CHAPTER TWELVE SEVEN GAMES, SEVEN TRUTHS #2
Tyler placed both hands on Brock’s wet chest. “Now I need the truth.”
Brock’s turn came quietly. “I restored the ledger because I wanted proof you planned to come back.”
They did not seek physical release that night. They lay naked beneath one blanket and examined the loss until it became a game rather than a verdict.
Tyler brought the tablet into bed and replayed the overtime turnover. Nakedness made their arousal visible whenever the blanket shifted, but neither touched beyond what comfort required.
“Pause,” Brock said.
The frame froze with Tyler carrying the puck near the blue line.
“You had the wall,” Brock said. “Why cut middle?”
“Wanted the winner.”
“Truth.”
Tyler exhaled. “Wanted to prove New York would be paying for a star.”
Brock did not soften the answer. “And I stayed too deep because I wanted to prove Milwaukee still needed me.”
Onscreen, both decisions converged into failure.
Tyler set down the tablet. “We turned one shift into contract negotiations.”
“Keller will enjoy that.”
“We never show him this film.”
“He has the film.”
“We never show him us watching it naked.”
Brock laughed, then covered Tyler’s body more securely with the blanket.
They replayed the shift until each could name the better choice. No one punished the other. When Tyler finally turned off the screen, Brock’s arousal had softened and returned twice without either treating it as an obligation.
“Still want you,” Brock said.
“Still not the only truth.”
“Learning.”
Tyler rested against him. “Together.”
GAME FOUR
Milwaukee tied the series with a five-to-four win.
The game became a brawl without an official fight. Chicago crowded the crease. Milwaukee answered every check. Tyler scored the winner with ninety seconds left after Brock held the puck in the zone against two former teammates.
The loft door barely closed before they began undressing each other.
Tyler’s hands shook with adrenaline. Brock’s arousal was visible beneath his base layer. Their mouths met once, hard, then separated.
“Truth first,” Brock said.
They reached the shower and stood close enough that their bodies brushed with every breath.
Tyler spoke first. “When I saw you trapped against the boards, I wanted to abandon the play and go to you.”
“You stayed open.”
“Because I trust you.”
Brock’s truth took longer. “When you scored, I imagined watching goals like that from behind the bench. It did not feel like disappearing.”
Tyler touched his face. “Coaching?”
“Someday.”
“Honest answer.”
“Terrifying answer.”
“Same thing lately.”
Brock took Tyler’s hand and placed it against his injured knee beneath the water. “This is what I imagine coaching replacing.”
Tyler felt the swelling around the joint. “Pain?”
“Six after tonight. Four most mornings.”
“And playing still feels worth it?”
“Tonight did.”
“Then tonight is the answer. Not next season.”
Brock nodded. “Truth makes planning difficult.”
“Planning without truth made me sleep in the guest room.”
“Powerful argument.”
Tyler knelt beneath the shower and examined the knee with careful hands, performing the same movements the trainer used. Brock’s arousal remained visible above him, but neither mistook the position for a demand.
“Stable,” Tyler said.
“You are not a doctor.”
“I am extremely familiar with your body.”
“That part is true.”
Brock helped him stand. Their mouths met before they reached full height.
The celebration that followed honored both truths: Brock’s desire for a future behind the bench and Tyler’s refusal to rush him toward it. Physical intensity became permission to inhabit the present without using it to deny what came next.
They celebrated the victory for hours. Control shifted with no score. Brock lifted Tyler; Tyler brought Brock to his knees; both moved through shower, bed, and gym with the fierce gratitude of men discovering that future did not require the present to end.
GAME FIVE
Chicago regained the series lead at home.
Walsh scored twice and spent every stoppage provoking Brock. In the final minute, he whispered something that made Brock grab the front of his jersey.
The history between them filled every contact. Walsh knew which shoulder had been reconstructed and hit that side. He knew Brock hated being called slow and beat him wide twice. He knew Tyler mattered and used Tyler’s name whenever officials moved out of hearing.
During the second intermission, Brock stood alone in the equipment room punching his palm against the wall without making impact.
Tyler found him.
“What does he want?”
“Old Brock.”
“Which one?”
“The one who answered pain by making somebody else hurt.”
Tyler placed his hand between Brock’s shoulder blades. “That man still available?”
Brock leaned into the touch. “Yes.”
“Truth.”
“Yes,” Brock repeated.
“Then choose who goes back on the ice.”
