Page 7 of Speak in Fever
"Gagnon, you're up for the next drill," Percy says. Then his eyes find Rath's, and there's something intense there that makes Rath's breath catch. "Platts—good work on that last power play. Keep finding those soft spots."
The praise shouldn't make Rath feel like he's glowing from the inside out, but it does. Percy doesn't give compliments easily, doesn't offer encouragement unless it's earned, and hearing approval in that carefully controlled voice makes something warm and satisfied spread through Rath's chest.
He knows his neck is probably bright red, and can feel the heat creeping up from his collar, but he manages to keep his voice steady. "Thanks, Cap."
Percy nods curtly and skates away, leaving Rath staring after him with his heart doing stupid things in his chest. The brief interaction replays in his mind—the way Percy had looked at him, the genuine approval in his voice, the moment of connection that felt different from their usual antagonistic exchanges.
"Yeah," JP says, his voice rich with amusement. "He obviously can't stand you."
The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and scrimmages, but Rath feels like his entire world has shifted off its axis.
He's always been aware of Percy's presence on the ice—the captain commands attention just by existing—but suddenly he can't look away.
Every time their captain calls his name, every brief moment of approval, every glimpse of the person underneath the professional facade suddenly feels completely different.
Everything feels charged and electric in a way that makes Rath's skin buzz with nervous energy.
During a battle drill in the corners, Rath finds himself paired against Raul Sortego, one of the veteran defensemen who's built like a freight train and hits like one too.
The drill is simple—fight for puck possession in the corner, try to work it out to a supporting player.
But when Raul pins him against the boards, applying two hundred pounds of pressure that makes Rath's ribs creak in protest, it's Percy's voice that cuts through the chaos.
"Good battle, Platts! Keep your feet moving!"
The encouragement gives Rath the extra push he needs to slip out of Raul's grasp and work the puck free, feeding it to Torres for a clean scoring chance. When he skates past Percy on the way back to the line, their captain gives him a brief nod of approval that makes Rath's chest swell with pride.
It's such a small thing, but coming from Percy it feels monumental. Rath has spent so much time thinking that Percy sees him as a problem to be managed rather than an asset to be developed, and these tiny moments of recognition feel like glimpses of something different.
By the time Coach runs them through a full scrimmage at the end of practice, Rath is playing some of the best hockey of his life.
Every pass is crisp, every shot is placed with precision, and he moves through traffic with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you belong.
When he scores twice in the scrimmage—once on a beautiful individual effort, once on a perfect feed from Torres—he can't help but look toward Percy for approval.
Both times, Percy is watching. Both times, there's something in his expression that looks almost like pride.
By the time they're finally heading to the locker room, sweaty and sore and buzzing with the particular satisfaction that comes from good hockey, Rath's head is spinning with JP's revelation about Percy requesting his promotion.
In the short and sweet it changes absolutely nothing: Percy still rides him harder than anyone else on the team, still questions every creative play he makes, and still looks at him like he's something he doesn't understand.
But, on the other hand, it changes everything, right? Because it means Percy sees something in him; it means Percy believes in him.
The locker room is loud with post-practice energy, players rehashing plays and planning their evening activities. Rath sits at his stall and methodically removes his equipment, but his attention keeps drifting across the room to where Percy is having a quiet conversation with Coach near the door.
"Earth to Platts," Torres says, snapping his fingers in front of Rath's face. "You in there?"
Rath blinks, realizing he's been staring at Percy while holding the same shin pad for the past five minutes. "Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."
"About what? You look like Christmas came early."
"Nothing important," Rath mumbles, finally removing the shin pad and tossing it into his equipment bag.
But that's not true. It feels incredibly important, this new piece of the Percy puzzle that JP has given him.
Because if Percy really did advocate for his promotion, if he really does see potential that's worth developing, then maybe all of their antagonistic exchanges mean something different than Rath thought.
Maybe Percy's criticism isn't dismissal—maybe it's investment. Maybe the reason Percy rides him harder than anyone else is because he expects more from him, believes he's capable of more. The possibility makes something hopeful and terrifying unfurl in Rath's chest.