Page 48 of Speak in Fever

The comment makes Rath's stomach clench. Percy doesn't have a girlfriend anymore—hasn't had one since they started whatever it is they've been doing—but the implication is clear. Percy fought Warren because of Rath, and that's not the kind of thing captains typically do for just any teammate.

Rath watches Percy through the penalty box glass, sees him slumped forward with his head in his hands, probably realizing how stupid and impulsive his reaction was.

Fighting rarely accomplishes anything productive in hockey, and a captain fighting because his teammate got checked is the kind of emotional response that raises questions.

The team trainer finally makes it over during a stoppage in play, crouching beside Rath on the bench to do a quick assessment.

"Scale of one to ten?" he asks, probing gently along Rath's ribs.

"Four," Rath lies. It's more like a six, maybe a seven when he moves the wrong way, but he's not coming out of this game.

"Concussion protocol?"

"I'm fine. I landed on my ass, not my head."

The trainer doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's worked with hockey players long enough to know when to pick his battles. "If you feel dizzy or nauseous, you come off immediately."

"Got it."

Questions Rath doesn't want their teammates or coaching staff asking, especially not when he and Percy are supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries.

But the questions are coming anyway—he can see it in the sideways glances from his linemates, the way Coach Reeves keeps looking between the penalty box and the bench like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

But watching Percy's fury, seeing the protective instinct that overrode everything else including tactical sense and personal safety—Rath realizes he doesn't care about the questions.

He cares about the fact that Percy cares about him enough to lose his mind when Rath gets hurt, even when they're fighting, even when Rath has spent a week pushing him away.

The game continues around them, but Rath spends most of his shifts thinking about Percy in the penalty box, about the split lip and bloody jersey, about the way Percy had looked at him across the ice like nothing else mattered.

It's hard to focus on hockey when your captain is bleeding because of you, when every hit you've taken suddenly feels like it's Percy's responsibility somehow.

His line gets hemmed in their own zone for nearly thirty seconds, and Rath makes a defensive play that sends fire through his ribs. He doubles over slightly, trying to catch his breath, and immediately hears Coach Reeves shouting his name.

"You're done for the shift, Platts. Get off the ice."

Rath wants to argue, but he's genuinely seeing stars, and arguing with coaches when you're potentially concussed is a losing battle. He changes on the fly, grateful for the chance to sit down and regroup.

When Percy returns from the penalty box after serving his seven minutes, he takes his next shift with the kind of focused intensity that suggests he's trying to channel his emotional energy into productive hockey.

He doesn't look at Rath directly, but Rath catches him checking his peripheral vision every few seconds, like he needs constant confirmation that Rath is okay.

Percy plays like a man possessed for the rest of the game. He throws his body around with reckless abandon, finishes every check, and generally plays like someone trying to single-handedly win a hockey game through sheer force of will. It's impressive and slightly terrifying to watch.

In the third period, Percy draws a penalty when he absolutely demolishes a Colorado forward with a perfectly legal but utterly devastating open-ice hit. The crowd loves it, but Rath can see that Percy is still running on emotion, still playing angry.

They win the game 3-1, a solid team effort that should feel satisfying.

Percy gets an assist on the game-winning goal, a beautiful feed to JP that showcases exactly why he wears the 'C'.

But instead of celebrating, Rath spends the post-game festivities thinking about how Percy's knuckles looked split and swollen when he'd removed his gloves in the penalty box.

The locker room afterward is subdued, everyone aware of the tension between their captain and their winger without knowing exactly how to address it.

There's the usual post-game chatter, guys rehashing plays and talking about where they're going for dinner, but it's muted somehow.

Percy changes quietly in his stall, his lip visibly swollen and a bruise forming along his jaw where Warren had landed a particularly good shot.

"Cap, you might want to get that cut looked at," the trainer suggests, nodding toward the gash above Percy's eyebrow.

"It's fine," Percy mumbles, though he's having trouble talking clearly with his swollen lip.

"It might need stitches."

"I said it's fine."

The trainer backs off, recognizing the tone, but Rath can see that the cut is still seeping blood. Percy is going to have a scar there, probably a permanent one, and it's going to be Rath's fault.

Most of the team filters out gradually, heading to the bus or to meet family members who made the trip.

Colorado isn't that far from home, so there's a decent contingent of supporters who came to watch.

Rath can hear voices and laughter in the hallway outside the locker room, the sound of a successful road trip.

Rath waits until most of the team has cleared out, then approaches Percy's stall. His ribs protest the movement, but he grits his teeth and ignores the pain.

