Page 27 of Speak in Fever
Percy spends that entire practice fighting the urge to grab Rath by the shoulders and demand they talk about it. The rational part of his brain knows that would be the worstpossible approach, would only make Rath feel more cornered and uncomfortable. But watching Rath struggle through drills, seeing the way his confidence seems to have evaporated overnight, is killing Percy.
Because this is exactly what he was afraid of. This is why there are rules about fraternization, why smart captains keep their distance from teammates who look at them with stars in their eyes. Not because the attraction itself is wrong, but because when it inevitably goes south, it damages more than just the two people involved. It damages the team.
And Percy let it happen anyway.
The guilt is eating him alive, made worse by the fact that every time he looks at Rath, part of him still wants him desperately. Still remembers exactly how Rath sounded when he was falling apart, still wonders what it would be like to kiss him properly instead of just listening to him come undone over the phone.
Which makes Percy a selfish bastard on top of everything else.
By the third practice, Rath looks like a different person entirely. The cocky, challenging young player who's been pushing Percy's buttons and driving him crazy in the best possible way has been replaced by someone going through the motions. Rath follows directions without argument, executes plays without creativity, and speaks only when directly addressed.
It's like watching someone's personality get systematically erased, and Percy knows he's responsible for it.
The team is starting to notice. JP keeps shooting worried looks at Rath during breaks, clearly wanting to ask what's wrong but respecting Rath's obvious desire to be left alone. Torres makes a few attempts at his usual joking around, but when Rath's responses are flat and distracted, even Torres backs off. Martinez, who rarely comments on team dynamics, asks Percy if everything is okay with "the kid."
Percy lies and says he thinks Rath is just working through some personal stuff, that it will probably resolve itself soon. But even as he says it, he knows it isn't true. This isn't the kind of problem that will resolve itself. This is the kind of problem that festers until it poisons everything around it.
And still, Percy can't figure out how to fix it without making it worse.
He considers approaching Rath directly, cornering him after practice and demanding they clear the air. But every time he imagines that conversation, it ends with Rath feeling more uncomfortable, more trapped. The power dynamic between them makes any attempt at discussion feel inherently coercive. How can Rath say no to his captain? How can he express his real feelings without worrying about repercussions?
Percy also considers talking to Coach Reeves, maybe asking for advice without getting into specifics. But what would he say? "I crossed a line with one of our players and now everything's fucked up"? That would raise questions Percy isn't prepared to answer, questions that could end his captaincy and potentially damage Rath's position on the team.
So he does nothing, watches helplessly as the situation deteriorates and hates himself more with each passing hour.
The breaking point comes after practice on the third day, when Coach Reeves pulls Percy aside as the rest of the team heads to the locker room.
"We need to talk," Coach says, his expression serious in a way that makes Percy's stomach drop.
They walk to Coach's office in silence, Percy's mind racing through possible scenarios. Does Coach know what happened? Has someone seen or heard something? Is Percy about to lose his captaincy, his position on the team, everything he's worked for?
Coach closes the door behind them and gestures for Percy to sit, but Percy is too agitated to settle. He stands in front of Coach's desk, hands clenched at his sides, waiting for the axe to fall.
"What the hell is going on with you and Platts?" Coach asks without preamble.
Percy's heart stops. "What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Percy. Three days ago, you two had the best chemistry I've seen between teammates in years. Today, Rath played like he was afraid of his own shadow, and you looked like you were at a funeral. So I'll ask again: what's going on?"
Percy stares at Coach, trying to determine how much he knows, how much he suspects. Coach's expression is stern but not accusatory—more concerned than angry. Maybe he doesn't know the specifics. Maybe Percy can find a way to explain without revealing the full truth.
"We had a... disagreement," Percy says carefully. "Personal stuff. It's affecting our ability to work together."
"Personal stuff." Coach's tone is flat, unimpressed. "Care to elaborate?"
"It's complicated."
"I'm sure it is." Coach leans back in his chair, studying Percy with sharp eyes. "Let me tell you what I see. I see my best young player suddenly playing like he's scared of making mistakes. I see my team captain distracted and miserable. And I see what was shaping up to be one of our strongest partnerships completely falling apart."
The silence stretches between them, heavy with implication. Percy feels exposed, like Coach can see right through all his carefully constructed defenses.
"I don't need to know the details," Coach says finally. "But I need you to figure your shit out. It's affecting the team."
Percy nods miserably. "I know. I'm trying to—"
"Try harder." Coach's voice is firm but not unkind. "Rath is a good kid with a lot of potential. Don't let whatever this is mess that up for him."
The implication is clear: Percy is the one with power in this situation, Percy is the one responsible for fixing it. Which is exactly what Percy has been telling himself for three days, but hearing it from Coach makes it feel more real, more urgent.
