CHAPTER TEN THE PRICE OF STAYING
The price of keeping both captains arrived in a spreadsheet.
Milwaukee’s general manager, Catherine Miller, displayed it on the video-room screen four days after All-Star Weekend.
Salary columns stretched beside performance bonuses, expansion obligations, injury reserves, and the league’s projected cap.
Tyler sat at one end of the table. Brock sat at the other.
Coach Keller occupied the middle with both hands folded over a legal pad.
“You asked us here because?” Tyler said.
Catherine changed the slide.
Two red numbers appeared.
“Because the franchise budget assumed one marketable star and one veteran transition contract,” she said. “Instead, we have two captains, both hitting every performance trigger, and a roster that needs six renewals.”
“Good problem,” Brock said.
“Expensive problem.”
Tyler studied the figures. His contract ended after the championship window.
Brock had one season remaining, but retirement would remove most of the obligation.
Keeping both required the Frost to trade two younger players, decline a goaltender option, and persuade Tyler to accept substantially less than market value.
Catherine placed a folder before him.
“The New York Empire requested permission to speak with your agent,” she said. “They are prepared to offer seven years, full no-trade protection, and the largest average salary ever paid to a winger.”
Tyler did not open the folder.
Another appeared before Brock.
“The Frost is offering a different path. Retire after this season. Two-year assistant coaching contract with a guaranteed promotion track. You remain in Milwaukee, protect your health, and transition without leaving the team.”
Brock opened his folder.
The small movement felt like betrayal.
“You planned this?” Tyler asked Catherine.
“We planned options.”
“Which captain did the spreadsheet choose?”
Keller intervened. “Nobody is choosing today.”
Tyler looked at Brock. “Did you know?”
Brock’s silence answered first.
“They approached me after the medical assessment,” he said.
“In the Northwoods?”
“Before.”
Tyler pushed back from the table. “And you didn’t tell me.”
“I hadn’t decided.”
“No decisions alone.”
“This wasn’t a decision.”
“You opened the folder.”
Catherine closed the laptop. “Take forty-eight hours. Speak with your agents. Speak with each other. The deadline is not today.”
Tyler rose. “Apparently he already has.”
He left before anger turned private knowledge public.
Practice followed thirty minutes later.
Hockey usually simplified conflict. That morning it sharpened it. Tyler skated every drill at full speed and passed to everyone except Brock. Brock finished every check and said nothing. Their power-play timing, effortless for months, fell apart.
Tyler circled behind the net too early. Brock shifted too late. The pass struck a skate and cleared the zone.
Keller’s whistle sounded. “Again.”
They failed differently.
On the third attempt, Tyler forced the puck through a lane that did not exist. Brock reached, missed, and collided with him above the crease.
Their bodies met hard through equipment.
Attraction surged through anger with humiliating speed.
Tyler felt Brock’s response align with his. Brock’s pupils widened behind the visor.
“At least something still works,” Tyler said.
Brock stepped away. “Not here.”
“Not anywhere, apparently.”
Keller skated between them. “Bench. Both.”
The captains spent the remaining practice watching the unit improve without them.
Tyler’s agent called before he removed his skates.
“New York wants an answer by Monday,” Daniel Mercer said. “They increased the signing bonus after Chicago. They want the fastest-skater record, the visibility, the leadership story—everything.”
Tyler sat alone in a hallway outside the equipment room. “I’m not a package of engagement metrics.”
“To them, you are also a fifty-goal possibility and a captain. Rob—” Daniel corrected himself quickly. “Tyler, this is the offer careers are built to receive.”
“And Milwaukee?”
“Can pay sixty-two percent. Maybe sixty-eight if Lawson retires and they trade the backup goaltender.”
Tyler looked through the open door. Brock stood at his stall in compression shorts, listening to the strength coach explain recovery limits. His body remained powerful enough to break a league record and damaged enough that every achievement came with negotiation.
“If I stay,” Tyler asked, “what do I lose?”
“Guaranteed money. Term. No-trade protection. A major-market campaign already worth several million.”
“Not what I asked.”
Daniel went quiet. “I can negotiate contracts. I can’t price a life.”
Tyler closed his eyes.
“Monday,” Daniel repeated. “Do not say no before you understand what yes buys.”
The call ended.
Across the corridor, a local reporter caught Brock leaving the medical room.
“Are the retirement rumors true?” she asked.
Brock stopped.
Tyler watched from the bench.
“My only plan is tomorrow’s game,” Brock said.
“Would you stay with the Frost as a coach?”
“Milwaukee is home.”
