Page 26 of Speak in Fever
He tries to get his breathing under control. He tries to focus on anything other than the genuine look of worry on Percy's face. All he can think about is Percy's voice low in his ear, telling him how perfect he is, how much he wants him.
"I'm fine," Rath repeats, taking a step back because being close to Percy is causing him physical and emotional distress. The cold air from the rink feels sharp in his lungs. "Just need to warm up more."
Percy doesn't look convinced, but he nods and they reset for another attempt. His eyes linger on Rath's face for a moment longer, like he's trying to solve a puzzle, before he skates back to his position.
This time, Rath forces himself to stop overthinking and just play—the way he did yesterday, the way he always has, with instinct and creativity instead of anxiety about living up to expectations he now knows exist. He tries to block out the conversation from this morning, tries to pretend like Percy's opinion doesn't matter, tries to just feel the ice and read the play and trust his instincts.
The drill clicks. Not perfectly, but well enough that Percy's face lights up with satisfaction, and that expression of pride is so genuine and open that Rath's breath hitches in his throat.
It's the same look Percy gave him yesterday, the same warmth and approval that made Rath feel like he was finally getting somewhere. How can Percy look at him like that and then turn around and tell the coach he isn't ready?
Chapter 8
Percy has never been good at reading people outside of hockey situations, but even he can tell he's irrevocably fucked everything both on and off the ice with Rath. Whatever magic was there before—that electric connection that made their chemistry so explosive during practices, the way they'd started to understand each other's timing and instincts—is brittle at best now, just waiting for an opportunity to shatter at the slightest touch.
And whose fault is that?
The answer sits like a stone in Percy's chest every time he looks at Rath, every time he catches the way Rath's shoulders tense when Percy approaches, every time those expressive eyes that used to meet his with challenge and fire now slide away like Percy has become something dangerous to look at directly.
He knows he shouldn't have let things get so complicated. The rational, responsible part of his brain—the part that got him the captain's C, that understands the weight of leadership and theimportance of maintaining professional boundaries—has been screaming at him to end that phone call the moment Rath's voice went breathy and desperate.
He should have hung up the phone the moment things got heated between them, should have found some excuse about needing to get up early or having other calls to make. Should have been the adult, the leader, the one who understands that crossing certain lines will only lead to pain and complications and exactly the kind of mess they're dealing with now.
But he didn't, did he?
Instead, he crossed a boundary with a teammate, someone who is under his guidance both officially and unofficially, someone who looks to him for leadership and approval. And not only did he cross that boundary, he drove them both straight through it at ninety miles an hour without looking back. He took advantage of the trust Rath placed in him, used his position and Rath's admiration of him to get what he wanted.
The fact that Rath seemed just as into it, was an enthusiastic and willing participant, doesn't make Percy feel any less like a predator. Because Percy is older, more experienced, the one with authority. Percy should have known better.
Thinking about it now makes him feel sick to his stomach, a queasy guilt that he can’t shake. Because despite everything—despite knowing it was wrong, despite knowing it would complicate everything, despite understanding that he'd potentially damaged something important and irreplaceable—at the time, it was...
God, it was good.
Hearing Rath fall apart in his ear, listening to all of his breathy moans and desperate pleas as Percy told him everything he thought about him, was exhilarating in a way that makes Percy question everything he thought he knew about himself. The attraction between them felt like something steady andinevitable, burning there in a way that Percy has never experienced with someone else. Not with any of the women he's dated, not with the handful of hookups he's had over the years. Nothing has ever felt as right as the sound of Rath saying his name like a prayer.
It's wrong, though. Because Percy is the team captain, responsible for maintaining team chemistry and ensuring everyone feels safe and respected. Because Rath is impressionable, and young, and probably more than a little confused about what he wants, what any of it means.
And Percy has never done anything like this before, especially not with a teammate. He's always been careful to keep his professional and personal lives separate, has prided himself on his ability to lead without favoritism or inappropriate entanglements. But none of that excuses what he's done, does it?
The worst part is how good it felt to let go, to stop being Captain Percy Killinger for a few minutes and just be a man who wants someone desperately. To hear Rath respond to him with such honest desire, such complete trust. Rath gave him everything that night—his vulnerability, his pleasure, his complete focus—and Percy took it all like he had any right to it.
The memory of Rath's voice, shaky and overwhelmed, makes Percy's chest tighten with a combination of arousal and guilt that's becoming all too familiar. Because part of him—a large, shameful part—wants to hear it again. Wants to call Rath back, wants to find out what other sounds he can pull from that smart mouth, wants to discover if the reality of touching him would be even better than the phone call was.
Which only proves how completely he's lost his moral compass where Rath is concerned.
So of course he notices that Rath is off during practice the next morning, but it's not like he can talk to him about it. What is he supposed to say? "Sorry I took advantage of you last night, wantto discuss it in front of the entire team?" The very thought makes his skin crawl.
Instead, he watches helplessly as Rath goes through the motions of practice like he's sleepwalking, his usual fire and creativity dampened to something that looks almost mechanical. Rath's timing is off, his reads are slow, and worst of all, he seems to be actively avoiding Percy's eyes.
During their usual partner drills, Rath is polite and professional in a way that feels like a slap in the face. Gone is the intense focus, the way Rath used to watch Percy's every movement like he was trying to decode some fascinating puzzle. Instead, Rath treats him like any other teammate: respectfully, competently, and with absolutely no trace of the connection that has been building between them.
Percy tries to catch his attention after practice, lingers in the locker room hoping for even just a moment of eye contact, some sign that they can find a way to talk about what happened. But Rath is efficient and distant, packing his gear with mechanical precision and disappearing before Percy can work up the courage to approach him.
And things don't just get better on their own, do they?
The second day is worse. Rath shows up to practice looking like he hasn't slept, dark circles under his eyes and a tension in his jaw that Percy recognizes as barely controlled emotion. During warm-ups, when Percy tries to skate over and ask if he's okay—just normal teammate concern, nothing inappropriate—Rath gives him such a sharp, almost panicked look that Percy immediately backs off.
The message is crystal clear: whatever was between them, Rath wants nothing to do with it now.
