Page 9 of Speak in Fever
It's not the whole truth, but it's true enough. Rath has been putting in the work—Percy's watched him do it, night after night in this empty arena. He's seen the dedication, the drive, the way Rath pushes himself harder than anyone else pushes him.
Rath's smile is different this time—smaller, more genuine, and it does dangerous things to Percy's equilibrium. The harsh arena lights catch the auburn highlights in his hair, and Percy has to resist the urge to reach out and see if it's as soft as it looks.
"Thanks. That... means something, coming from you."
He drives home and takes the longest, coldest shower of his life.
The next morning things get worse.
Percy arrives at the facility early, as always, and heads straight for the equipment room to grab some extra tape for his stick.
The room is dark, cramped, and stuffed with spare gear, practice jerseys, and various hockey paraphernalia that somehow never makes it back to where it belongs.
The familiar smell of leather and rubber greets him, along with the faint scent of whatever industrial cleaner the equipment staff uses to combat the unique aroma of professional hockey gear.
He's digging through a box of tape rolls when he hears a muffled curse followed by the sound of something heavy falling.
"Hello?" Percy calls out. "Someone in here?"
Another curse, more creative this time, and Percy follows the sound deeper into the room. He finds Rath wedged behind a stack of equipment bags, his practice jersey caught on something above him, one arm twisted at an awkward angle as he tries to free himself.
The sight stops Percy short. Rath looks younger like this, frustrated and off-balance, his usual composure stripped away. His hair is mussed from struggling with whatever has him trapped, and there's a faint flush on his cheeks that might be exertion or embarrassment.
"Don't say anything," Rath mutters without looking at him. "I came in early to grab new gloves, and somehow managed to get myself trapped like an idiot."
"What were you doing back there?" Percy asks, because the rational part of his brain is still working, even if the rest of him is fixated on the way Rath's jersey has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin above his practice shorts.
"The good gloves are in the back," Rath says, still struggling. "Mine are falling apart, and I didn't want to bother the equipment guys about it. Figured I could just grab a pair myself."
Of course he did. Rath has never been one to ask for help when he could handle something himself, even when handling it himself means getting trapped in an equipment room.
Percy should probably call for help, or at least give Rath some space to work himself free. Instead, he finds himself stepping closer, assessing the situation with the same focus he'd use for a tactical problem.
"Hold still," he says, reaching over Rath's head to locate where the jersey is snagged. "You're making it worse."
The position puts them in close proximity—Percy leaning over Rath, their bodies almost touching, the scent of Rath's shampoo mixing with the smell of leather and rubber that permeates the equipment room.
It's something clean and fresh, maybe cedar or sandalwood, and Percy has to focus very hard on not breathing too deeply.
Rath goes very still beneath him, and Percy can feel the tension in his body, the careful way he's holding himself motionless.
Percy's fingers work at the snag, some piece of equipment management that's caught the fabric, and he's very aware of every point where they're almost touching—his chest nearly brushing Rath's shoulder, his arm extended over Rath's head, the warmth radiating between them in the cramped space.
Percy glances down and finds Rath looking up at him, pupils dilated in the dim light, and Percy can count the individual lashes framing those pale green eyes.
"Got it," Percy says, freeing the fabric, but instead of stepping back immediately, he finds himself frozen in place.
They're close enough that Percy can feel the warmth radiating from Rath's body, can see the slight part of his lips, can notice the way his breathing has changed—shorter, more careful, like he's trying not to disturb the air between them.
Close enough that it would be so easy to lean down and close the distance between them.
The thought hits Percy like a slap shot to the chest, sudden and devastating.
He wants to kiss Rath. He wants it with an intensity that makes his hands shake and his common sense disappear.
He wants to press Rath back against the equipment bags and find out if his mouth is as soft as it looks, if he tastes as good as Percy has been imagining.
"Thanks," Rath breathes, flushing deeper down his neck.
