Page 6 of Speak in Fever
Standing this close, Percy is even bigger and broader than he is in Rath's imagination.
Rath has to look up to meet his captain's gaze, and he has the completely inappropriate thought about what it would feel like to be pressed up against all of that solid muscle.
He's seen Percy lifting weights in the gym during the summer, knows he can bench three hundred easy, and the thought makes heat pool in Rath's stomach in a way that's absolutely not appropriate for the middle of hockey practice.
Still, he shakes the thought off and tilts his chin up defiantly. "Maybe your assignments aren't as smart as you think they are."
Percy's eyes flash with something dangerous, and for a moment Rath thinks he might actually get a real reaction out of him.
Percy's control is legendary—Rath has never seen him lose his temper, never seen him let emotion override his judgment.
But right now there's fire in his dark eyes that makes Rath's skin feel too tight.
Instead of exploding, Percy's voice drops even lower, almost a growl. "Maybe you need to learn some respect."
The words send an unexpected jolt of heat straight down Rath's spine, and he has to bite back the completely inappropriate and immediate response to tell his captain he'll get on his knees if he wants to teach him a lesson.
The thought hits him so suddenly and vividly that he almost chokes on his own tongue, and he's grateful for the cold air that keeps his blush from being too obvious.
That would probably not do a lot for their working professional relationship.
Instead, he settles for his sharpest smile. "Respect is earned, Captain. Not demanded."
Before Percy can respond, Coach's whistle cuts through the tension like a blade, calling them to center ice for the next drill. Rath skates away with his heart hammering against his ribs, hyperaware of Percy's eyes on his back and the lingering heat from their confrontation.
The power play rotation drill is supposed to be simple—work on spacing, timing, getting the puck to the right spots for scoring chances.
But having Percy as his center means every play becomes a battle of wills disguised as hockey strategy.
Percy runs the power play like a conductor leading an orchestra, calling out adjustments and positioning with the kind of authority that makes even veteran players listen.
But Rath has his own ideas about how power plays should work, his own instincts about where to find space and create opportunities. The clash between Percy's systematic approach and Rath's improvisational style creates a tension that everyone on the ice can feel.
"Platts, you're drifting too high," Percy calls during a break in the action, skating over with that purposeful stride that suggests he's about to deliver another lecture. "Stay down low, work the half wall."
Rath glides over, close enough that he again has to look up to meet Percy's eyes. At this distance he can see the slight sheen of sweat on Percy's forehead, and can notice the way his chest rises and falls with controlled breathing.
"I was creating space. Drawing the penalty killer out of position," Rath explains.
"You were abandoning your assignment."
"I was adapting to what the defense was giving me." Rath keeps his voice level, but he can feel frustration building in his chest. "Isn't that what good players do?"
Percy's expression is unreadable, those dark eyes studying Rath like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Good players trust their teammates to do their jobs."
"Hard to trust teammates who don't trust you back."
Percy's face tightens, and Rath wonders if he's pushed too far this time.
"Places!" Coach yells, breaking the moment and sending players scrambling back to their positions.
They run the drill again, and this time Rath makes a point of staying exactly where Percy wants him.
When the pass comes, he's in perfect position at the half wall, and he feeds it back to Percy with crisp precision that shows off every hour he spent working on his passing over the summer.
Percy's one-timer finds the top corner with authority, and Rath allows himself a small smile at the surprised approval in his captain's eyes.
"Better," Percy says as they reset for the next rep, and the single word of praise does embarrassing things to Rath's chest. It shouldn't matter so much—he's a professional athlete, not some junior player desperate for validation—but Percy's approval has always felt harder to earn than anyone else's.
But on the third run-through, Rath sees an opening that Percy doesn't—a gap in the penalty kill formation that's begging to be exploited.
The defenseman has cheated too far toward the goal line, leaving space at the top of the circle that a quick player could attack.
