Page 69 of Speak in Fever
The trainer doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's worked with hockey players long enough to know when to pick his battles. "If you feel dizzy or nauseous, you come off immediately."
"Got it."
Questions Rath doesn't want their teammates or coaching staff asking, especially not when he and Percy are supposed to be maintaining professional boundaries. But the questions are coming anyway—he can see it in the sideways glances from his linemates, the way Coach Reeves keeps looking between the penalty box and the bench like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
But watching Percy's fury, seeing the protective instinct that overrode everything else including tactical sense and personal safety—Rath realizes he doesn't care about the questions. He cares about the fact that Percy cares about him enough to lose his mind when Rath gets hurt, even when they're fighting, even when Rath has spent a week pushing him away.
The game continues around them, but Rath spends most of his shifts thinking about Percy in the penalty box, about the split lipand bloody jersey, about the way Percy had looked at him across the ice like nothing else mattered. It's hard to focus on hockey when your captain is bleeding because of you, when every hit you've taken suddenly feels like it's Percy's responsibility somehow.
His line gets hemmed in their own zone for nearly thirty seconds, and Rath makes a defensive play that sends fire through his ribs. He doubles over slightly, trying to catch his breath, and immediately hears Coach Reeves shouting his name.
"You're done for the shift, Platts. Get off the ice."
Rath wants to argue, but he's genuinely seeing stars, and arguing with coaches when you're potentially concussed is a losing battle. He changes on the fly, grateful for the chance to sit down and regroup.
When Percy returns from the penalty box after serving his seven minutes, he takes his next shift with the kind of focused intensity that suggests he's trying to channel his emotional energy into productive hockey. He doesn't look at Rath directly, but Rath catches him checking his peripheral vision every few seconds, like he needs constant confirmation that Rath is okay.
Percy plays like a man possessed for the rest of the game. He throws his body around with reckless abandon, finishes every check, and generally plays like someone trying to single-handedly win a hockey game through sheer force of will. It's impressive and slightly terrifying to watch.
In the third period, Percy draws a penalty when he absolutely demolishes a Colorado forward with a perfectly legal but utterly devastating open-ice hit. The crowd loves it, but Rath can see that Percy is still running on emotion, still playing angry.
They win the game 3-1, a solid team effort that should feel satisfying. Percy gets an assist on the game-winning goal, a beautiful feed to JP that showcases exactly why he wears the 'C'. But instead of celebrating, Rath spends the post-game festivitiesthinking about how Percy's knuckles looked split and swollen when he'd removed his gloves in the penalty box.
The locker room afterward is subdued, everyone aware of the tension between their captain and their winger without knowing exactly how to address it. There's the usual post-game chatter, guys rehashing plays and talking about where they're going for dinner, but it's muted somehow. Percy changes quietly in his stall, his lip visibly swollen and a bruise forming along his jaw where Warren had landed a particularly good shot.
"Cap, you might want to get that cut looked at," the trainer suggests, nodding toward the gash above Percy's eyebrow.
"It's fine," Percy mumbles, though he's having trouble talking clearly with his swollen lip.
"It might need stitches."
"I said it's fine."
The trainer backs off, recognizing the tone, but Rath can see that the cut is still seeping blood. Percy is going to have a scar there, probably a permanent one, and it's going to be Rath's fault.
Most of the team filters out gradually, heading to the bus or to meet family members who made the trip. Colorado isn't that far from home, so there's a decent contingent of supporters who came to watch. Rath can hear voices and laughter in the hallway outside the locker room, the sound of a successful road trip.
Rath waits until most of the team has cleared out, then approaches Percy's stall. His ribs protest the movement, but he grits his teeth and ignores the pain.
"Your lip looks like shit," he says, settling beside Percy on the bench. Up close, the damage is even worse than he thought. Percy's going to be explaining these injuries for weeks.
"Thanks for the update," Percy replies dryly, not looking up from unlacing his skates. His voice is slightly muffled by the swelling, and Rath can see that talking hurts.
"You fought Warren for me."
Percy's hands still on his laces, and for a moment Rath thinks he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with something that might be embarrassment.
"I saw you go down and I just... reacted." Percy looks up, meeting Rath's eyes directly for the first time in two days. "I know it was stupid. I know it was exactly the kind of emotional response that I'm not supposed to have."
"Percy—"
"I couldn't help it," Percy continues, his voice getting quieter. "I can't watch someone hurt you and not react."
The honesty in Percy's voice makes Rath's chest tight with emotion and regret. This is what he's been wanting to hear for weeks—proof that Percy cares about him, that their relationship means something more than just convenience and physical attraction.
"I'm sorry," Rath says, the words coming out more intense than he intended. "About this week. About the parking lot. About pushing you away when all I really wanted was to know that you cared about me the way I care about you. I got scared."
Percy looks taken aback, his swollen features shifting into something like surprise. "Scared?"