"Your lip looks like shit," he says, settling beside Percy on the bench. Up close, the damage is even worse than he thought. Percy's going to be explaining these injuries for weeks.

"Thanks for the update," Percy replies dryly, not looking up from unlacing his skates. His voice is slightly muffled by the swelling, and Rath can see that talking hurts.

"You fought Warren for me."

Percy's hands still on his laces, and for a moment Rath thinks he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with something that might be embarrassment.

"I saw you go down and I just... reacted." Percy looks up, meeting Rath's eyes directly for the first time in two days. "I know it was stupid. I know it was exactly the kind of emotional response that I'm not supposed to have."

"Percy—"

"I couldn't help it," Percy continues, his voice getting quieter. "I can't watch someone hurt you and not react."

The honesty in Percy's voice makes Rath's chest tight with emotion and regret. This is what he's been wanting to hear for weeks—proof that Percy cares about him, that their relationship means something more than just convenience and physical attraction.

"I'm sorry," Rath says, the words coming out more intense than he intended. "About this week. About the parking lot. About pushing you away when all I really wanted was to know that you cared about me the way I care about you. I got scared."

Percy looks taken aback, his swollen features shifting into something like surprise. "Scared?"

The question is fair, and Rath recognizes that he's going to have to be completely honest if he wants to fix this. No more assumptions, no more reading between lines that might not exist.

"I'm in love with you," he says, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the way Percy's expression goes very still. "And I couldn't take you not feeling the same way. I thought it was better to end things before you had to let me down easy."

Percy goes completely motionless, his attention entirely focused on Rath's words. Even his breathing seems to pause.

"I thought this was just a casual thing for you," Rath continues, needing to get all of it out before he loses his nerve. "Something fun but not serious. I can't do that. I thought I could, but I can't. But then you got your ass kicked defending me, and I thought that maybe..."

Percy's expression softens, some of the hurt from the past few days easing from his features. "I'm not good at this, Rath. Relationships, feelings, saying the right things at the right time. In fact, I'm really bad at it. And I'm not used to being bad at something."

"Maybe I'm not great at it either," Rath admits, reaching out tentatively to cover Percy's bruised knuckles with his hand. Percy's skin is warm and slightly sticky with dried blood, but he doesn't pull away. "Maybe I'm better at jumping to conclusions and creating problems where they don't exist."

Percy's laugh is surprised and slightly pained because of his split lip, but genuine. "Maybe it would be better for me to tell you what I'm thinking rather than flying off the handle because someone checked you."

"Maybe," Rath agrees, then leans closer, careful not to jostle Percy's injuries. "But it was pretty hot, watching you defend my honor like that."

"Rath—" Percy starts, but there's something fond in his voice now, something that sounds like relief.

"I mean, you got completely destroyed, but the thought was romantic," Rath continues, grinning despite the pain in his ribs.

Percy's expression grows serious again, and he turns his hand under Rath's so they're palm to palm. "You mean a lot to me," he says quietly. "I'm not good at saying it, but I mean it."

Rath feels something tight in his chest finally relax, weeks of panic and fear dissolving in the face of Percy's certainty. He leans forward and kisses Percy gently, careful of his split lip, and after a week of not touching him it feels like coming home.

Percy makes a small sound of pain against Rath's mouth, but he doesn't pull away. When they finally separate, Percy is looking at him with an expression of wonder, like he can't quite believe this is happening.

"We should probably get you to a hospital," Rath says, touching the cut above Percy's eyebrow with gentle fingers. "This definitely needs stitches."

"It can wait."

"Percy."

"Five more minutes," Percy says, pulling Rath closer despite the protests from his various injuries. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

They sit together in the mostly empty locker room, Percy's arm around Rath's shoulders, both of them battered and sore but finally, finally on the same page. Outside, they can hear the team loading equipment onto the bus, voices calling back and forth about departure times and dinner plans.

As they finally finish getting dressed and head out to the team bus, Rath feels lighter than he has in days.

Percy keeps one hand on Rath's back as they walk through the arena corridors, a gentle but possessive touch that makes it clear to anyone watching that something has changed between them.

When they reach the bus, their teammates look up with obvious curiosity, taking in Percy's battered face and the way he and Rath are walking close together.

"Nice fight, Cap," Torres calls out, and there's a chorus of agreement from the rest of the team.

"Thanks," Percy says, settling into the seat beside Rath instead of his usual spot near the front. "Totally worth it."

Rath leans against Percy's shoulder as the bus pulls away from the arena, careful of his captain's injuries but needing the contact.

Through the window, he can see the lights of the city passing by, but for the first time in weeks, he's not looking toward the next destination. He's exactly where he wants to be.