Page 11 of Speak in Fever
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 gamesituations. 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.
"Maybe if you kept your head up, you wouldn't get caught off guard," Percy says, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
Rath's eyes flash with something that might be anger, but his pupils are dilated and there's color high on his cheekbones.
"Maybe if you noticed I was on the ice you wouldn’t run me over."
The words are sharp, designed to cut, but there's something breathless about the way Rath delivers them. Something that makes Percy aware of every point of contact between their bodies—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, Percy's gloved hand somehow tangled in the fabric of Rath's jersey.
"You think I don’t notice you?" Percy asks, and the question comes out more loaded than he intends.
It's the wrong thing to say, or maybe it's the right thing said at the wrong time. Rath's breath catches, his eyes widening slightly. He can see something vulnerable flicker across Rath'sfeatures, something real and unguarded that makes Percy's chest tight with wanting.
Then someone clears their throat loudly, and Percy remembers where they are.
"You two gonna make out or are we gonna finish practice?" Torres calls from across the ice, his tone amused but pointed.
The spell breaks. Rath's expression hardens, and he shoves at Percy's chest with both hands.
"Get off me, Killinger."
Percy rolls away quickly, the cold air hitting his overheated skin like a slap. He gets to his feet and offers Rath a hand up out of habit more than politeness, trying to pretend his heart isn't racing, that his hands aren't shaking with adrenaline and something else entirely.
Rath ignores the offered hand and pushes himself up independently, brushing ice shavings off his gear with sharp, irritated movements. "Next time you want to work on your checking, find someone your own size."
"Next time keep your head up," Percy shoots back, but the words feel hollow.
