Page 56 of Speak in Fever
Percy stares at his hands, trying to figure out how to explain feelings he's barely admitted to himself. "Look, this is really new, okay? We're still figuring it out."
"That's fine," JP says, and his tone is slightly less confrontational now. "New is fine. But Rath needs to know where he stands with you. He's not going to push for answers because he's scared of scaring you off, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need them."
The insight makes Percy's chest tight with something that might be guilt. Has he been unfair to Rath? Has he been taking advantage of Rath's willingness to let Percy set the pace and define the boundaries?
"You need to talk to him," JP continues, leaning back in his seat but keeping his attention fixed on Percy. "About what this is, what you want it to be. You can't just keep drifting along hoping it'll figure itself out. That's not fair to either of you, but especially not to him."
Percy swallows hard, knowing JP is right but dreading the conversation. "I'll talk to him. When we get back."
"Good." JP's expression shifts from concern to something that looks like satisfaction, and Percy realizes this intervention was planned, not spontaneous. JP has been thinking about this for a while, has been watching them and worrying about Rath and finally decided to do something about it. "And maybe try to be a little more discreet if you don't want this all over the internet by next week."
Percy feels heat rise in his cheeks again. "We've been discreet."
"You've been obvious as hell," JP corrects, and now there's amusement in his voice.
The rest of the flight passes with JP offering what he calls "relationship advice" but what sounds more like friendly threats about treating Rath well mixed with surprisingly insightful observations about Percy's emotional availability issues. By the time they land in Portland, Percy's head is spinning with the knowledge that their hookup is apparently the worst-kept secret in professional hockey and that he's been more transparent about his feelings than he ever intended to be.
He drives home through familiar Portland streets, his mind replaying both last night's post-game celebration with Rath and this afternoon's interrogation by JP. The city looks the same as always—the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the residential neighborhoods, the familiar landmarks that mark his route home—but Percy feels different, like something fundamental has shifted in the past few hours.
JP's words echo in his head: "You need to talk to him about what this is, what you want it to be."
The problem is, Percy doesn't know what he wants it to be. He knows what it feels like—intense and consuming and more significant than anything he's experienced before. He knows that thinking about Rath makes his chest tight with want and something deeper that he's not ready to name. He knows that the idea of this ending makes him feel hollowed out in ways that surprise him.
But wanting and knowing what to do about that want are two different things, and Percy has never been good at the emotional navigation required for serious relationships.
When he finally makes it to his house, he takes his shoes off at the door, throws his travel bags in his bedroom to rot on the floor for a few hours, and immediately texts Rath:Just got home. Want to come over for dinner?
The reply comes back within a minute:Yeah. Give me twenty.
The quick response makes something warm unfurl in Percy's chest. Rath doesn't hesitate, doesn't play games or make Percy wonder if he's interested. He just says yes, like spending the evening together is exactly what he wants to be doing.
Here's the thing: Percy doesn't do relationships.
He doesn't do casual hookups either, for that matter, at least not anymore. Percy almost exclusively plays hockey, and when he's poured his heart and soul into his training and his game, there's not a lot left to give to another person. He's given up on finding someone who understands his grueling schedule, his trainer-directed diet, his strict routines that keep him grounded, and the traveling that happens for months on end. It's hard to ask someone to accept all those things and also find something about him worth dealing with it for, so he stopped trying a while ago.
His dating history is a series of relationships that started with promise and ended with some variation of "you care more about hockey than you do about me," which was usually true. Percy has always been single-minded in his focus, dedicated to his craft in ways that don't leave much room for romantic complications.
But this thing with Rath is new in a lot of ways that scare him.
He's never been with someone who makes his blood pulse hot through his veins with one scorching look across the ice, and he doesn't know what to do with that intensity now that he's allowed to want it.
He wants Rath desperately, in ways that feel both physical and emotional and completely outside his previous experience. He wants to spread him out on his bed and discover every sound he can make, every way to make him gasp and arch and fall apart. He wants to take him apart piece by piece and then slowly put him back together. He wants to find out all the things that make Rath tick, wants to watch him win games and score goals and become the player Percy knows he can be. He wants—
It feels serious, is the thing. They've only hooked up a handful of times, and it already feels sudden and too soon and overwhelming. The things Rath makes him feel are more complicated than they should be from a casual arrangement with a teammate. Rath makes him feel things he's never felt before, makes him want things he's never wanted.
So he knows they should talk. JP is right about that. But Percy doesn't know how to talk about feelings, has never been good at the emotional vocabulary required for serious conversations. He's had plenty of girlfriends leave him for his inability to prioritize them, and he's had plenty more leave because he can't voice what it is about them he's even interested in beyond the physical. He's just bad at emotions—not feeling them, but knowing what to do with them, how to translate internal experience into words that might make sense to another person.
The kitchen provides a welcome distraction from his spiraling thoughts. Percy goes through his fridge and finds enough ingredients to make some sort of grilled chicken with whole wheat pasta and marinara sauce—nothing fancy, but solid fuel that fits within his nutritional requirements. He's methodical about the preparation, finding comfort in the routine of cooking, the simple pleasure of creating something nourishing.
He's just finishing plating the food when he hears the doorbell and goes to let Rath in.
"Did you make food?" Rath asks, eyes widening as he steps into the entryway and kicks off his shoes.
"Of course I made food," Percy says, closing the door behind him. "What did you think we were going to eat?"
"I don't know. Protein bars? Sadness?" Rath grins, and the expression transforms his entire face. "This smells amazing."
Rath looks good—relaxed and comfortable in jeans and a soft gray hoodie that brings out his eyes. His hair is still slightly damp from his post-flight shower, and Percy can smell hisshampoo, that clean scent that's become associated with comfort and want and home in ways that should probably worry him.
