Page 14 of Speak in Fever
Percy moves like he owns the ice, every stride purposeful and controlled. Even during warm-ups, there's something mesmerizing about the way he carries himself—shoulders back, head up, completely comfortable in his own skin. Rath has always been aware of Percy's physical presence, but today it feels amplified, like someone turned up the volume on his awareness.
When Percy demonstrates proper defensive positioning during a line drill, Rath finds himself staring at the line of his back, the way his practice jersey pulls across his shoulder blades when he leans forward. Percy's explaining something about gap control to the younger defensemen, his voice carrying that tone of quiet authority that makes everyone listen, and Rath is definitely not supposed to be thinking about how good Percy looks bent over like that.
"You're distracted today," Torres observes during a water break, skating up beside Rath with that knowing look that means he's been caught doing something obvious.
"I'm drinking water," Rath argues, though Torres isn't wrong. "I can be distracted and drink water at the same time."
"Uh-huh." Torres follows Rath's gaze across the ice to where Percy is talking with Coach Reeves, their heads bent together over a clipboard. "You know, if you spent half as much energy actually playing hockey as you do staring at our captain, you might make the first line."
"I'm not—" Rath starts, then stops, because denying it will only make Torres more suspicious. "I'm just trying to understand his positioning philosophy. For better line chemistry."
"Right. Line chemistry."
"Shut up, Torres."
"I'm just saying, if you want better chemistry with Killinger, maybe try not arguing with him every time he opens his mouth."
"I don't argue with him every time," Rath protests, but even as he says it, he knows it's not true. He does argue with Percy, constantly, about everything from strategy to line combinations to proper seating on the team bus. It's like he can't help himself—something about Percy just brings out his contrary nature.
"Could've fooled me," Torres says.
He skates away laughing, leaving Rath to contemplate the uncomfortable possibility that his constant need to challengePercy might be rooted in something more complicated than professional disagreement. Because if he's honest with himself, he enjoys their verbal sparring matches. He likes the way Percy's eyes flash when he's annoyed, the sharp edge in his voice when he's being authoritative, the grudging respect that sometimes creeps into his expression when Rath makes a particularly good point.
Maybe Torres is right. Maybe Rath argues with Percy because it's the only way he knows how to get his complete attention.
The realization is disturbing enough that Rath throws himself into the rest of practice with renewed focus, trying to push thoughts of Percy and line chemistry and the upcoming one-on-one session out of his head. It doesn't really work—Percy is right there, impossible to ignore, calling plays and directing traffic with the kind of natural leadership that makes Rath understand why he wears the 'C'—but at least he manages to get through the remaining drills without embarrassing himself.
When Coach finally blows the whistle to end practice, Rath's stomach does something complicated. The rest of the team starts heading toward the tunnel, their voices echoing in the arena as they discuss dinner plans and weekend schedules, but Rath lingers on the ice, adjusting his helmet and pretending he needs to retie his skates.
Percy emerges from the tunnel after grabbing some extra pucks, looking relaxed in a way Rath rarely sees during team practices. His usual captain intensity has been dialed down to something more approachable, and there's something almost playful in his expression as he dumps the pucks at center ice.
"Ready to work?" Percy calls, and his voice echoes slightly in the empty space.
Rath pushes off from the boards, hyperaware of Percy's presence beside him as they warm up with some casual skating. Everything feels magnified without the chaos of team practice—the sound of their blades carving through the ice, the way Percy's breath creates small puffs of vapor in the cold air, the graceful efficiency of his movements as he works through his routine.
Even warming up, Percy moves like poetry. There's something hypnotic about watching him skate—the way he transitions effortlessly between forward and backward, the perfect balance when he takes tight turns, the unconscious power in every stride. Rath has skated with hundreds of players over the years, but Percy's technique is something special, so fluid it looks effortless.
"Let's start simple," Percy says, positioning himself across from Rath with a pile of pucks between them. "Basic passing, work on timing and communication."
They start with elementary exchanges, and even these simple passes feel charged with electricity. Percy's passes find Rath's stick with perfect weight and timing, the puck arriving exactly where Rath expects it to be. When Rath returns them, he watches Percy's eyes track the puck's path, notices the slight nod of approval when the placement is exactly right.
There's something meditative about the rhythm that lets Rath focus entirely on the feel of the puck on his stick, the way Percy moves to meet each pass, the growing synchronization between them. Without the pressure of a game situation, they can take time to find each other's tendencies, to build the kind of instinctive understanding that makes great line mates.
"Try to hit me in stride," Percy says after a pass that forces him to slow down slightly, and there's something about having Percy's complete attention focused on him that makes Rath's chest tight.
"Try skating to where the puck's going," Rath shoots back, but the banter feels different now—less defensive, more like testing boundaries.
Percy stops skating, fixing him with that captain stare that usually precedes a lecture about respect and team hierarchy. But instead of anger, there's something almost amused in his expression, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold in a way that makes him look younger, less untouchable.
"Fair point," Percy says, and when he smiles, it transforms his entire face. The serious lines around his eyes soften, and suddenly Rath can see what Percy might have looked like as a kid, all enthusiasm and joy for the game. "Let me try that again."
The next sequence flows perfectly—Rath reads Percy's route and leads him with the pass, Percy catches it in full stride and returns it with a backhander that arrives right on Rath's tape. It's a simple exchange, but it feels significant, like they've unlocked something that was always there but needed the right conditions to emerge.
"Much better," Percy says, and his praise makes warmth spread through Rath's chest so fast he has to clutch onto his stick to keep a hand on it.
There's something addictive about earning Percy's approval, about being the focus of that intense attention. Rath has always been motivated by recognition—it's part of what drove him to excel in juniors, part of what keeps him pushing for more ice time and better line assignments. But Percy's approval feels different, more personal, like it means something beyond hockey.
As they work through increasingly complex drills, Rath finds himself cataloguing every detail. The way Percy's jaw tightens in concentration when he's thinking through a play. How his hands look gripping his stick—strong and sure and exactly the right size, with calluses from years of playing and a small scar across his left knuckle from a fight he got into as a rookie. The fluid power in his stride, the unconscious authority in his posture even when he's being instructional rather than commanding.
