment to notice before.
Percy never talks about the future. Never makes plans that extend beyond the next few weeks.
Never mentions Rath when discussing his off-season, his family visits, his long-term goals.
It's like Rath exists in a separate compartment of Percy's life—important enough to spend time with regularly, but not integrated into anything permanent.
And why would he be? Percy is twenty-eight, established, a team captain with endorsement deals and a carefully managed public image. Rath is twenty-one, still figuring out his place in the league, still young enough to make impulsive decisions that could derail a career.
From Percy's perspective, this is probably exactly what it appears to be: a fun, convenient arrangement with a teammate who's attractive and available and doesn't expect too much. Good sex, easy companionship, no strings attached.
The realization makes Rath feel sick.
He spends the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself he's overthinking things.
But every interaction they've had suddenly looks different through this lens.
Percy's consistent availability could just be horniness.
His thoughtful gestures could just be politeness.
His affection could just be fondness for a convenient fuck buddy who doesn't make demands.
By morning, Rath has worked himself into a state of quiet panic that he tries desperately to hide behind normal conversation and routine affection. Percy makes breakfast with his usual efficient precision, asks about Rath's plans for the day, kisses him goodbye before they leave for practice.
Everything exactly the same as always, except now Rath is hyperaware of everything Percy doesn't say, doesn't ask, doesn't suggest.
At practice, Rath finds himself studying Percy with new eyes, looking for signs of deeper investment that he's somehow missed. But Percy treats him with the same professional courtesy he shows everyone else, the same captain-ly attention to development and performance.
Nothing that suggests Rath is anything special. Nothing that suggests their relationship extends beyond convenient privacy.
The withdrawal starts small. When Percy suggests dinner at his place after practice, Rath claims he has plans with JP. When Percy texts about watching a movie together, Rath says he's tired and heads to his apartment instead.
"You sure you don't want to come over?" Percy asks after their second practice that week, his expression mildly confused by Rath's sudden unavailability. "I was going to make that pasta you like."
The casual offer—making food Rath enjoys, spending a quiet evening together—would have felt sweet a week ago. Now it just feels like Percy maintaining their convenient arrangement, keeping his regular hook-up satisfied and available.
"I've got some stuff to take care of at home," Rath lies, forcing a smile. "Rain check?"
Percy nods, but there's something uncertain in his expression, like he's trying to figure out what he's missing.
By the end of the week, Rath hasn't been to Percy's apartment once. Hasn't spent a night there, hasn't fallen asleep to Percy's steady breathing, hasn't woken up to coffee already brewing and breakfast appearing as if by magic.
He misses it desperately, which only confirms how screwed he is.
"You're being weird," Torres announces during Friday's practice, skating up beside Rath during a water break. "Like, weirder than usual. Which is saying something."
"I'm not being weird," Rath protests, though he knows Torres isn't wrong. He's been going through the motions all week, executing drills with mechanical precision but none of his usual flair or enthusiasm.
"You are absolutely being weird. You haven't chirped anyone in three days. You turned down team dinner yesterday. And you keep staring at Cap like he's personally offended you somehow."
Rath glances across the ice to where Percy is talking to Coach, noting the relaxed confidence in his posture, the easy authority he carries without effort. Even from this distance, Percy is magnetic in a way that makes Rath's chest ache with want and hopelessness in equal measure.
"I'm not staring," Rath mutters.
"Right," Torres says dryly. "What's going on? You and Cap have been off all week. Are you guys fighting again?"
Rath realizes Torres is right. Their on-ice connection, usually effortless, has been stilted and awkward all week. They're still technically proficient, but the telepathic understanding that makes them so effective has disappeared behind Rath's careful emotional distance.
"We're fine," Rath says weakly.
"You're not fine. Neither of you is fine. And it's affecting the whole team dynamic." Torres lowers his voice. "Whatever's going on between you two, figure it out.”
The rest of practice continues with the same forced normalcy, their usual chemistry replaced by professional competence that gets the job done but lacks any spark. Percy keeps glancing at Rath with growing confusion, clearly trying to figure out why their connection feels so strained.
In the locker room afterward, Rath changes quickly, hoping to escape before Percy can corner him for one of those concerned captain conversations that will only make everything worse. But as he's grabbing his bag, Percy appears beside his stall.
"Hey," Percy says quietly, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone trying not to spook a skittish animal. "Everything okay? You seem... distant lately."
Distant. Like Percy has noticed Rath pulling away but can't figure out why. Like their sudden lack of contact is confusing rather than hurtful.
"Just tired," Rath lies, shouldering his bag. "Long week."
"Maybe you should come over tonight," Percy suggests, and there's something almost tentative in his voice. "Get some decent sleep instead of whatever you've been doing at your place."
The offer is gentle, concerned, exactly the kind of care that made Rath fall for Percy in the first place. It would be so easy to say yes, to fall back into the comfortable routine of shared space and quiet intimacy.
But that would just make it harder when Percy eventually gets bored and moves on to someone more appropriate, more established, more worth keeping around long-term.
"I'm good," Rath says, heading toward the exit. "See you tomorrow."
He leaves before Percy can respond, missing the hurt confusion that flickers across his captain's face.
Saturday's practice is worse. Their timing is completely off, passes that should be automatic require extra effort, and the natural flow that usually makes their line shifts look effortless has disappeared entirely.
Coach calls them out twice for miscommunication, and Rath can see their teammates exchanging concerned looks.
"Killinger, Platts," Coach says during a break, his voice carrying the particular frustration of someone watching a well-oiled machine break down for no apparent reason. "Whatever's going on with your chemistry, figure it out. You're dragging down the entire power play unit."
The public criticism makes Rath's cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he just nods professionally and returns to the drill. The next attempt is marginally better, but still lacks the intuitive connection that usually makes them so dangerous together.
After practice, Rath is heading for his car when JP intercepts him in the parking lot.
"Okay, what the hell is going on?" JP asks without preamble.
"Nothing's going on," Rath says automatically, though he knows he sounds as miserable as he feels.
"Bullshit." JP crosses his arms, settling into an obviously immovable position. "What did he do?"
Rath stares at JP, recognizing the stubborn determination in his expression. JP has been his closest friend on the team since day one, the person who helped him navigate rookie year and team dynamics and the complicated politics of professional hockey.
The person who's also been watching his relationship with Percy develop, who's made encouraging comments about their connection, who probably has opinions about what's been happening between them.
"I'm in love with him," Rath says quietly, the words coming out before he can stop them.
JP's expression shifts from frustrated concern to understanding sympathy. "Ah, fuck. That's what this is about."
"Yeah." Rath leans against his car, suddenly feeling exhausted by the effort of pretending everything's fine. "And he's not."
"Not what?"
"In love with me. Not even close." Rath runs his hands through his hair, trying to organize thoughts that have been spinning out of control all week. "This whole thing, whatever we've been doing—it's just convenient for him. Good sex with a teammate who doesn't make demands or expect too much."
JP is quiet for a moment, studying Rath's face with the kind of focused attention that suggests he's processing something significant.