CHAPTER NINE HARDEST AND FASTEST
Three weeks after the Northwoods storm, the league invited Tyler Hayes to prove he was the fastest man in hockey and Brock Lawson to prove he could strike something harder than anyone else.
Neither considered refusing.
The All-Star Skills Weekend occupied four televised days in Chicago.
Downtown hotels filled with players, sponsors, reporters, families, and fans wearing thirty-two different team colors.
A temporary red carpet ran through the lobby of the Lakeshore Crown.
Giant screens replayed Tyler’s fastest goals and Brock’s most violent shots above the registration desk.
“Subtle,” Tyler said when they entered.
Brock looked at a slow-motion clip of himself breaking a stick. “Good angle.”
The medical assessment they had promised each other in the Northwoods had confirmed what Brock already knew. His knee was deteriorating. Two ribs had failed to heal cleanly. He could finish the season if pain and strength were monitored, but no doctor would promise another one.
No decision alone, Tyler had commanded.
For now, together meant finishing.
They received separate rooms on the same floor because the league had no sense of irony. Tyler carried his suitcase into Brock’s suite before the bellman left.
“Wrong room, Mr. Hayes,” the man said.
“Captain’s meeting.”
Brock tipped him generously. “Could run long.”
The door closed.
Tyler placed the Captain’s Ledger on the desk.
They had brought it despite spending the Northwoods night without opening it. Habit, superstition, and competition remained difficult to separate.
“Skills points,” Tyler said. “Five for first place, three for second, one for third.”
“Across our individual events?”
“And team relays.”
Brock opened to a blank page. “Prize?”
“Control of our final night.”
The words altered the room. Their final night in Chicago would come after the main All-Star game, when every public obligation ended and the team flight waited the next morning.
“Until sunrise?” Brock asked.
“Until checkout.”
“No extensions.”
“No mercy.”
Brock signed first. Tyler added his name beneath.
“You’re going to lose,” Brock said.
Tyler loosened his tie. “Catch me.”
They spent the first evening pretending to belong to the league instead of each other.
Tyler attended a sponsor dinner in a white jacket and black silk shirt.
Brock joined a veterans’ panel in a dark suit that made him look like private security.
Cameras photographed them together at the opening reception, shoulders touching beneath a wall of gold lights.
“Fastest and hardest,” a reporter called. “Who wins the weekend?”
“Milwaukee,” Brock answered.
Tyler looked at him.
The correct public answer made something private warm behind his ribs.
Later, they stood in a crowded elevator with All-Stars from rival teams. Brock’s hand rested behind Tyler’s back without touching. Tyler felt it there anyway.
The doors opened on their floor.
“Captain’s meeting?” a winger from Seattle asked.
“Film review,” Tyler said.
“At midnight?”
Brock followed Tyler into his room. “Extensive film.”
They did not sleep until two.
At six thirty, Tyler woke alone in Brock’s bed.
The bathroom door stood open. A strip of white athletic tape lay across the sink. Tyler followed the sound of controlled breathing into the sitting room.
Brock stood before the window doing slow shoulder rotations with a resistance band. He wore black shorts and no shirt. Morning light revealed the stiffness Tyler had learned to recognize: guarded ribs, right hand flexing after every pull, weight kept subtly off the damaged knee.
“No minimizing,” Tyler said from the doorway.
Brock released the band. “Not minimizing.”
“You’re training before breakfast.”
“Mobility.”
“At an All-Star event designed to measure how violently you can strike a puck.”
“Doctor approved two attempts.”
Tyler crossed the room and inspected the shoulder without touching. Brock waited.
“Pain?” Tyler asked.
“Three.”
“Actual number.”
“Five.”
“After?”
“Probably seven.”
Tyler’s jaw tightened. “Record isn’t worth that.”
“It might be my last chance.”
The answer brought the Northwoods conversation into the bright hotel room. Retirement remained a possibility neither had solved. The weekend celebrated athletes as permanent objects—fastest, hardest, best—while Brock stood inside a body announcing limits.
Tyler took the resistance band and placed it on the table. “Then one warm-up. Two official attempts. If your hand goes numb, you stop.”
“Command?”
“Concern.”
“More dangerous.”
Tyler placed both palms carefully against Brock’s chest. “I need you after the radar number.”
Brock looked down at him. “You have me.”
“Keep it that way.”
The kiss began gently and became dangerous when Brock’s morning arousal pressed visibly beneath his shorts. Tyler’s response rose beneath the sheet wrapped around his waist.
“Skills points,” Brock reminded him against his mouth.
