Page 1 of Speak in Fever
Chapter 1
Even though he spent all summer getting up at his normal time of five o'clock to hit the gym and do his workout, Percy Killinger still feels like there is something different about waking up for an actual honest-to-God practice. The alarm goes off in the pre-dawn darkness of his apartment, and for a moment he just lies there in his king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar sounds of Portland waking up outside his windows. Traffic beginning to build on the street below, the distant hum of the city coming to life, the particular quality of September air that means summer is finally giving way to fall.
The smell of fresh ice and sweat-soaked gear that never seems to leave the Thunderbirds' facility hits him in the face in a way that is both welcoming and familiar as he pushes through the main entrance. September in Portland means preseason training camp, which means new line combinations, experimental systems, and especially means the sweet torture ofgetting his body back into game shape after a summer that has been excruciatingly long and also never long enough.
Percy's feelings about the summer are complicated. It is nice to get to spend time with family and friends he is too busy to see during the game season, but on the other hand time spent without hockey often feels like time wasted. Hockey has been his entire life since he could walk and hold a stick, and even in his off-days he spends that time going over plays and discussing tactics with his sports obsessed father who is always up for a good critique of his son's form. His dad has played Division I hockey at Michigan before a knee injury ended his dreams, and he has been living vicariously through Percy's career ever since Percy made juniors at sixteen.
This summer has been different though. Usually Percy spends the off-season in Lansing with his parents, training with his old juniors coach and working out with other NHL players who live in the area. But this year he has stayed in Portland, telling himself it is because he wants to be close to the facilities, to really focus on his conditioning and preparation for what he hopes will be a breakthrough season.
The drive to the rink is different this morning too. Instead of the usual pre-practice playlist of pump-up music—Eminem and Metallica and the kind of aggressive hip-hop that gets his blood flowing—Percy finds himself sitting in silence at red lights, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel with an energy that feels more like nerves than anticipation. Which is ridiculous. He has been captain of this team for four years. He has led them through two playoff runs, countless regular season games, and more practices than he can count. There is no reason for him to feel anything other than ready.
The Thunderbirds' training facility is a monument to modern hockey development—gleaming glass and steel, two full-sized rinks, a state-of-the-art gym, meeting rooms with videocapabilities, and all the bells and whistles that a professional organization needs to stay competitive. Percy has been playing here for seven years, since he was twenty-one and fresh out of college, and he still feels a little thrill walking through the main entrance. This is where he has learned to be a leader, where he has grown from a promising prospect into a legitimate first-line center, where he has been handed the captaincy and all the responsibility that comes with it.
The rhythm of training camp is the same as it always is. First come the nervous rookies, wide-eyed and trying too hard to impress, their new gear still creaking with unfamiliarity and their movements still awkward with the pressure of making a good first impression. Then the veterans roll in with their easy confidence and worn equipment bags, already planning which bars they'll hit after practice and which of the younger guys they'll take under their wing. Finally, the guys fighting for their spots—the ones who have spent the summer wondering if this will be the year they get sent down or traded, the ones carrying the weight of uncertainty on their shoulders like a visible burden.
Percy has been through all of those phases himself, and he tries to remember that when dealing with the different personalities and pressures that come with each group. The rookies need encouragement and patience. The veterans need to feel respected and valued. The bubble players need to know he believes in their ability to contribute. It is a delicate balance, and one that requires him to be part coach, part therapist, part big brother to twenty-three grown men with their own problems and ambitions.
As he makes his way toward the locker room, Percy nods to Leah, the team's media relations coordinator, who is setting up for post-practice interviews. "Morning, Lee. Ready for another season of me giving you boring answers?"
She laughs, adjusting the position of her camera equipment. "Your boring answers are better than some players' exciting ones, Captain. At least you show up."
The locker room is already buzzing with the familiar pre-practice energy when Percy pushes through the door. Harlan Edwin pauses from where he is strapping on his goalie pads to give Percy a double-take. "Damn, Cap, did you do nothing but work out all summer? You've put on like ten pounds of muscle. You trying to make us all look bad?"
Percy glances down at himself. He has put on some size over the summer, though it hasn't been entirely intentional. The extra hours in the gym have been as much about burning off nervous energy as building strength, but the results speak for themselves. His shoulders are broader, his arms more defined, and he has added the kind of functional muscle that will help him battle in the corners and protect the puck in traffic.
