Page 6 of Speak in Fever
"Problem with the lines, Cap?" Rath asks, skating over with what he hopes looks like innocent curiosity and not the shameless excuse to get closer that it actually is.
Percy's eyes snap to his, and there's something there that makes Rath's pulse kick up a notch—heat, intensity, something that might be frustration or might be something else entirely. This close, Rath can see the way Percy's jaw ticks when he's trying to control his temper, can notice the slight flush high on his cheekbones that suggests he's working harder than his easy movements would indicate.
"Just making sure everyone understands their role," Percy says, his voice carefully controlled but with an edge underneath that Rath has learned to recognize.
"Oh, I understand my role perfectly." Rath grins, the kind that usually makes coaches either love him or want to strangle him. "Score goals, make plays, look devastatingly handsome doing it. You know, the usual."
For a split second something that might be amusement or surprise flickers across Percy's face, just a glimpse of something natural and real that makes Rath's heart skip. It's gone before Rath can even really get a look at it, but he files the moment away like a treasured secret.
Immediately Percy is stern again, that familiar mask of professional authority sliding back into place. "Your role is to play within the system and follow the game plan."
"Right. The system." Rath lets a little edge creep into his voice, the same frustration that's been building all summer. "The samesystem that had me sitting in the press box while we got knocked out by Dallas last spring?"
The words hang between them like a challenge, and Rath watches Percy's jaw tighten with a satisfaction that probably makes him a terrible person. But he can't help it—Percy is always so controlled, so perfectly composed, and Rath wants nothing more than to unravel him at the seams. To see what Percy looks like when he's not holding himself back, when he's not constantly measuring every word and action against his responsibilities as captain.
"You were in the press box because you couldn't be trusted to stick to your assignments," Percy says, his voice low enough that only Rath can hear. The words should sting—they do sting—but there's something in Percy's tone that suggests the decision hadn't been entirely his choice. "Talent doesn't mean shit if you can't play smart."
Standing this close, Percy is even bigger and broader than he is in Rath's imagination. Rath has to look up to meet his captain's gaze, and he has the completely inappropriate thought about what it would feel like to be pressed up against all of that solid muscle. He's seen Percy lifting weights in the gym during the summer, knows he can bench three hundred easy, and the thought makes heat pool in Rath's stomach in a way that's absolutely not appropriate for the middle of hockey practice.
Still, he shakes the thought off and tilts his chin up defiantly. "Maybe your assignments aren't as smart as you think they are."
Percy's eyes flash with something dangerous, and for a moment Rath thinks he might actually get a real reaction out of him. Percy's control is legendary—Rath has never seen him lose his temper, never seen him let emotion override his judgment. But right now there's fire in his dark eyes that makes Rath's skin feel too tight.
Instead of exploding, Percy's voice drops even lower, almost a growl. "Maybe you need to learn some respect."
The words send an unexpected jolt of heat straight down Rath's spine, and he has to bite back the completely inappropriate and immediate response to tell his captain he'll get on his knees if he wants to teach him a lesson. The thought hits him so suddenly and vividly that he almost chokes on his own tongue, and he's grateful for the cold air that keeps his blush from being too obvious.
That would probably not do a lot for their working professional relationship.
Instead, he settles for his sharpest smile. "Respect is earned, Captain. Not demanded."
Before Percy can respond, Coach's whistle cuts through the tension like a blade, calling them to center ice for the next drill. Rath skates away with his heart hammering against his ribs, hyperaware of Percy's eyes on his back and the lingering heat from their confrontation.
The power play rotation drill is supposed to be simple—work on spacing, timing, getting the puck to the right spots for scoring chances. But having Percy as his center means every play becomes a battle of wills disguised as hockey strategy. Percy runs the power play like a conductor leading an orchestra, calling out adjustments and positioning with the kind of authority that makes even veteran players listen.
But Rath has his own ideas about how power plays should work, his own instincts about where to find space and create opportunities. The clash between Percy's systematic approach and Rath's improvisational style creates a tension that everyone on the ice can feel.
"Platts, you're drifting too high," Percy calls during a break in the action, skating over with that purposeful stride that suggestshe's about to deliver another lecture. "Stay down low, work the half wall."
Rath glides over, close enough that he again has to look up to meet Percy's eyes. At this distance he can see the slight sheen of sweat on Percy's forehead, and can notice the way his chest rises and falls with controlled breathing.
"I was creating space. Drawing the penalty killer out of position," Rath explains.
"You were abandoning your assignment."
"I was adapting to what the defense was giving me." Rath keeps his voice level, but he can feel frustration building in his chest. "Isn't that what good players do?"
Percy's expression is unreadable, those dark eyes studying Rath like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Good players trust their teammates to do their jobs."
"Hard to trust teammates who don't trust you back."
Percy's face tightens, and Rath wonders if he's pushed too far this time.
"Places!" Coach yells, breaking the moment and sending players scrambling back to their positions.
They run the drill again, and this time Rath makes a point of staying exactly where Percy wants him. When the pass comes, he's in perfect position at the half wall, and he feeds it back to Percy with crisp precision that shows off every hour he spent working on his passing over the summer. Percy's one-timer finds the top corner with authority, and Rath allows himself a small smile at the surprised approval in his captain's eyes.
"Better," Percy says as they reset for the next rep, and the single word of praise does embarrassing things to Rath's chest. It shouldn't matter so much—he's a professional athlete, not some junior player desperate for validation—but Percy's approval has always felt harder to earn than anyone else's.
