Page 36 of Speak in Fever
"It's fine," he finds himself saying, because what is the other option? Make a scene? Demand special treatment? Force Percy to deal with the inconvenience because Rath can't handle being in close proximity to his captain?
"Are you sure?" the front desk agent asks. "I'd be happy to help find other options, though I should mention that most alternative accommodations would require a significant taxi ride to your game venue tomorrow."
"I'm sure. Thank you," Rath manages to the phone, then hangs up and turns to face Percy directly.
They look at each other across the hotel room, both clearly trying to figure out how to navigate this situation without acknowledging the obvious awkwardness. Percy has put his glasses back on and reopened his book, but Rath can tell he's not actually reading—his eyes aren't tracking across the page the way they usually do when Percy's focused on something.
"I can sleep on the couch," Rath offers, because that seems like the professional thing to do. Percy has seniority, has been playing professional hockey longer, has earned the right to comfortable accommodations. He can't expect him to sleep on the couch.
"Don't be ridiculous," Percy says immediately, closing his book with more force than necessary. "You'll fuck up your back on that thing, and we have a game tomorrow night. Have you never shared a bed before?"
The question is casual, practical, but it makes Rath's face heat up anyway. Because the truth is, he has shared beds before—with girlfriends, with teammates during junior hockey when accommodations were tight, with his sister when they were kids and someone was sick or scared.
I've never shared a bed with someone I wanted before, Rath thinks to himself, and swallows thickly.
"Right," Rath says instead. "Okay."
Percy nods and gets up to unpack his things, apparently treating this development as a minor logistical adjustment rather than the emotional minefield it represents for Rath. Which is probably the healthy, mature way to handle it, and probably what Rath should be doing instead of standing frozen in the middle of the room trying to figure out how he's going to survive three nights of this.
Percy moves around the room with his usual efficiency, checking that his suits are hanging properly, organizing his toiletries in the bathroom, setting up his laptop on the desk by the window. He's dressed casually—those well-fitted jeans and the gray sweater that looks impossibly soft—but he still moves with the same purposeful precision he brings to everything.
Watching Percy in this domestic context is doing things to Rath's brain that he's not prepared to deal with. There's something intimate about seeing someone organize their personal space, about watching the small rituals that usually happen in private. Percy folds his clothes with military precision, arranges his toiletries in a specific order, plugs his phone charger into the outlet on his preferred side of the bed.
"I'll just..." Rath gestures vaguely toward his suitcase, which is still sitting unopened by the door. "Get unpacked."
"Sure," Percy says, not looking up from whatever he's doing with his practice equipment. "Team meeting's at seven. Dinner after."
Professional, normal conversation about professional, normal things. Rath can do this. He can share a hotel room with Percy like a rational adult human being without making it weird or revealing that he's been having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about his captain.
The problem is that unpacking requires Rath to move around the room, and the room suddenly feels much smaller with Percy in it. Every time Rath needs to access the closet or bathroom,he has to navigate around Percy's presence, hyperaware of the space between them and trying not to let their shoulders brush when they pass each other.
The closet is generous by hotel standards, but it still means they're sharing hanging space, Rath's suits and dress shirts mingling with Percy's in a way that feels more intimate than it should. Percy's clothes smell faintly of his cologne and laundry detergent, and Rath has to resist the urge to linger longer than necessary when he's hanging up his game-day shirt.
Percy, meanwhile, seems completely unbothered by the close quarters. He hangs up his suits with the same methodical precision he brings to everything, organizes his toiletries with military efficiency, and generally behaves like sharing a hotel room with teammates is completely normal.
Which it probably is, for him. Percy's been playing professional hockey for seven years, worked his way up through junior leagues and college hockey before joining the Thunderbirds. He's probably shared rooms with dozens of teammates over the course of his career, probably doesn't think twice about sleeping arrangements or personal space boundaries.
Rath, on the other hand, is trying not to stare at Percy's forearms as he hangs up dress shirts, trying not to notice the way his t-shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for something in the closet, trying not to think about what it's going to be like tonight when they're both lying in the same bed trying to sleep.
Percy has good arms, Rath has always noticed that. Strong and defined from years of hockey training, with a constellation of small scars that tell the story of his career—a thin white line across his left wrist from a skate blade, a small divot near his elbow from a puck that got past his padding, the slightly crookedknuckle on his right hand from a fight in his rookie year that Percy never talks about.
Rath knows these details because he pays attention to Percy in ways that are probably unprofessional, because he's spent hours sitting in meetings and on team flights cataloging the small physical details that make Percy who he is.
"You okay?" Percy asks, and Rath realizes he's been standing in front of his open suitcase for several minutes without actually unpacking anything.
"Fine," Rath says quickly, grabbing a handful of t-shirts and shoving them into a dresser drawer with less care than they deserve. "Just tired from traveling."
Percy studies him for a moment, and Rath has the uncomfortable feeling that his captain can see right through the lie. Percy's always been good at reading people, at knowing when someone's struggling or distracted or not performing at their best. It's part of what makes him such a good captain, but right now it feels like a liability.
But all Percy says is, "You should get some rest before the meeting. It's going to be a long few days."
"Yeah," Rath agrees, grateful for the suggestion. "Good idea."
Except now Percy is settling back on the bed with his book, propping pillows behind his back and making himself comfortable, and Rath realizes that "getting rest" means lying down next to him. On the same mattress. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body and hear the quiet sounds of his breathing.
This is fine. This is totally fine. People share beds all the time without it meaning anything. Rath just needs to treat it like any other practical sleeping arrangement and definitely not think about the way Percy looks relaxed against the pillows, or how the afternoon light from the window catches the goldhighlights in his dark hair and makes him look younger and more approachable than he does in his captain mode.
Percy has taken off his shoes and socks, and Rath can see his bare feet where they're crossed at the ankles. It's such a small, human detail, but it makes Percy seem more real somehow, more accessible. Less like the untouchable team captain and more like just a person who gets comfortable in hotel rooms and reads literary fiction in his spare time.
