Page 31 of Speak in Fever
The admission hangs between them, heavier than Percy intended. He can see the exact moment when the words hit Rath, when understanding dawns in his expression like sunrise after the longest night.
"Oh." There's a familiar dusting of pink across Rath's cheekbones that isn't the flush of anger anymore, but something softer, more vulnerable. He relaxes finally, the fight goes out of him all at once, and Percy reluctantly lets him go and takes a step back, now that it seems like he isn't in any danger of running off again. Rath stares at him for a long moment, breathing regulated, his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that Percy finds himself unconsciously matching.
For once in his life, Rath Platts seems to be at a loss for words.
Percy knows this is the moment when Rath could bring up what happened on the phone. There's no better time than now, no better opening. The air between them is charged with possibility and danger in equal measure. Rath could ask what it meant, what Percy was thinking, what exactly Percy thought he was doing getting off to the sound of Rath's voice. He could demand explanations that Percy isn't sure he's ready to give, could push for clarity about feelings that Percy himself doesn't fully understand.
But, for whatever reason, Rath doesn't go down that road. He doesn't ask about what happened between them, doesn't demand accountability for the intimacy they shared. Doesn't accuse Percy of anything else or demand explanations that would put Percy's status on the team—and his own peace of mind—in real jeopardy.
Instead, he rocks back on his heels, hands sliding back into his pockets, and looks finally at ease for the first time all week. The harsh lines of tension that have been carved into his features for days start to soften, and Percy feels something loosen in his own chest in response.
"Being on the ice with you is all I wanted," Rath says quietly, instead of any of the hundreds of things Percy is afraid he would say.
The simple words hit Percy with unexpected force. Not just the agreement, but the trust implicit in them—the willingness to believe Percy, to take him at his word despite everything that's happened. It's more than Percy deserves, and he knows it.
Percy doesn't think he's getting off that easily from this whole mess—there are still too many unresolved things between them, too many questions that need to be answered eventually. But he's grateful that they won't hash it all out at this exact moment, in this alley behind a bar with the distant sound of traffic and other people's conversations providing an inadequate soundtrack for the kind of conversation they'll need to have.
"Come back inside and I'll buy you a beer," Percy says, as a peace offering. The words feel inadequate for the magnitude of what just passed between them, but they're a start. "We can discuss line formations for next week."
"Riveting conversation as usual from you," Rath chirps, but there's a glint in his eye that's more playful than anything, the first hint of his usual sharp humor that Percy has seen in days. It feels really, really good to see it—like catching sight of the sun after a week of storms.
As they make their way back through the bar, Percy can see the other teammates notice their return, the subtle way the tension in the room shifts now that whatever was wrong between their captain and Rath seems to have been resolved. Torres catcheshis eye from across the room and raises his beer in a small salute, and Percy finds himself almost smiling in response.
They claim a small table in a corner that's quiet enough for conversation but public enough to feel safe, and Percy signals the bartender for two beers. When they arrive, Rath takes a long sip and then looks at Percy with something that might be curiosity.
"So," he says, his voice careful but no longer hostile, "first power play, huh?"
"You earned it," Percy says simply. "Your instincts get better every game, your positioning is solid, and you have the best shot accuracy on the team after JP."
Rath flushes slightly at the praise, but he doesn't deflect it the way he usually does. Instead he nods thoughtfully, already turning the conversation toward strategy. "What kind of formations were you thinking? Because I had some ideas about how we could improve our zone entry..."
And just like that, they're back to talking hockey, the familiar rhythm of strategic discussion providing a safe harbor after the emotional storm of the past few days. It's not a complete resolution—Percy knows there are still things they need to address, conversations they need to have about boundaries and expectations and what exactly they are to each other. But for now, it's enough to sit across from each other and plan plays, to watch the animation return to Rath's face as he sketches out formations on cocktail napkins, to feel like teammates again.
Even if Percy is increasingly certain that what he wants from Rath goes far beyond anything that can be contained within the neat boundaries of team dynamics.
Chapter 10
Rath is sprawled across his couch with his phone pressed to his ear, listening to his mom's voice provide the kind of grounding he desperately needs after yesterday's disaster at O'Malley's. The familiar rhythm of her speech, the way she seamlessly transitions between family updates and gentle interrogation, reminds him there's a world outside of hockey where he's just Emma's little brother and Mike and Linda's son.
"—and your sister finally heard back about that job interview," she's saying, her voice warm. "Turns out they loved her portfolio. She starts Monday."
"That's awesome," Rath says. His sister Emma has been job hunting for months after finishing her graphic design degree, sending out applications and sitting through interviews while working part-time at a coffee shop and slowly draining her savings account. Hearing good news about anyone in his family always makes his chest feel lighter. "Tell her I said congratulations."
"I will. She's been following your stats online, you know. Keeps sending me articles about your assists and talking about how proud she is."
Rath grins, settling deeper into the couch cushions. Emma has been his biggest supporter since he started playing organized hockey at eight years old, never missing a game when they were kids, calling after every professional game to dissect his performance with the enthusiasm of someone who actually understands the sport. "She doesn't have to do that."
"Of course she does. We all do." His mom's voice carries that particular tone of maternal pride that never fails to make Rath feel simultaneously embarrassed and deeply loved. "Your father recorded last week's game and watched your goal three times in slow motion. He keeps talking about your wrist shot technique."
The image of his dad rewinding game footage to analyze Rath's goals makes him laugh despite the lingering tension from yesterday. His father played hockey through college but never professionally, and he's been Rath's unofficial skills coach since childhood, always ready with technical advice about shot placement and skating stride.
"Speaking of which, your father wants to know if you're eating enough vegetables."
"Mom, I'm 21 years old and a professional athlete. I think I can manage my nutrition."
"That's not an answer, Rath Michael Platts."
The use of his full name makes him laugh despite himself. His mom has been pulling that move since he was five years old, and it still works to get his attention. "Yes, I'm eating vegetables. The team nutritionist would probably tackle me if I didn't."