Brock looked over his shoulder. “Both.”
The answer was imperfect and honest. In the third period, he finished checks without crossing the line, but the effort divided his concentration. Chicago controlled the puck. The loss followed.
Officials separated them before gloves fell.
The Forge won two to zero.
At the hotel, Tyler waited until they were naked beneath the shower before asking what Walsh had said.
“Truth,” he reminded Brock.
Water moved over Brock’s bowed head. His arousal remained present but less urgent than shame.
“He said I ruined you,” Brock answered. “That you were a better player before you started carrying an old man.”
Tyler stepped close. “Do you believe him?”
“For one second.”
“My truth: I played badly because I was trying to prove I didn’t need you.”
Brock lifted his face.
“We both believed the same lie,” Tyler said.
They lay naked together afterward with no celebration. Tyler rested his head over Brock’s heart. Brock’s hands stayed still on his back. Frustration gradually became sorrow, then sleep.
GAME SIX
Elimination waited in Milwaukee.
The game remained tied through two periods. Early in the third, Walsh checked Tyler into the boards after the whistle.
Brock arrived first.
Walsh dropped his gloves.
The entire arena rose, expecting history to repeat. Brock had fought beside Walsh, against him, and once through a tunnel door after an argument over a playoff loss.
Brock looked at the gloves on the ice.
Then he skated away.
Walsh received an unsportsmanlike penalty for trying to force the fight.
On the power play, Brock controlled the puck at the point. Tyler moved behind the net. Chicago expected the familiar screen.
Brock changed the play.
He cut toward the left circle, drew Walsh out of position, and passed backward through his own skates.
Tyler received the puck alone at the far post.
Goal.
Milwaukee won two to one.
In the celebration, Tyler jumped into Brock’s arms. Brock lifted him above the ice while the crowd chanted both captain names.
At home, Tyler did not call the assist a reward.
He undressed Brock slowly, kissed every bruise the series had created, and gave him everything his body and exhausted heart could receive. They reached the shower eventually, naked and still visibly wanting more.
“Truth,” Brock reminded him.
Tyler held his face beneath the water. “You choosing not to fight was the strongest thing I have ever watched you do.”
Brock’s eyes closed.
“My truth,” he said, “is that I wanted the assist more than I wanted to hurt him.”
Tyler kissed him. “Growth.”
“Terrible for my reputation.”
“I’ll protect it.”
Tyler brought the old ledger into the bedroom and placed it on the floor without opening it.
“Why bring it?” Brock asked.
“Witness.”
“To what?”
“This not being a reward.”
He guided Brock onto the bed and took time with every injury. Tape came away slowly. Cold packs wrapped the knee and hand before anything else continued. Tyler’s own arousal remained visible throughout, but care set the pace.
Brock watched him move. “You used to hate waiting.”
“Still do.”
“Then why?”
“Because wanting you does not make your body mine to spend.”
Brock’s face changed.
Tyler climbed beside him. “Truth?”
“That sentence frightened me more than the fight.”
“Why?”
“Because it sounds like love.”
Tyler held his gaze. “Maybe save that truth for the shower.”
The humor eased the fear. They waited until the swelling decreased, then returned to the celebration with no ledger, no debt, and no need to earn tenderness through pain.
Their second celebration lasted until sunrise, not because a rule granted time but because neither wanted the night to end.
GAME SEVEN
Chicago’s arena had never sounded louder.
The series remained scoreless through the first period. Each goaltender stopped everything. Brock’s former crowd booed him whenever he touched the puck and fell silent whenever he blocked a shot.
In the second, Chicago scored.
Tyler tied it before intermission.
The third period became twenty minutes of controlled desperation. Walsh hit the post. Brock cleared a puck from the goal line. Tyler drew a penalty, but Milwaukee failed to convert.
Regulation ended tied.
In overtime, both captains climbed over the boards for a defensive-zone faceoff.
“One play,” Tyler said.
“Two captains,” Brock answered.
Milwaukee won the draw.
Brock moved the puck to Tyler and followed through center. Tyler crossed the blue line, pulled both defenders toward him, and returned the pass.
Brock could shoot.
Instead, he sent it back.
Tyler scored into the open side.
The Frost advanced.
Tyler did not see the puck enter. He saw Brock’s face.
The older man raised both arms, not because he had scored but because he had trusted Tyler with the finish. Tyler skated toward him through gloves and sticks already flying from the bench.
Brock caught him.