Page 68 of Speak in Fever
"Percy, no," Rath tries to call out, but his voice comes out as more of a wheeze. His ribs are still protesting every breath, and he doesn't have enough air to make himself heard over the noise of the arena.
Percy either doesn't hear him or chooses not to listen. He drops his gloves before he even reaches the Colorado defenseman, the sound of them hitting the ice like punctuation marks in a sentence that's about to turn violent. Percy grabs Warren's jersey with both hands and yanks him into a confrontation that's clearly not going to end well.
"What the hell was that?" Percy snarls, his face inches from his opponent's. Even through his cage, Rath can see the fury in Percy's expression, the way his eyes have gone hard and dangerous.
"Clean hit, man," Warren replies, but he's already dropping his own gloves because Percy's intent is unmistakable. There's a slight smile on Warren's face that suggests he's not entirely unhappy about this turn of events—fighting the captain is the kind of story you tell in bars for years afterward.
The referee is skating toward them, whistle raised, but he's not going to get there in time. In hockey, once the gloves are dropped and the jerseys are grabbed, the fight is going to happen whether the officials like it or not.
Warren throws the first real punch, a right hook that catches Percy on the shoulder as he ducks. Percy responds immediately, grabbing Warren's jersey tighter and landing a solid uppercut to the bigger man's ribs. They grapple for position, both trying to get the leverage advantage, their skates scraping against the ice as they balance and counterpunch.
The Colorado player is bigger and more experienced at fighting, and it shows—Percy gets a few good shots in, landing a particularly solid punch to Warren's jaw that snaps the defenseman's head back, but he's taking more than he's giving. Warren has the reach advantage and knows how to use it, keeping Percy at distance while landing jabs to his face and body.
Percy's jersey gets pulled up over his head and suddenly he's fighting blind while Warren gets in several hard shots to his ribs and the side of his face. Rath watches, horrified, as Percy stumbles slightly under the barrage but keeps throwing punches, most of them missing their mark now.
The crowd is on its feet, that primal roar that accompanies every hockey fight. Both benches are standing, players banging their sticks against the boards in support of their respective fighters. The linesmen are circling like sharks, waiting for the right moment to intervene without getting caught in the crossfire.
"Come on, Cap!" Torres shouts from the bench, and half the team takes up the chant.
But Rath can see that Percy is in trouble. Warren lands a particularly hard shot to Percy's jaw that makes his captain's knees buckle slightly, and Rath feels sick watching it.
Finally, mercifully, the linesmen move in. It takes two of them to separate the fighters, their whistles shrieking as they wrestle Warren and Percy apart. Warren's jersey is torn and there's blood on his knuckles, but he's relatively unmarked. Percy, on the other hand, looks like he went through a blender.
When the fight finally ends, Percy's lip is split and bleeding freely, there's blood on his white away jersey—his own, from the look of it—and a nasty cut above his left eyebrow that's going to need attention. But despite all that, his eyes immediately find Rath across the ice.
The concern in Percy's expression, the way he fights against the referee trying to escort him to the penalty box so he can check on Rath—it hits Rath like another check, this one straight to the chest where all his feelings live.
Percy still cares about him. Despite their fight in the parking lot, despite the cold professionalism of the past two days, despite being unable to voice what he's actually feeling—Percy just fought a guy thirty pounds heavier than him because Rath got hit.
"I'm okay," Rath manages to call out, finally getting his breathing under control enough to push himself up to his knees. The effort makes his ribs scream, but he needs Percy to see that he's functional. "I'm okay, Percy."
Percy stops fighting the referee long enough to really look at Rath, taking in his upright position and coherent speech. Some of the panic leaves his expression, replaced by what looks like embarrassment as he realizes what he's just done. The adrenaline is clearly wearing off, and Percy seems to beregistering the pain from his various cuts and bruises for the first time.
The penalties sort themselves out—five minutes for fighting for both players, plus Percy gets an additional two minutes for instigating since he initiated the confrontation. As he's escorted off the ice, Percy glances back at Rath one more time, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that makes Rath's chest ache.
The crowd is still buzzing as play resumes, but the energy has shifted. Colorado fans are happy about the fight—their guy got the better of it, after all—but there's a tension in the arena now that wasn't there before. Everyone can sense that something significant just happened, even if they don't understand exactly what.
Rath skates to the bench under his own power, waving off the trainer's immediate attention. His ribs are going to be sore tomorrow, and there's definitely going to be bruising, but nothing's broken. He's had worse.
"Jesus, Rath, you scared us there for a minute," Martinez says as Rath settles onto the bench. "That was a hell of a hit."
"I'm fine," Rath mutters, though he's still breathing carefully. Each inhalation sends a sharp reminder through his ribcage, but he can live with it.
"I haven't seen Cap fight anyone since rookie year," Torres observes as they watch Percy disappear into the penalty box. "And even then it was because someone was chirping about his girlfriend."
The comment makes Rath's stomach clench. Percy doesn't have a girlfriend anymore—hasn't had one since they started whatever it is they've been doing—but the implication is clear. Percy fought Warren because of Rath, and that's not the kind of thing captains typically do for just any teammate.
Rath watches Percy through the penalty box glass, sees him slumped forward with his head in his hands, probably realizing how stupid and impulsive his reaction was. Fighting rarely accomplishes anything productive in hockey, and a captain fighting because his teammate got checked is the kind of emotional response that raises questions.
The team trainer finally makes it over during a stoppage in play, crouching beside Rath on the bench to do a quick assessment.
"Scale of one to ten?" he asks, probing gently along Rath's ribs.
"Four," Rath lies. It's more like a six, maybe a seven when he moves the wrong way, but he's not coming out of this game.
"Concussion protocol?"
"I'm fine. I landed on my ass, not my head."