“Competition starts tonight.”
“Energy conservation.”
Tyler stepped away with visible reluctance. “You’re becoming responsible at the worst possible time.”
Brock retrieved the band. “Captain’s meeting after breakfast.”
“Extensive film?”
“Very.”
Tyler returned to his room through the connecting door and left it unlocked.
The daytime media circuit tested different muscles. Tyler raced children through a miniature agility course, signed an old Boston jersey without reacting to the logo, and spent twenty minutes answering questions about what being an openly gay All-Star meant to young players.
Brock demonstrated shooting mechanics at a youth clinic. He reduced the motion into simple parts, placed his hands over small gloves, and praised effort louder than results.
They met at a league luncheon beneath enormous photographs of their records.
Tyler sat at one table with forwards. Brock sat across the ballroom with defensemen. The separation made no difference. Each knew exactly when the other looked.
During dessert, the league showed a preview package for skills night. Tyler’s body appeared in slow motion, skates cutting ice as a commentator described explosive acceleration. Then Brock filled the screens, shirt stretching across his back while he drove through a slap shot.
Their tablemates applauded.
Tyler’s physical reaction tightened beneath the white tablecloth.
Across the room, Brock shifted in his chair for the same reason.
The Seattle winger followed Tyler’s gaze. “You two always compete this hard?”
“Harder,” Tyler said.
The answer made Brock lift his water glass in salute.
At the afternoon rehearsal, producers asked Tyler and Brock to stand together for a promotional shot labeled SPEED VS. POWER. Tyler wore his full uniform. Brock held a stick across his shoulders behind his neck.
“Look like rivals,” the photographer said.
They faced each other.
Brock’s gaze traveled down Tyler’s body, slow enough that the photographer would read it as intimidation. Tyler looked at Brock’s mouth and remembered the unlocked connecting door.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “More tension.”
Neither man needed direction.
When the camera stopped, Brock leaned close. “Eight hours until the tiebreaker.”
“You assume a tie.”
“I assume you’ll keep up.”
Tyler tapped Brock’s injured shoulder with two fingers, careful and proprietary. “I assume you’ll listen.”
Brock’s expression softened beneath the rivalry. “Always.”
Skills night began beneath moving spotlights and artificial smoke. The arena floor had been transformed into stations of timing gates, target boards, radar equipment, and sponsor displays. Players wore special uniforms in silver, black, and team colors.
Tyler’s fastest-skater race came first.
Eight competitors stood near center ice. The format required one full lap from a standing start, with individual times deciding the winner. Tyler drew the final position.
He watched seven men attack the course.
The leading time settled at thirteen point zero four seconds.
Tyler stretched beside the bench wearing his silver Frost jersey and close-fitting black hockey pants. Brock stood behind the boards in his own uniform, waiting for hardest shot.
“Need motivation?” Brock asked.
“From you?”
“If you lose, I collect before the main game.”
Tyler looked over his shoulder. Brock’s gaze moved down his body with unmistakable intent.
His arousal tightened inside protective equipment.
“That all?” Tyler asked.
“No.”
“Then watch.”
Tyler skated to the start.
The crowd began chanting his name. Timing lights shifted from red to amber.
Green.
He exploded forward.
The first three strides built force. Then technique took over. Tyler leaned into the opening turn until one glove hovered inches above the ice. Crossovers came fast and precise. Wind flattened the jersey against his chest.
The far straight disappeared beneath speed.
He entered the final turn at the edge of control. One skate lost contact for a fraction. Tyler corrected without slowing, drove through the last crossover, and extended his stick across the timing beam.
The scoreboard flashed.
12.82.
First place.
The arena erupted.
Tyler circled with both arms raised. He found Brock behind the bench and pointed one gloved finger at him.
Five points.
Brock answered by tapping the radar gun waiting beside his station.
Tyler returned to the gate breathing hard. Brock caught the front of his jersey and drew him close enough that their helmets touched.
“Fast,” Brock said.
“Hard?” Tyler asked.
Brock’s eyes darkened. “Watch.”
Hardest shot came after the accuracy challenge. Six players took two attempts each. The puck rested above the circles. Competitors skated from center, released a slap shot through the radar lane, and tried not to destroy the target net.
The standing league record was one hundred eight point eight miles per hour.
Brock’s first shot registered one hundred seven point six.
Second place.
He returned to the line shaking his right arm.
Tyler leaned over the boards. “Problem?”
“Jersey catches at the shoulder.”
“Excuse.”
Brock looked toward the event producer. “Can I lose it?”