“Would Hayes leaving affect your decision?”
Brock’s gaze found Tyler.
“Hayes makes his own decisions,” he said.
The correct answer felt like abandonment.
By afternoon, the spreadsheet had escaped the room. Sports networks displayed salary-cap projections. Commentators argued that Milwaukee had to choose between Tyler’s prime and Brock’s legacy. Fans divided into impossible camps beneath social posts labeled KEEP SPEED and KEEP HEART.
At the loft, Tyler stood before the television while strangers debated his worth.
“Turn it off,” Brock said from the kitchen.
“One analyst says your coaching value exceeds your remaining playing value.”
“He might be right.”
“Another says my contract would cripple an expansion roster.”
“He’s paid to provoke you.”
“Working.”
Brock turned off the screen.
The sudden silence left them facing each other across the room.
“What does yes buy?” Brock asked.
Tyler realized he had heard part of the agent call. “Seven years.”
“Security.”
“A penthouse in Manhattan, apparently.”
“You’d like that.”
“Would you?”
Brock looked toward the Milwaukee skyline beyond the windows. “Not my decision.”
“That is not an answer.”
“You asked me not to decide alone.”
“So decide with me.”
Brock picked up the remote and placed it in the wooden bowl. “Game tomorrow.”
He walked to his room.
Tyler remained beside the dark television, understanding that silence could choose as decisively as any contract.
Their next game should have provided relief. Instead, Milwaukee lost three to one against the last-place Kansas City Outlaws.
Tyler missed an open net in the first period. Brock took a holding penalty in the second and screened his own goaltender on the deciding goal. The power play finished zero for five.
The failures began before the opening faceoff.
During warmups, a fan held a sign against the glass: KEEP BOTH CAPTAINS. Tyler looked toward Brock. Brock looked toward the opposite net.
On their first power play, Tyler entered the zone with speed and expected Brock to move toward the crease. Brock stayed at the point. Tyler passed into empty space. Kansas City cleared the puck and nearly scored short-handed.
“Net-front,” Tyler said when they reached the bench.
“Knee’s stiff.”
“Then tell me.”
“Just did.”
“After the turnover.”
Keller placed a hand between their helmets. “You are not the only two men on this unit. Communicate before the puck arrives.”
The second opportunity was worse. Brock called for a pass. Tyler shot instead. The puck struck the goaltender’s chest and died.
“I was open,” Brock said.
“You want me to pass opportunities now?”
The personal meaning landed immediately.
Brock skated away.
Kansas City scored on the next shift.
Tyler tied the game early in the second with a shot from the left circle. The arena rose. Brock reached him during the celebration, placed both gloves at Tyler’s waist, and started to lift him.
Tyler remained rigid.
Brock released.
Cameras captured the failed embrace.
The contract debate became visible on ice.
Later, Brock caught an Outlaws forward around the chest when the man drove toward the net. The official called holding. Brock entered the penalty box without arguing.
Tyler skated past during the stoppage.
“Surrender,” he said through the open door.
Brock’s face hardened. “Ledger doesn’t apply here.”
“Nothing does, apparently.”
Kansas City failed to score on the advantage, but Milwaukee’s rhythm had vanished. Passes arrived behind sticks. Checks finished late. The roster followed both captains in opposite directions.
With four minutes left and the score tied, Kansas City won an offensive-zone faceoff. Brock moved to block the point shot. Pain slowed his turn. The puck struck his skate, changed direction, and passed the screened goaltender.
Two to one.
Brock stood in the crease while red jerseys celebrated around him.
Tyler saw the exact instant shame entered his posture.
He wanted to cross the ice, strike Brock’s chest, and remind him that one bad turn did not erase everything. Anger kept him at the wing.
Kansas City added an empty-net goal.
When the horn sounded, teammates looked toward both captains and found neither available.
The final horn released a storm of boos.
Tyler left the ice without waiting for Brock.
The locker room filled with the violence of disappointed routine. Tape ripped. Sticks struck racks. Wet equipment hit the floor. Keller entered, looked around once, and closed the door behind him.
“That wasn’t bad luck,” he said. “That was a team following two captains who spent sixty minutes refusing to look at each other.”
No one moved.
“Whatever decision is waiting upstairs does not play defense. It doesn’t pass the puck. It doesn’t decide whether you trust the man beside you. You do.”
Keller pointed at Tyler and Brock.
“Fix it before tomorrow.”
He left.
Players showered quickly and disappeared. Within twenty minutes, only the captains remained.
The last rookie paused at the door. His eyes moved between Tyler’s stall and Brock’s.