Page 24 of Speak in Fever
But now, walking through the familiar corridors of the rink, Rath can't trust his own memory. Everything feels distorted by anxiety and second-guessing.
Rath takes a deep, steadying breath and walks down the hallway. He's an hour early, which isn't unusual—he's always been the type to show up early when he's nervous, needing the extra time to get his head right before facing whatever is coming. But today it's probably what causes him to hear the voices coming out of the half-closed office of Coach Reeves.
The hallway is dim, most of the overhead lights are still off this early in the morning. Rath's footsteps echo softly on the polished floor, and he's already mentally preparing himself for the quiet ritual of taping his stick and organizing his gear when the voices stop him cold.
"—he's just not ready for the kind of responsibility you want to give him."
Rath stops dead in his tracks. That's Percy's voice, unmistakable even muffled through the partially closed door. Clear and decisive and nothing like the breathless, heated tone from last night.
"Maybe in another year. Maybe once he's finally listened to direction."
Rath freezes in the hallway, his gear bag slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers. Percy is talking about him. Has to be talking about him. Who else could it be? Who else has Percy been working with on special drills, giving extra attention to, praising for their breakthrough performance just yesterday?
The hallway feels like it's spinning around him. This is what Percy really thinks of him. Not the compliments from yesterday's practice, not the heated praise from last night's phone call, but this. This cold, clinical assessment delivered to their coach like Rath is just another problem to be managed.
"I feel like yesterday's drill proved he needs to work on reading defensive formations."
Rath's chest tightens and he knows his face is turning red with frustrated embarrassment. Yesterday's drill. The same drill that felt like everything clicking into place, like he'd finally proven himself worthy of Percy's attention and respect. The drill that led to Percy calling him, that started this whole mess.
He thought yesterday was pivotal. He showed Percy what he could do, that they could work together after all, that he belongs on this team. He felt the chemistry between them on the ice, saw the look of satisfaction on Percy's face when they executed the play perfectly. And—fuck—wasn't that exactly what Percy was whispering in his ear the night before? How good they were together, how perfectly Rath read his movements, how much potential he had?
Were all of those lies? Had Percy fed him exactly what he wanted to hear while planning to tear him down to the coach the next morning?
He feels sick all the way to his stomach suddenly, like he's been punched and left on the ice by someone twice his size. But getting his ass beat never feels as visceral as this does. Physical pain fades. This feels like Percy has his hands in his chest, fingernails in his bones, and is trying to pull himself free. This feels like betrayal.
The worst part is how stupid he feels. How naive. Percy is the team captain, ambitious and focused and dedicated to winning above all else. Of course he wouldn't let personal attraction cloud his judgment about what's best for the team. Of course he'd compartmentalize whatever happened between them last night and focus on hockey.
Rath just wishes he'd been given the same courtesy instead of being blindsided by overhearing this conversation.
Coach's voice cuts through his panic and he hears the older man sigh. "Yeah, you're probably right. I was hoping yesterday meant he'd turned a corner, but if you think he needs more development time..."
Rath backs away from the office, almost unable to carry his bag, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He turns and flees to the locker room, his heart hammering so hard he's sure it's audible. His knees feel weak, his stomach is in knots. The familiar smell of the locker room—sweat and equipment cleaner and lingering traces of cologne—usually comforts him, but now it just makes him feel more nauseous.
He manages to make it to his stall before he sinks into the bench with all his weight pushing down at his shoulders. The wooden bench is cold against his back, and he stares up at the ceiling tiles, trying to get his breathing under control.
He feels mortified. How could he have trusted Percy when he knew all along the other man didn't like him? They've been butting heads for over a year, Percy constantly pushing him to be more disciplined, more by-the-book, more like every other generic hockey player who follows orders without question. One smooth, chemistry-laden practice doesn't change that. One night of heated phone calls doesn't change that.
He let his guard down when Percy complimented him and then he fell directly for Percy's bait when he called. God, he was so stupid. So desperate for Percy's approval that he'd misinterpreted everything, convinced himself that professional interest was something more.
And the entire time he thought maybe they could—that maybe Percy might—
"Shit," Rath whispers to the empty room, pressing his palms against his heated cheeks. "Shit, shit, shit."
The word echoes in the empty locker room, bouncing off the metal lockers and tiled walls. He feels like he's going to throw up. Or scream. Or both.
He is so stupid. All those moments that felt charged with professional friction—the equipment room incident where they'd stood too close while arguing about stick flex, the collision during practice where Percy's hands lingered on his shoulders a beat too long, the way Percy's eyes would track his movements during drills like he was seeing something others missed, that fucking phone call where everything felt electric and inevitable—and it was all a joke. It was a joke, or at best, it was Percy toying with him.
Maybe Percy gets off on the power dynamic. Maybe he likes knowing he can make his players want him, can make them desperate for his approval. Maybe Rath isn't the first one to fall for it.
The thought makes his stomach churn worse.
He buries his face in his hands, trying to block out the memory of how good Percy's voice sounded in his ear, how right it felt to hear his own name said like that. How is he so wrong about everything?
The sound of voices in the hallway sends Rath into motion, forcing him to pull himself together before his teammates start arriving. He can't let them see him like this—can't handle the questions or the knowing looks or worse, the pity. He changes into his practice gear mechanically, each movement automatic from years of routine.
His hands shake as he pulls on his shoulder pads. The familiar weight of his equipment usually centers him, makes him feel ready for anything, but today it feels like armor he's putting on for a battle he's already lost.
He tries to school his expression into something neutral that doesn't give away he's having a complete breakdown over beinghumiliated by his team captain in the worst way possible. Professional. Focused. Like every other morning.
