Page 25 of Speak in Fever
The first of his teammates start trickling in—Martinez, who's always early, nodding at Rath with his usual quiet morning greeting. Then Torres, who immediately starts his typical stream of chatter about his night out, seemingly oblivious to Rath's mood. Rath manages to grunt appropriate responses, but his voice sounds hollow even to his own ears.
By the time Percy walks into the locker room, Rath has his face somewhat under control, but he can't meet Percy's gaze. He keeps his eyes fixed on his skates, methodically checking the blade edges like it's the most important task in the world.
He thinks he should be angry. He should be furious. Percy made him trust him in a vulnerable moment and then turned around in the next breath and told the coach he wasn't worth it. He should be so, so angry. And maybe normally he would be, and he would have gotten in Percy's face about it like anyone else, would have demanded an explanation or at least had the satisfaction of a good fight.
But he realizes he isn't angry. He's hurt.
The hurt is worse than anger would be. Anger he could work with, could channel into his playing, could use as fuel. Hurt just sits in his chest like a stone, making everything feel heavy and wrong.
"Morning," Percy says as he passes Rath's stall, his tone exactly the same as it always is. Professional. Friendly. Giving no indication that anything has changed between them.
"Morning," Rath manages, his voice coming out rougher than intended. He clears his throat and tries again. "Morning, Cap."
Percy pauses, and Rath can feel his eyes on him, studying his face. But Rath keeps his gaze fixed downward, pretending to be absorbed in retaping his stick grip.
"You good?" Percy asks after a moment, and the casual concern in his voice is almost worse than if he'd ignored Rath entirely.
"Yeah," Rath lies. "Fine."
Percy lingers another moment before moving on to his own stall, and Rath finally allows himself to breathe. He can do this. He can get through practice. He can be professional and focused and pretend like his world hasn't tilted sideways in the space of one overheard conversation.
On the ice, Rath throws himself into warm-ups with nervous energy, hyperaware of Percy's presence but trying to act normal. He stretches harder than usual, skates faster, shoots with more force—anything to burn off the anxious energy that feels like it's eating him alive from the inside.
The ice is pristine this early, unmarked except for their tracks, and the familiar scrape of skates on ice usually soothes him. Today it just reminds him how exposed he feels out here, how visible every mistake will be.
When JP tries to engage him in their usual pre-practice banter Rath's responses are distracted and stilted. JP's easygoing smile falters slightly, and he shoots Rath a questioning look, but Rath just shakes his head and skates away before JP can ask questions he isn't ready to answer.
He can feel Percy watching him from across the ice, and every time their eyes meet, Rath's stomach does something complicated and unhelpful. Percy probably thinks he's acting weird. Hell, he is acting weird. But he can't seem to get his equilibrium back, can't find his usual confidence.
Everything feels wrong. His timing is off, his usual smooth stride feels choppy, and even simple passing drills feel awkward and forced. He's overthinking every movement, second-guessing every decision, and the more he tries to act normal, the more obvious it becomes that something is off.
The first drill Coach calls pairs them together—another two-on-one exercise that yesterday felt like a breakthrough. Today, it feels like a test of Rath's ability to function while knowing that Percy thinks he's a complete waste of time. The irony isn't lost on him that they're running the exact same drill Percy criticized to Coach Reeves less than an hour ago.
"You ready to build on yesterday?" Percy asks as they line up, and Rath's blood rushes in his ears. The question is innocent enough, probably meant to be encouraging, but all Rath can hear is Percy's voice in the coach's office, clinical and dismissive.
He can do this. He can get through this. It's just hockey. Just the sport he's been playing since he was five years old, the thing that usually comes as naturally as breathing.
Words are impossible though, with the emotions building in his throat, and so all he manages is a curt nod. His jaw is clenched so tight it's starting to ache.
Percy studies him for a moment, and Rath stares back at him, with his hands in fists around his stick and the back of his neck flushed with embarrassment and confusion. Up close, Percy's eyes are the same dark brown they've always been, concerned and focused, and Rath hates how much he still wants to believe that concern is real.
"Okay," Percy says slowly, his tone careful. "Let's start with the basic setup and see how it develops."
Rath nods and takes his position, but his usual instinctive read of the play is compromised by his hyperawareness of Percy's every movement. Instead of reading the developing play and reacting naturally, he finds himself watching Percy's face, trying to decode every expression, wondering what Percy is really thinking about his performance.
When the puck comes, Rath finds himself hesitating, second-guessing the creative adjustments that worked so well yesterday. The instinct is there—he can see the opportunity developing,can feel what the play wants to become—but his confidence is shattered. What if Percy is right? What if his reads are wrong? What if he's just being undisciplined again?
The play develops awkwardly, neither following the system nor finding the innovative solutions that impressed Percy before. Rath feels like he's playing in slow motion, every decision labored and obvious.
"Again," Coach calls, and they reset for another attempt.
They run the drill again, and this time Rath overcorrects, trying so hard to forget about what happened that he completely overthinks his positioning. He sticks rigidly to the system, following the textbook approach even when he can see better options developing. The result is even worse than the first attempt—mechanical and awkward instead of the fluid chemistry they achieved yesterday.
He can see Coach frowning from the sideline, making notes on his clipboard. The exact expression Percy was probably hoping for when he planted those seeds of doubt this morning.
"Okay, what's going on?" Percy asks, skating closer after the second failed attempt. Close enough that all of Rath's carefully constructed walls start crumbling again. "This isn't like you."
The genuine worry in Percy's voice is almost worse than if he were angry or dismissive. Rath doesn't know how to process it, doesn't know if it's real or if Percy is just that good an actor.
