Page 4 of Speak in Fever
"Looking good out there, rookie," Terrible calls out during a water break, using the nickname that has stuck despite Rath being in his second year.
"Thanks, old man," Rath shoots back with a grin. "Try not to throw out your back on the next drill."
The chirping is good-natured, the kind of team bonding that Percy usually tries to encourage. But something about watching Rath fit in so effortlessly with everyone else makes Percy feel isolated in a way that is both familiar and painful.
As practice winds down, Coach gathers them at center ice for individual skill work—one-on-one battles, breakaway attempts, the kind of competitive drills that let players showcase their abilities while building game-situation intensity.
Percy feels a jolt of anticipation mixed with anxiety as he skates to center ice. One-on-one battles are pure hockey—no system, no structure, just skill and will and the kind of competitive fire that separates good players from great ones. It is also exactly the kind of situation where Rath's individual talents will be on full display.
They line up facing each other, and Percy is struck by how small Rath looks compared to him. Four inches taller and probably thirty pounds heavier, Percy should have every advantage. But he has learned not to underestimate Rath's ability to compete against bigger opponents.
"Winner takes it," Coach says, dropping the puck between them.
Percy wins the draw cleanly, pulling the puck back and trying to establish body position between Rath and the goal. But Rath is quick, quicker than Percy remembers, and he uses his lower center of gravity to get underneath Percy's reach and strip the puck away.
For a moment they are locked together, battling for position, and Percy is acutely aware of the solid warmth of Rath's body against his, the way Rath's muscles tense with effort, the faint scent of his shampoo mixing with sweat and the clean smell of ice. It is distracting in a way he’s not used to dealing with, and Percy almost misses Rath's subtle move to the backhand.
Almost. But Percy has years of experience reading players, and he manages to stay with Rath as he cuts toward the goal, their bodies still pressed together as they battle for space and possession. The physical contact should be just another part of the game, but something about the way Rath's shoulder presses against his chest makes Percy's breath catch.
Rath manages to get a shot off—a quick wrist shot that Harley just manages to glove—but Percy has disrupted the play enough to prevent a clean scoring chance. They crash into the boardsbehind the goal, and for a moment they are tangled together, Rath pinned between Percy and the glass.
"Good battle," Percy says, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing from more than just exertion.
Rath looks up at him and licks his lips. "Thanks, Captain."
The words are said without sarcasm for once, and Percy feels something shift in his chest. This close, he can count the faint freckles across his nose, can notice the way his lips part slightly as he catches his breath.
"Alright, nice work," Coach calls out, breaking the moment. "Next group up."
They separate and skate away, but Percy can feel the lingering warmth where their bodies have been pressed together, can still smell the faint scent of Rath's soap. He tries to shake off the distraction and focus on the rest of practice, but finds his attention drifting back to Rath again and again.
Watching Rath work with the other players, seeing the way he elevates their games and brings out the best in his linemates, Percy has to admit that maybe there is more than one way to approach the game. Maybe his own rigid adherence to system and structure isn't the only path to success.
The thought is uncomfortable, challenging assumptions Percy has built his entire career on. He has always prided himself on being a student of the game, on understanding hockey from every angle. But maybe he has gotten too comfortable with his own approach, too inflexible in his thinking.
"Good practice, everyone," Coach calls as they gather at center ice for the post-practice talk. "Looking sharp out there. Conditioning looks good, systems are coming back to you. Platts, nice work on those line rushes. Keep that up."
Percy watches as Rath's entire posture straightens at the praise, and feels something protective and possessive twist in his chest. Rath works harder than anyone on the team, stays laterthan anyone else, and takes more punishment than players twice his size without complaint. The fact that he is finally getting recognition for it shouldn't make Percy feel so satisfied, but it does.
"Same time tomorrow," Coach continues. "And gentlemen? Season starts in two weeks. I want to see that same energy and focus every single day until then. We've got the talent to make some noise this year, but talent without commitment means nothing. Show me you want it."
The team begins dispersing toward the locker room, but Percy finds himself skating slowly, his mind still churning over the practice.
When he looks up, Rath is waiting for him at the gate, helmet off and hair sticking up at odd angles from sweat. Without the helmet, he looks younger, more approachable, and Percy feels that familiar tug of attraction mixed with frustration.
"So," Rath says, falling into step beside him as they make their way off the ice. "How'd I do, Captain? Meet your exacting standards?"
The sarcasm in his voice is barely concealed, but there is something underneath it that sounds almost like genuine curiosity, like he actually cares what Percy thinks despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise.
Percy feels his shoulders tense. "You've got talent. But talent means nothing if you can't play within a system."
"Right. The system." Rath's tone is flat, and Percy catches the flash of something that might be disappointment before it is covered by that familiar defensive edge. "The same system that got you guys knocked out in the first round last year?"
Percy stops walking, turning to face Rath directly. The kid is smaller than him, but he doesn't back down an inch, meeting Percy's stare with those defiant green eyes that seem to see right through him. This close, Percy can see the flush still high onRath's cheekbones. The proximity makes something unfamiliar twist in Percy's stomach, watching the way Rath's lips part slightly when he is challenging someone.
"That system has kept this team competitive for four years," Percy says, his voice dangerously quiet. "It's built on trust and communication, not individual heroics."
"And how's that working out for your Cup chances?" Rath's chin tilts up slightly as he speaks, and Percy finds himself staring at the sharp line of his jaw, at the way the locker room lights catch the gold flecks in his eyes, at the stubborn set of his mouth that Percy has spent far too much time thinking about.
