Page 28 of Speak in Fever
Chapter 9
Percy doesn't know how he will fix things when he arrives at the facility, early as always, two days later. The drive over tortures him, his mind cycles through a dozen different approaches and discards them all as inadequate. Things are getting progressively worse and he knows if he doesn't do something soon it will all fall apart—not just whatever this thing is between him and Rath, but the entire team dynamic they spent months building.
The locker room is quieter than usual when Percy enters, with only a few early arrivals who go through their pre-practice routines. The familiar sounds of equipment being sorted and gear being adjusted provide a backdrop of normalcy that feels almost mocking given the tension that has suffocated the team for days. Percy heads to his stall and begins his normal equipment preparation, tries to shake off the uneasy feeling that has followed him since Tuesday like a shadow he can't escape.
He's methodically organizing his gear when he becomes aware of someone approaching. The footsteps are deliberate, measured in a way that immediately puts Percy on edge.
"We need to talk."
Percy looks up to find JP standing beside his stall, arms crossed and wearing the expression of someone who has reached the end of his patience. There's something in JP's posture that suggests this conversation should have happened a long time ago, and Percy's stomach immediately tightens with dread.
"Morning to you too," Percy says, continuing to organize his gear with forced casualness. "Talk about what?"
"About whatever the hell you said to Rath that made him shut down completely." JP's voice is quiet but sharp, carries the particular edge of someone who has watched a situation deteriorate and finally decided to intervene. Percy feels like he's been doused in ice cold water, the words hitting him with the force of a body check he doesn't see coming. "I talked to him. I know you’re the one responsible."
Percy's hands stop on his equipment, his fingers tighten around the tape he's unwinding. The casual normalcy of the moment—the familiar weight of his gear, the smell of the locker room, the distant sound of skates on concrete—suddenly feels surreal against the gravity of JP's words.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Percy says, but even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they sound hollow. Unconvincing.
"Bullshit." JP moves closer, lowers his voice so their conversation won't carry to the other players who are filtering in, their voices creating a buffer of white noise around them. "He heard, okay? He heard what you said about how he doesn't deserve to be on the team."
Percy's stomach drops and he feels suddenly very, very confused. The words don't make sense, don't align with anything he remembers saying or thinking. "What? I never—"
"He heard you, Cap. Wednesday morning, before practice. You and Coach were discussing him." JP's tone carries the particular frustration of someone who has watched a friend get hurt unnecessarily, someone who's been picking up the pieces of someone else's careless words. "Now he thinks you pretended to work with him while actually trying to get him demoted or traded."
The accusation hits Percy like a physical blow. The idea that Rath could think—could believe that Percy would—it's so far from the truth that for a moment Percy can't even process it. "That's not—" Percy stops, his mind races back to Wednesday morning, tries to remember what conversation JP could be referring to. The memory is there, just out of reach, like trying to grab something through water. "Yeah, I talked to Coach about Rath, but it was about moving him to first power play. Why would I want him off the team?"
The words come out more desperate than Percy intends, and he sees something shift in JP's expression—surprise, maybe, or confusion.
"Then what does he think he heard?" JP interrupts, his voice carries a note of genuine bewilderment now. "Because whatever it was, it devastated him. He's convinced you want him gone. I've never seen him like this, Percy. He's usually so resilient, bounces back from everything, but this—this broke something in him."
Percy stares at JP, his brain frantically tries to process this information. The pieces feel scattered, like a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Wednesday morning, before practice, talked to Coach about Rath... The memory is there, teases at the edges of his consciousness, and then suddenly it hits him with sickening clarity.
"Oh shit," Percy breathes, the words come out as barely more than a whisper. "He thinks I was talking about him."
JP's expression shifts from anger to confusion, his eyebrows draw together. "What?"
"I told Coach that Miller wasn't ready for the team," Percy says urgently, the pieces clicking into place with the kind of horrible inevitability of watching a car accident unfold in slow motion. "He must have arrived early and thought I was talking about him." The realization makes him feel physically sick. He can picture it so clearly now—Rath arriving early, the way he always does when he's nervous about something, overhearing fragments of a conversation and drawing the worst possible conclusion.
"Why didn't he just ask you about it?" JP looks at him, genuinely confused. "Rath usually confronts you about everything."
Because I just spent an entire night coaxing him to orgasm by saying how amazing I think he is,Percy thinks but clearly can't fucking say.The memory of that phone call—the heat in Rath's voice, the way he responded to Percy's words, the intimacy they shared across the distance—crashes over him like a wave. If Rath thought Percy did it as a joke, that he really didn't think he was good enough to be on their team—
The betrayal Rath must have felt. The humiliation. Percy's chest tightens with a guilt so sharp it's almost physical.
"I have to talk to him," Percy says, starts to stand, desperate to fix this, to explain, to make Rath understand that everything he said that night was real, was true.
"Not here," JP warns, catches Percy's arm with a firm grip. "Not in front of the team. He'll lose it."
Percy follows JP's gaze across the room and sees what he means. Rath is there, going through his pre-practice routine with mechanical precision. His movements are controlled andprofessional, but there's something brittle about his composure, like he's one wrong word away from either exploding or completely shutting down. There's a tension in his shoulders that Percy recognizes, the same tension he carries when he's trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will.
"After practice then," Percy says, though the thought of waiting feels almost unbearable. "I'll explain what really happened, clear this up."
"Good," JP nods, but there's still worry in his expression.
Practice is torture. Every drill feels like it stretches on forever, every moment an exercise in restraint as Percy tries to find the balance between acting normal and desperately wanting to fix things with Rath. Every time Percy tries to approach Rath for anything beyond necessary tactical communication, Rath finds an excuse to be somewhere else. He's not obvious about it—Rath is too professional for that—but the avoidance is systematic and thorough.
During drills, Rath executes everything perfectly and soullessly, his usual fire and creativity replaced by mechanical precision. He responds to Percy's input with "yes, sir" and "understood" in a tone that's polite and completely devoid of warmth. It's like watching someone perform an impression of Rath Platts rather than the real thing.
