Page 75 of Speak in Fever
Epilogue
The season ends with a playoff loss that stings but doesn't devastate—they'd made it further than anyone expected, played with the kind of chemistry and determination that promises better things ahead. The final game had been a heart-breaker, going to double overtime before a deflected puck found its way past Harley, but there had been no shame in the loss. They'd fought hard, played smart hockey, and proven to themselves and everyone else that they belonged among the elite teams.
In the locker room afterward, there had been tears, and Percy had given his captain's speech about pride and growth and the foundation they'd built for next year, but his eyes had kept finding Rath across the room. Rath, who had played some of the best hockey of his career in the playoffs, who had become not just Percy's linemate but his anchor both on and off the ice.
Now, in the quiet of Percy's house two days after elimination, the weight of impending summer separation sits between themlike an unwelcome third presence. The house feels different with the season officially over—less like a temporary stop between practices and games, more like a real space where they have to figure out who they are to each other when hockey isn't there to define their relationship.
Rath is sprawled across Percy's couch, still in his practice clothes from their final team meeting earlier that afternoon. The meeting had been brief—equipment turn-in, exit interviews scheduled, summer training expectations outlined. The kind of administrative wrap-up that makes the end of a season feel bureaucratic rather than meaningful. Rath had been quiet during the meeting, participating when necessary but mostly just listening with the particular exhaustion that comes after months of intensity suddenly grinding to a halt.
He's staring at the ceiling now, one arm thrown over his eyes in a gesture that's become familiar to Percy over the months they've been together. It's Rath's thinking pose, the way he processes big emotions or complicated situations. Percy has learned to recognize it, learned to give Rath the space to work through whatever is churning in his head before trying to intervene.
"So this is the part that sucks," Rath says, his voice carrying the weight of something more than just seasonal disappointment. "The ending part."
Percy looks up from where he's been pretending to read contract paperwork at his kitchen table—documents from his agent about next year's negotiations that he hasn't been able to focus on since sitting down. The numbers and clauses blur together anyway; his attention keeps drifting to Rath on the couch, to the way the late afternoon light filters through the blinds and catches on his hair.
"The season ending?" Percy asks, though he suspects the answer is more complicated than that.
"The not knowing when I'll see you again part." Rath's voice is carefully casual, but Percy can hear the vulnerability underneath, the fear that he's trying to downplay. "I mean, I know we'll text and call and everything, but it won't be the same."
There it is—the thing they've both been avoiding talking about for weeks. The elephant in the room that's been growing larger as the season wound down, the question of what happens when they don't have the structure of practices and games and team obligations to bring them together every day.
They haven't talked about summer plans beyond vague mentions of family visits and training schedules. Percy knows Rath's family lives in Minnesota, knows there will be expectations for him to come home and spend time with them. Percy's own plans have been similarly undefined—Michigan, his parents' house, the familiar routine of off-season training that he's followed since he was fifteen.
It's the elephant in the room that neither of them has been ready to address—what happens to their relationship when hockey isn't there to structure their time together, when they're not seeing each other every day, when the careful boundaries they've built around their secret start to feel less necessary and more like barriers.
"How long has it been since we went a day without seeing each other?" Rath continues, still not moving his arm from his eyes. "I can't even remember. October, maybe?"
Percy thinks about it and realizes Rath is right. Even on days when they didn't have official team activities, they'd found reasons to be together. Film sessions that turned into dinner, gear maintenance that turned into movie nights, training sessions that turned into lazy afternoons in Percy's house. Somewhere along the way, being together had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a necessity.
"October," Percy confirms. "When you had that stomach bug and Coach made you stay home for three days."
"God, those were the worst three days," Rath says with a weak laugh. "Not just because I felt like death, but because I kept reaching for my phone to text you about stupid stuff and then remembering you were probably at practice."
The confession hits Percy harder than it should. He remembers those three days too, remembers how wrong everything had felt without Rath there. Practice had been off, his passes finding empty space where Rath should have been. Even team meals had felt incomplete, missing Rath's quiet commentary and subtle humor.
Percy sets down his papers—he wasn't reading them anyway—and walks over to the couch. Rath shifts automatically to make room, and Percy settles beside him, close enough that their thighs touch. The contact is warm and familiar, but it carries an edge of desperation now, as if they're both trying to memorize the feeling before it becomes a memory.
"What if you didn't have to wonder?" Percy asks quietly, the words coming out before he's fully decided to say them.
Rath finally moves his arm from his eyes, turning to look at Percy with curiosity and something that might be hope. "What do you mean?"
Percy's heart hammers against his ribs as he works up the courage to voice what he's been thinking about for weeks. The idea has been growing in the back of his mind since the playoffs started, gaining strength with each passing day. "I mean, what if you came home with me? To Michigan. For the summer."
Rath goes very still against him, his green eyes widening. "Home with you?"
"I know it's a big ask," Percy says quickly, the words coming out in a rush now that he's started. The proposal sounds insane when he says it out loud—presumptuous and overwhelming andprobably too much too fast. "I know you probably have plans with your family, and I know it would mean meeting my parents, and I know it's not exactly keeping things low-key anymore—"
"Percy." Rath sits up so he can look at Percy directly, his expression shifting from surprise to something more complex. "Are you asking me to spend the summer with you? Like, the whole summer?"
"If you want to. If it doesn't mess up your training schedule too much. If your family won't hate me for stealing you away." Percy struggles to find words for what he's feeling, for the growing certainty that he doesn't want to go through a summer of wondering and missing and trying to maintain their connection across state lines. "I just—I don't want to go three months without seeing you."
Rath's smile starts slow and becomes radiant, transforming his entire face in a way that makes Percy's chest tight with affection. "You want me to meet your family."
"I want you to meet my family," Percy confirms, and saying it out loud makes it feel real in a way that terrifies and thrills him in equal measure. "I want to show you where I grew up, take you to my favorite places, have you there when I'm doing my summer training."
"What would we tell them?" Rath asks, though his tone suggests he's already considering the possibility seriously. "Your parents, I mean. What would we say we are?"
It's a fair question, and one Percy has been grappling with. They've never explicitly defined their relationship, never put labels on what they've been doing. It's been easier that way, safer somehow, to exist in the undefined space. But meeting family changes things, requires explanations and introductions that can't be vague or ambiguous.