Rath drifts just slightly from his assigned position, calls for the puck with a sharp whistle, and when it comes, he's already moving toward the net.
The shot is one of his better ones and it beats Harley clean to the top corner. Rath raises his stick in celebration, the familiar rush of scoring flooding his system with endorphins and satisfaction, before turning to see Percy's reaction.
The captain is staring at him with an expression Rath can't quite read—frustration, admiration, and something else that makes Rath's skin feel too tight.
There's intensity in Percy's gaze that goes beyond simple evaluation of a hockey play, something personal that makes Rath's breath catch in his throat.
Then Coach is calling for the next group, and the moment shatters like ice under pressure.
Rath skates back to the line, aware of Percy's eyes still on him.
When he glances over, Percy is already talking to Coach about something, gesturing toward the power play setup, but the tips of his ears are red above his helmet, and Rath allows himself a moment of satisfaction.
At least he's not the only one affected by whatever this is between them.
The rest of the drill passes in a haze of structured plays and creative adjustments. But Rath notices the way Percy adapts to his movements too, making subtle adjustments that create space for Rath's instinctive reads while still maintaining the overall structure of the system.
It's a kind of compromise that Percy doesn't offer to many players, and Rath files that observation away with all the other contradictions that make up his captain.
Later, during a water break, Rath finds himself at the bench next to JP, who's watching Percy run through plays with the first line.
Jean Paul Gagnon has been in the league for eight years, long enough to understand the politics and personalities that drive professional hockey, and he's always been good at reading situations that others miss.
"You know," JP says conversationally, squirting water into his mouth from his bottle, "I've never seen anyone get under his skin like you do."
Rath lowers his water bottle, trying to keep his expression neutral. "What do you mean?"
"Cap. You make him crazy." JP's grin is easy, the kind of knowing smile that suggests he sees more than he lets on. "In a good way, I think. Guy's been wound tight as a drum since he got the C. Nice to see someone shake him up a little."
The comment makes something flutter in Rath's chest that he tries to ignore. "I'm not trying to shake him up," Rath lies, because the truth is that getting reactions out of Percy has become something of an obsession. "I'm just trying to do my job."
"Uh-huh." JP's skepticism is evident in every syllable. "That why you keep staring at his ass during stretches?"
Heat floods Rath's cheeks so fast he probably looks like a traffic light. "I do not—"
"You're not exactly subtle with the way you rile him up," JP continues, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You've got his number, that's for sure."
"Can we not talk about this?" Rath hisses, glancing around to make sure no one else is listening. The last thing he needs is for the entire team to know about his embarrassing crush on their captain. "Percy can't stand me."
"Right. That's why he specifically requested you be moved to second line."
The words hit Rath like right in the chest, and he sets back with a jolt. "What?"
"You didn't hear it from me," JP says, glancing around to make sure no one's listening. His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "But Coach mentioned Percy put in a word about your ice time. Said you were ready for more responsibility."
It feels like someone has just pulled the bench out from under him. Percy requested his promotion? The same Percy who spent yesterday's practice criticizing every creative play he made? The same Percy who seems to take personal offense at Rath's very existence?
Rath's mind races, trying to process this new information.
All day he'd assumed his second line assignment was based purely on performance, on Coach recognizing his potential and deciding to give him more opportunity.
The idea that Percy might have advocated for him, might have seen something in his game worth promoting, turns everything upside down.
"Why would he do that?" Rath asks, his voice coming out smaller than he intends.
JP shrugs. "Maybe he sees something in you that you don't see in yourself. Percy's a good captain, Rath. He wants what's best for the team, even when it means swallowing his pride."
Before Rath can respond, Percy skates over to the bench, his presence immediately shifting the dynamic.
There's something about the way he carries himself—confident but not arrogant, authoritative without being overbearing—that commands attention.
Even when he's just gliding across the ice, there's a grace to his movement that speaks to years of elite-level training.