"Gotta keep you on your toes, Harley," Percy tells him, pulling on his practice jersey. The familiar weight of the fabric, the smell of the locker room settles something anxious in his chest. This is home. This is where he belongs.
Terrible is telling some elaborate story about his summer vacation in Mexico, complete with hand gestures and voices for different characters, and half the room is cracking up. Raul is methodically taping his stick with the kind of focused precision that has made him one of the most reliable defensemen in the league. The usual pre-practice chatter fills the space, comfortable and familiar.
The next time Percy looks up from lacing his skates, it is to the commotion of wingers Jean Paul and Rath coming into the locker room in a flurry of equipment bags and boisterous laughter. JP looks like he has come fresh off the cover of Sports Illustrated, all toned and tanned from a summer spent abroad training with European teams, and he has one arm slung aroundthe shoulder of Rath Platts, who is practically vibrating with excitable energy.
Percy's breath catches slightly at the sight of him. Rath looks different—older somehow, more filled out through the shoulders and chest. His hair is longer than it was at the end of last season, just long enough to be a nuisance, and it makes Percy's fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch. There is something in his posture too, a confidence that seems more genuine than the defensive bravado he has worn like armor during his rookie year.
"—and then the bartender tells me that's not how you order a beer in Prague," Rath is saying to JP, his voice carrying that slight rasp that Percy remembers far too well. "So I'm standing there like an idiot, trying to mime what I want, when this gorgeous Czech girl takes pity on me and—"
"Let me guess," JP interrupts with a grin. "She spoke perfect English."
"Better than mine," Rath admits, dropping his bag next to his stall. "Turned out she was a linguistics student at Charles University. We spent the whole night talking about hockey and European literature and—"
"European literature?" Terrible calls out from across the room. "What, did you take a college course over the summer or something?"
Rath's cheeks flush slightly, and Percy catches the flash of something vulnerable in his expression before it is covered by his usual smart-ass grin. "Yeah, well, some of us can read, Terrible. I know it's a shocking concept."
The chirping that follows is good-natured, but Percy finds himself studying the way Rath handles it. There is still that defensive edge to his humor, but it seems less sharp than before, more playful than bitter. Like maybe he is starting to believe he actually belongs here.
Percy has run into all types on the ice, but he has never met anyone quite like Rath. At 5'9" and 174 pounds soaking wet, Rath should be easily overlooked and outclassed by the roster full of bigger, more experienced players they boast. His first year should have been a learning experience, just to get his feet wet and introduce him to the demanding world of professional hockey. Instead, he had shown up and played some of the best hockey Percy had ever been witness to and Percy had suddenly been made aware of the scrappy right winger's presence in a way that was incredibly distracting.
There is something almost magnetic about the confidence Rath portrays on the ice. Percy has seen him drop gloves with defensemen who have fifty pounds on him, has seen him show incredible speed and surprisingly solid technique that outclasses veterans around him, and has seen the absolute fearlessness in his eyes that completely gives away he gives no shit about the consequences as long as he proves himself.
But it is more than just fearlessness. Rath has hockey sense that cannot be taught—the ability to read plays three moves ahead, to find soft spots in coverage that other players miss, to make split-second decisions that turn routine plays into scoring chances. Percy has been around the game long enough to recognize pure instinct when he sees it, and Rath has it in spades.
Their chemistry last year had left a lot to be desired. Rath had a lot to prove in his first year and he was not willing to back down from any challenge–even if that challenge came in the form of his own captain. So yes, they butted heads quite a bit last season, although it never got too serious. Percy had told himself it was just typical rookie growing pains, the kind of personality clash that works itself out once everyone finds their role.
But deep down, Percy knows it is more complicated than that. There is something about Rath that gets under his skinin a way that feels both irritating and strangely electric. The kid challenges him in ways that other players don't, questions his decisions, forces him to justify his choices instead of just accepting his authority. It should be annoying—it is annoying—but it is also oddly exhilarating.
Still, Percy can feel himself tense in the shoulders when Rath enters the room, like he is bracing himself for impact. The kid has a way of disrupting the careful equilibrium Percy has built, of making him second-guess himself in ways that feel dangerous.
"Big talk for someone who spent half of last season in the press box," Terrible calls out from across the room in response to something else Platts has said, but his tone is fond.
