CHAPTER SIX MILWAUKEE MADE #3
Snow turned the windows white behind them. The mats felt cool beneath Tyler’s feet. They circled, bodies marked by the day’s labor—chalk in the lines of their hands, bruises rising, muscles swollen with fatigue.
“Last chance,” Brock said.
Tyler lowered his stance. “Do something about it.”
They collided.
The first takedown belonged to Tyler. He used speed, caught Brock’s leg, and drove him sideways onto the mat. Brock rolled before Tyler secured the pin and came up behind him. One arm closed around Tyler’s waist.
Brock lifted.
Tyler’s feet left the floor. He twisted in the hold and landed facing Brock, their bare bodies aligned. Arousal made the contact unmistakably intimate.
Neither released.
“Five seconds?” Brock asked.
“Not a pin.”
“Shame.”
Tyler hooked one ankle and drove forward. Brock fell backward, taking Tyler with him. They rolled across the mat, gripping shoulders, thighs, waists—anywhere that offered leverage and several places that did not.
The contest stopped resembling wrestling.
Every pin became a kiss. Every escape became an invitation to pursue.
Tyler straddled Brock’s hips and forced both wrists down; Brock held still for four seconds, then reversed them before the fifth.
Brock trapped Tyler against the mat from chest to thigh; Tyler used his legs to change their balance and claimed the top again.
“One,” Tyler counted.
Brock shifted beneath him.
“Two.”
Arousal pressed between them.
Tyler lost the count.
Brock smiled and rolled him.
They reached the recovery table without deciding to leave the mats. Brock lifted Tyler onto it. Tyler hooked a leg behind Brock and dragged him close. Control changed with every breath.
The table creaked dangerously.
“Expensive,” Tyler warned.
“Club property.”
“Then definitely expensive.”
Brock carried him toward the shower before they broke it.
Water struck tired bodies. Chalk and sweat disappeared down the drain. Wrestling became slower beneath the heat, more intimate without losing force. Tyler put Brock against the glass; Brock turned them. Tyler claimed his command; Brock answered with one of his own.
Neither point produced surrender.
By the time they reached the bedroom, winning had become irrelevant.
They were too evenly matched. Brock could overpower Tyler, but Tyler could redirect him.
Tyler could provoke Brock into losing control, but Brock could outlast almost any delay.
Each man carried a form of masculinity the other recognized without competition: strength that protected, endurance that listened, desire that did not require either of them to become smaller.
Their final struggle ended with both men on their sides, hands locked, foreheads touching.
“Five seconds,” Brock said.
“You’re not pinning me.”
“You’re not escaping.”
“Neither are you.”
They began counting together.
“One.”
Tyler tightened his grip.
“Two.”
Brock’s breath warmed his mouth.
“Three.”
Their bodies pressed closer.
“Four.”
Neither man attempted to move.
“Five.”
The contest ended in a draw.
Brock kissed him.
Later, they lay beneath the same blanket while snow covered the roof and the television replayed their victory without sound.
Onscreen, Brock carried Tyler across the course.
Tyler dragged Brock across the line. The camera made them look like opposites: mass and speed, hometown grit and imported polish.
From the bed, the difference seemed less important than the rhythm they had found.
“We need to record the result,” Brock said.
Tyler looked toward the ledger on the kitchen island. “What result?”
“Tie.”
“No.”
“No?”
Tyler settled more fully against Brock’s side. “Joint victory.”
Brock considered that.
“One command each still outstanding,” he said.
“Saving mine.”
“For what?”
Tyler watched their television selves cross the finish line together.
“Something I can’t win alone.”
Brock’s arm tightened around him.
“Then I’ll save mine too.”
The ledger remained open and unmarked until morning.
At six, Brock woke first and carried it back to bed.
Tyler opened one eye. “That violates our recovery protocol.”
“Historic accounting emergency.”
Brock placed the book between them and wrote MILWAUKEE MADE across a fresh line. Beneath it, he recorded their individual wins, the overall result, and the final private contest.
RESULT: JOINT VICTORY.
Tyler read the words. “You agreed.”
“Don’t sound surprised.”
“You’ve spent weeks trying to pin me.”
“Still planning to.”
“Then what changed?”
Brock closed the book. Morning light revealed every mark their contest had left: red pressure lines at his shoulders, a bruise near Tyler’s thigh, faint scrapes from the rope, and the softer evidence of mouths and hands.
“Nothing,” Brock said. “Winning never required you to lose.”
Tyler lay still.
The sentence reached the part of him that had treated affection as another standings table. For years, another man’s strength had meant less room for Tyler. Brock made room with his strength, lifted Tyler into it, and expected him to remain formidable.
“That was almost intelligent,” Tyler said.
“Write it down.”
Tyler took the pencil and added one final note beneath the score.
EQUALLY MATCHED.
Brock looked at it, then at him. “Official?”
“Temporary assessment.”
“Reevaluation?”
Tyler pulled Brock over him, careful of tired ribs. “Immediately.”
The ledger fell closed beside the bed while the captains began another contest with no score.