Page 10 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 himtrapped, 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 chestnearly 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.