The realization startles Percy into action. He steps back quickly, putting safe distance between them, and clears his throat. The spell breaks, reality crashes back in, and Percy remembers exactly why this is such a terrible idea.
"Maybe watch what you're doing next time."
The words come out harsher than he intended, a defensive reaction to his own loss of control. Rath blinks, and something shutters in his expression, the vulnerability from a moment ago disappearing behind his usual armor.
"Right. Wouldn't want to inconvenience the captain." Rath grabs his gloves and pushes past Percy to the exit.
Percy watches him go and immediately wants to call him back, to apologize for his tone, to explain that his sharpness has nothing to do with Rath.
Instead, he stands alone in the equipment room, surrounded by the smell of leather and the lingering scent of Rath's shampoo, and wonders how he's supposed to captain a team when he can't even captain his own emotions.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of careful avoidance.
Percy throws himself into preparation for their next game, studying tape until his eyes burn, reviewing line combinations until he could recite them in his sleep.
He stays late, working out in the gym long after the rest of the team has gone home, pushing himself through extra sets until his muscles scream in protest.
Anything to avoid thinking about the moment in the equipment room, the way Rath had looked at him, the dangerous thoughts that had run through his mind when they were close enough to breathe the same air.
Two days later, during a particularly intense scrimmage, the universe gets its revenge courtesy of physics and poor decision-making.
They're running three-on-three drills, working on breakouts and transitions, the kind of high-tempo practice that Coach Reeves loves and that usually leaves everyone exhausted and slightly punchy.
Percy is centering the first line with Terrible and JP, while Rath is running with the second line, playing his usual position on the right wing.
The play develops innocently enough—a loose puck in the neutral zone, both teams converging, the kind of fifty-fifty battle that happens dozens of times per game. Percy is skating hard toward the puck, focused on the play, when he sees Rath approaching from the other angle.
Rath has his head down, focused entirely on the puck, all that laser-focused intensity that makes him so dangerous in game situations. He's committed to the play, skating fast enough that stopping would be difficult even if he wanted to.
Percy should pull up, or call out a warning, or do any number of things that would prevent a collision between teammates during a practice drill. They're on the same team, after all. There's no reason for contact.
Instead, he commits to the hit.
Later, Percy will tell himself it was instinct, that his body reacted before his brain could catch up. He'll convince himself that it was just hockey, just the kind of physical play that happens naturally when you've been playing the game as long as he has.
But in the moment, in the split second before impact, Percy knows exactly what he's doing. He wants to hit something, and Rath is right there, skating toward him with that single-minded determination, completely unaware of what's coming.
They collide with the kind of impact that echoes through the arena, a tangle of arms and legs and skates that sends both of them sliding across the ice. Percy lands hard on top of Rath, their gear clattering against the boards, and for a moment they're both too stunned to move.
Percy's first thought is that Rath is smaller than he expected, more compact than he appears when they're standing face to face. His second thought is that Rath is solid muscle under the padding, all coiled strength and athletic grace even when he's flat on his back on the ice.
His third thought is that he needs to move, now, before this gets any more inappropriate than it already is.
Then Percy becomes aware of their position—Rath pinned beneath him, both of them breathing hard, Percy's face inches from Rath's neck. He can feel the rapid flutter of Rath's pulse through the thin skin below his ear, can hear the soft hitch in his breathing.
Rath smells like sweat and determination and that same clean scent from the equipment room, and Percy has to physically restrain himself from pressing his face into the curve of Rath's neck and breathing him in.
"Jesus, Cap," Rath says, his voice strained. "You trying to kill me?"
Percy should move, should get up and help Rath to his feet and apologize for the unnecessarily aggressive hit.
Instead, he finds himself looking down at Rath's flushed face, at the way his helmet has shifted to reveal sweat-dampened hair, at the challenge in his eyes that hasn't dimmed despite being flat on his back.
Rath's lips are parted, his breathing rapid and shallow, and there's something in his expression that sends heat shooting straight through Percy's chest. Not just pain or surprise, but something deeper. Something that looks almost like want.