Page 8 of Speak in Fever
H ere's the thing: Percy isn't gay.
There's nothing wrong with being bisexual, except that he's in the NHL and it's just not something that happens.
There are no "out" players. He definitely knows of guys who are into guys, and not all of them are exactly subtle about their preferences, but it's not something they announce to the media.
He doesn't know what would happen if someone came out, but he has to assume it would be bad, because otherwise why wouldn't someone have done it so far?
Sports in general is not a super accepting space for that kind of thing, so it makes sense that it's something that's kept under wraps.
Percy remembers being nineteen, drunk on cheap beer and victory after winning the Memorial Cup, when he'd let his teammate kiss him in the back of some dive bar in Windsor. It had been impulsive, hungry, and absolutely terrifying in the best possible way. But then he’d had been drafted to the AHL, and they'd never talked about it again.
Percy had convinced himself it was just adrenaline, just the high of winning, just experimentation that didn't mean anything.
Except it had meant something, at least to him.
And then there had been others—not many, not often, but enough that Percy couldn't pretend it was just a phase.
A defenseman in his second year who'd cornered him in a hotel elevator during a road trip.
A forward from a rival team during an off-season charity event, both of them knowing it was dangerous and doing it anyway.
Always discreet. Always temporary. Always with the understanding that it could never be anything more than stolen moments in the dark.
Which all means that, because nobody talks about it, he doesn't have the first clue whether or not Rath is into guys.
First of all, it shouldn't matter. Rath can be into whoever he wants to be into.
It shouldn't change anything, because that's a line that Percy shouldn't even be thinking about crossing.
He's Rath's captain, and he's seven years older than him, and he's someone who Rath looks to for guidance and leadership–those are all great reasons why he needs to maintain a professional relationship with the fiery winger he can't seem to stop thinking about.
But Percy's brain doesn't seem to care about professional boundaries when Rath is around.
It doesn't care about the age gap or the power dynamic or any of the very good reasons why this is a terrible idea.
His brain only cares about the way Rath moves on the ice like he was born to play hockey, all fluid grace and controlled aggression.
It cares about the sharp line of his jaw when he's concentrating, the way his eyes light up when he scores, the rare moments when his guard drops and Percy catches glimpses of something softer underneath all that attitude.
And, even if Rath were into guys and Percy weren't in a position of power over him, it doesn't mean Rath would be interested in him.
He knows they haven't always had a great relationship, and even though things are slightly better this season than last, he knows they're treading a very precarious precipice on which either of them could shove the other off at any moment.
Percy still remembers their first real fight, back when Rath was fresh out of juniors and thought he could mouth off to anyone without consequences.
It had been during a team meeting, Rath questioning one of Percy's strategic decisions with the kind of arrogance that only came from being young and talented and convinced you knew better than everyone else.
Percy had shut him down hard, maybe harder than necessary, and Rath had spent the rest of that season treating him like an enemy rather than a captain.
The irony isn't lost on him that now, two years later, he's lying awake at night thinking about that same arrogant rookie and wondering what it would feel like to kiss the smirk right off his face.
Which is why, when the universe starts conspiring to put more of Rath Platts in his life, Percy figures it must be because life has a twisted sense of humor and is getting off on his discomfort.
It starts small—Rath staying late to work on his shot while Percy reviews game tape in the video room, the sound of pucks hitting boards echoing through the facility long after everyone else has gone home.
Percy tells himself he's not timing his departure to coincide with Rath's, that he's definitely not lingering in the tunnel to watch the kid run through his shooting drills with methodical precision.
But he is. God help him, he is.
Rath has a ritual when he practices alone.
He starts with twenty shots from the slot, methodical and controlled, focusing on placement rather than power.
Then he moves to the circles, working on his release, the snap of his wrist creating a sound Percy has memorized without meaning to.
Finally, he practices one-timers, setting up passes for himself off the boards with the kind of creativity that makes Percy understand why the scouts had called him a generational talent.
Percy knows he should leave. Should go home to his empty house and his protein shake and his carefully scheduled evening routine.
Instead, he finds himself watching the way Rath's shoulders move under his practice jersey, the intense concentration on his face, the small smile that appears when he hits the top corner perfectly.
It's during one of these sessions, a week into what Percy has started thinking of as "the situation," that everything changes.
Rath has been out there for over an hour, working through his routine with the kind of dedication that would make their conditioning coach weep with joy.
Percy is in the video room with the lights off, ostensibly reviewing power play formations but actually watching Rath through the glass like some kind of creep.
That's when Rath's water bottle runs empty.
Percy watches him skate to the bench, tip the bottle up, and get nothing. Rath stares at the empty bottle for a moment, then shakes his head and starts to head back out onto the ice.
And Percy, without thinking, without planning, without any kind of reasonable justification, gets up and heads to the equipment room.
"You don't have to babysit me," Rath says when Percy appears rinkside with the water, but there's something softer in his voice than usual. Less sharp.
Percy's chest does something complicated at the tone. "You have the manners of a hyena," he replies, handing over the bottle. "Your mother must be so proud."
It's the kind of chirp they trade constantly during practice, but it feels different in the empty arena. More intimate, like they're sharing a private joke instead of engaging in their usual verbal sparring.
Rath takes the water and his hands are so much smaller than Percy's, especially without the gloves. He has calluses on his palms from years of stick handling, and Percy finds himself staring at them, wondering what those hands would feel like on his skin.
"Usually when people are nice to me they want something," Rath says, and there's something almost vulnerable in the admission.
Percy can think of a lot of things he wants from Rath. He can feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, and he purposely doesn't look at Rath's mouth or throat as he takes a long drink of water and swallows, the movement of his Adam's apple hypnotic in the arena lights.
"I want to win games," Percy says instead of any of the thoughts running around in his head. He raises an eyebrow. "Think you can manage that?"
The challenge seems to spark something in Rath's eyes. "I've been managing just fine, thanks."
"Fine isn't good enough," Percy says, and he means it in more ways than Rath probably realizes. "You're better than fine. You just need to believe it."
Rath's expression shifts, surprise flickering across his features. "You think I don't believe in myself?"
"I think you play like you have something to prove," Percy says carefully. "Like you're still trying to convince someone you belong here."
"Don't I?" The question comes out sharper than Percy thinks Rath intended, revealing more than he probably wanted to.
Percy studies him for a long moment, taking in the defensive set of Rath's shoulders, the way his grip has tightened on his stick. "No," he says finally. "You don't. You earned your spot here, Platts. The sooner you figure that out, the better you'll play."
Percy turns to leave, but Rath's voice stops him at the tunnel entrance.
"Percy?"
The use of his first name instead of "Captain" makes Percy's step falter. He turns back to find Rath watching him with an expression that's unusually serious, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle.
"Why'd you put in a word for me with Coach? About the second line?"
Percy's jaw tightens. JP and his big mouth. "Who told you that?"
"Does it matter?" Rath skates closer, his movements fluid even in casual conversation. "I just want to know why."
There are a dozen safe answers Percy could give—about talent development, team depth, strategic planning.
All of them would be true, but none of them would be the complete truth.
The complete truth is that Percy has been watching Rath play for two years, cataloguing every improvement, every flash of brilliance, every moment when his potential shows through the attitude and inexperience.
The complete truth is that Percy sees something in Rath that he's not sure Rath sees in himself.
Instead, he finds himself studying the earnest curiosity in Rath's green eyes and feeling something crack open in his chest.
"Because you earned it," he says simply. "You've put in the work."