Page 12 of Speak in Fever
Rath skates away without another word, joining the next drill with the kind of focused intensity that Percy recognizes as barely controlled anger. For the rest of practice, Rath plays like he's trying to prove something—every pass crisper, every shot harder, every defensive play more aggressive than necessary.
And despite the fact that Rath is clearly furious with him, Percy can't help but be impressed. Angry Rath is poetry in motion, all sharp edges and controlled fury, channeling his emotions into hockey in a way that makes Percy's chest tight.
He scores twice in the final scrimmage, both times on plays that are equal parts skill and determination, and Percy finds himself watching from the bench with something that feels dangerously close to pride.
After practice, Percy lingers in the locker room, pretending to organize his gear while he waits for most of the team to clear out. He's not sure what he plans to say to Rath, only that he needs to say something. The hit was too much, too personal, too loaded with subtext that he's not ready to acknowledge.
When only a few stragglers remain, he approaches Rath's stall.
"We need to talk," he says quietly.
Rath doesn't look up from unlacing his skates. "About what?"
"About the hit. I shouldn't have—"
"Shouldn't have what?" Rath finally meets his eyes, and there's something challenging there that makes Percy's pulse kick up. "Played hockey? Done your job? I'm not made of glass, Cap. I can take a hit."
The casual dismissal rankles more than it should. "I know you can take a hit," Percy says, frustrated by his inability to articulate what he's actually trying to apologize for. "That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?" Rath stands, and he has to look up at Percy, but somehow he doesn't seem smaller. If anything, the proximity makes him seem more substantial, more present. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to apologize for playing hockey, which is kind of your thing."
Percy stares down at him, caught between the urge to explain himself and the knowledge that he can't—not without admitting things he's not ready to admit, not even to himself. He can't tell Rath that the hit was personal, that he'd been thinking about their moment in the equipment room, that he'd wanted an excuse to put his hands on him even if it meant knocking him flat.
"Just... be more careful out there," he says finally.
Rath's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Right. Because I'm the one who needs to be more careful."
He turns away, effectively ending the conversation, but Percy catches the way his hands shake slightly as he reaches for his street clothes. Anger, probably, or adrenaline.
That night, Percy lies in bed staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment of the day—the way Rath had looked trapped in the equipment room, soft and vulnerable in a way Percy rarely gets to see. The solid warmth of his body during their collision, the hitch in his breathing, the challenge in his eyes even when he was flat on his back. The color in his cheeks, the dilated pupils, the way he'd said Percy's name.
Percy's been attracted to people before. He's had relationships, hookups, the usual progression of romantic entanglements that come with being a professional athlete in a city full of attractive people. He's been with men before, quietly and carefully, in situations where discretion was guaranteed and consequences were minimal.
But this feels different—more intense, more complicated, wrapped up with hockey and team dynamics and the uncomfortable realization that he might be developing actual feelings for someone who clearly can't stand him. Someone who happens to be a teammate. A male teammate. A male teammate who's quickly becoming one of the most important players on Percy's team, which means Percy can't avoid him even if he wanted to.
Which he doesn't. Want to avoid him, that is. Despite the arguments, despite the attitude, despite the way Rath seems determined to challenge Percy's authority at every turn, Percy finds himself looking forward to their interactions. Even the angry ones. Especially the angry ones, if he's being honest, because angry Rath is beautiful and fierce and completely unafraid of Percy's size or position or reputation.
It's attractive in a way that Percy knows he should probably be worried about. Rath challenges him, pushes back against hisauthority in ways that should be infuriating but instead make Percy want to push back twice as hard. It's like some kind of mating dance, all barely controlled aggression and unspoken tension, and Percy is starting to suspect that Rath is just as aware of it as he is.
The thought should be comforting, but it's not. Because if Rath is aware of the tension between them, if he feels even a fraction of what Percy has been feeling, then they're both in serious trouble.
Percy rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, trying to block out the memory of Rath's flushed face, the sound of his breathing, the way he'd looked up at Percy with his mouth parted. And then, because he’s apparently a masochist, he lets himself imagine what it might be like under different circumstances.
He imagines Rath spread out naked in his bed, all that pale skin pressed against his sheets, and him looking up at Percy with a flush spread across his cheekbones and his cock hard between his thighs. Maybe he’s biting his lip, looking at Percy through half-lidded eyes, while he strokes himself and begs Percy to fuck him.
Percy’s body is buzzing, his cock a thick, heavy weight between his legs. His palms are sweating, so he scrubs his hands across his thighs, meticulously avoiding the erection pressing against the seam of his jeans. He can’t get the image of the flush spreading down Rath’s chest earlier out of his mind, and he wants to see how far down that expanse of smooth skin it goes. He’s seen Rath naked plenty of time, but not like that–not the way he wants. He wants to dig his fingers into the dimples of Rath’s ass and let him wrap his legs around Percy’s waist, wants to feel him leaking between them.
Percy can hardly think past the haze of lust that threatens to overwhelm him, more turned on than he has been in years. It’snot like he doesn’t have sex, but no one has gotten under his skin and crawled inside him to bury themselves firmly in his space like Rath has. He thinks about the sounds Rath might make underneath his hands, whimpering and gasping in pleasure, and the sudden need to hear those sounds in person, coming out of those plush lips, absolutely roars through Percy.
He flips on his back and unzips his jeans, scrambling to tug his dick out.
The image of Rath sprawled out underneath him, cock flushed and slick with desire, mouth open and panting, makes him groan openly. He can imagine him ready to give it up to him, ready for Percy to take what he wants.
Percy rubs his tongue along his palm, slipping his fingers in his mouth until his skin was soaking. The first touch of his hand on his own dick pulls every muscle up tight. Percy rolls his hips, pressing up into his fist and imagining the tight heat of Rath’s smart mouth. He knows exactly how Rath would be, the same way he is with hockey: eager and enthusiastic and so, so willing to get it right.
He closes his eyes, sliding his other hand down to cup his balls. He can picture Rath’s tight little ass, spread open and waiting for him. He wants to get his mouth on that soft pink flesh, work it open with his tongue. Percy’s fingers tighten on his cock until he growls with it.
He groans, deep and guttural, working the head of his dick in quick jerks, stroking a finger in the sweet spot behind his balls. He is so close from just the idea; he can barely imagine what it would be like to have him actually there, surrounded in his scent and his heat, lapping up the taste of his skin.
