CHAPTER THIRTEEN SUDDEN DEATH #2
Tyler had said it casually. Brock received it like another medical clearance.
He bent, kissed Tyler’s forehead despite the doctor, and left for exactly five minutes.
The team celebration moved upstairs without them.
Tyler changed slowly in the empty locker room. Raising his left arm hurt. Brock stepped close.
“Let me.”
Tyler almost refused from habit.
Then he lifted both hands as far as pain allowed.
Brock removed the base layer inch by inch, working it over Tyler’s head without pulling the injured side. His fingers passed over skin with medical care, but their closeness produced an unmistakable physical response beneath Tyler’s compression leggings.
Brock noticed.
His own arousal became visible beneath his base layer in answer.
Neither made a joke.
“Still clear?” Brock asked.
“Extremely.”
“Pain?”
“Six.”
“Actual?”
“Eight when I move.”
Brock’s desire remained, but his hands slowed further.
He dressed Tyler in clean sweats, tied his shoes, and packed both equipment bags. Tyler watched the strongest shot in the league perform every small task he would once have considered surrender.
Mara arranged a private vehicle.
At the loft garage, Tyler reached for the door handle.
Brock caught his wrist gently. “Wait.”
He walked around the vehicle, opened Tyler’s door, and lifted him into his arms.
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I want to carry you.”
Tyler rested his head against Brock’s shoulder. “Careful of your knee.”
“Careful of your ribs.”
Brock carried him through the elevator and across the loft.
He did not choose the bedroom.
He set Tyler on the recovery table beneath warm lights, placed the medical instructions beside him, and opened the cabinet of oils, tape remover, cold packs, and towels.
“Clothes,” Brock said, then stopped. “May I?”
Tyler nodded.
The sweatshirt came first. Brock supported Tyler’s arm through every movement. He removed the athletic tape from Tyler’s shoulder by dissolving the adhesive rather than pulling. Each strip revealed new bruising.
Brock’s face hardened.
“Don’t,” Tyler said.
“Don’t what?”
“Turn care into anger at Mercer.”
Brock released one slow breath. “Truth?”
“Please.”
“I wanted to break him when you went down.”
“And?”
“You made the pass. I took the shot.”
Tyler touched his face. “Strongest thing.”
Brock removed Tyler’s sweatpants and compression layer with the same caution. Tyler’s arousal remained fully visible, undiminished by bruises or fatigue.
He covered Tyler’s hips with a warm towel before the room’s cool air could tighten injured muscles. Then he worked down both legs, checking for swelling, movement, and delayed pain from the collision.
“Ankle?” Brock asked.
“Fine.”
“Knee?”
“Fine.”
“Hip?”
“Bruised.”
Brock placed a cold pack against the outer thigh and secured it loosely. His fingers lingered only long enough to confirm circulation.
Tyler watched him. “You learned all this where?”
“Fifteen years of trainers fixing me.”
“You pay attention.”
“When it matters.”
“It always mattered when it was you.”
Brock looked up.
Tyler saw the old belief clearly: that pain endured privately had been the price of usefulness. Caring for Tyler felt natural. Receiving the same attention still felt like debt.
“After tonight,” Tyler said, “your thigh gets checked again.”
“We are discussing you.”
“Both captains.”
“One injured captain.”
“Two, according to the trainer.”
Brock opened his mouth to object.
“No minimizing,” Tyler said.
“Fine. After.”
The concession mattered.
Brock warmed oil between his palms and began at Tyler’s uninjured shoulder.
He used slow pressure along the neck, avoiding the bruised side.
Every pass loosened another layer of tension.
Tyler’s visible arousal remained beneath the towel, occasionally lifting the fabric when Brock’s hands moved near his waist.
Brock never exploited the reaction.
He acknowledged it with his eyes, then returned to recovery.
Tyler had once understood patience as denial. Under Brock’s hands, it became presence: desire allowed to exist without overruling pain.
“You can touch me,” Tyler said.
“I am.”
“You know what I mean.”
Brock set both hands flat against Tyler’s thighs. “And you know what I mean. This touch counts.”
The words moved through Tyler more deeply than provocation.
“Body has priorities,” Tyler said.
“No jokes.”
“Observation.”
Brock stood close enough that his own physical reaction pressed visibly beneath his shorts. “Mine too.”
Tyler reached toward him.
Brock caught the hand and kissed the palm. “Recovery first.”
“I am medically cleared.”
“For observation.”
“I can think of an excellent observation position.”
“Bath.”
The refusal was gentle and absolute.
Brock prepared the deep stone tub with warm water, mineral salts, and a folded towel to support Tyler’s neck. He tested the temperature twice. Then he lifted Tyler from the table and lowered him into the bath.
Heat loosened the spasm along Tyler’s back.
Brock remained beside the tub in black shorts, broad body tense with restrained desire.
“Get in,” Tyler said.
“Not enough room.”
“You said that about the hotel bed.”
“Eight feet wide.”
“This tub was designed by ambitious people.”
Brock removed his shorts.
His arousal was immediate and fully visible. He entered behind Tyler carefully, extending one injured knee outside the deepest bend. Tyler settled between his thighs, back resting against his chest.
Their physical need pressed between them.
Brock did nothing with it.
He wet Tyler’s hair and worked shampoo through it with slow fingers. Tyler closed his eyes. The same hands that had driven a puck into the net at double overtime now massaged his scalp with controlled gentleness.
“You scored the winner,” Tyler said.
“You made the pass.”
“You should be upstairs with the team.”
“I am with my captain.”
“One of them.”
“The injured one.”
Tyler let his head fall back against Brock’s shoulder. “You know what I see?”
“What?”
“Your restraint is as physical as your aggression.”
Brock’s hands paused in his hair.
“Holding back requires strength,” Tyler continued. “Maybe more. You keep wanting me and choosing what I need instead.”
“Not a sacrifice.”
“I know. That is why it matters.”
Brock rinsed the shampoo away.
Tyler turned enough to reach Brock’s injured thigh beneath the water. His fingers found the swelling left by the blocked shot.
Brock caught his hand. “You are the patient.”
“We had this argument.”
“You lost.”
“No ledger. No winners.”
Tyler continued the examination. Brock allowed it with visible reluctance.
“Eight?” Tyler asked.
“Six now.”
“Actual?”
“Seven.”
Tyler placed Brock’s palm against his own bruised side. “We can both hurt and both take care.”
“Difficult system.”
“Advanced captaincy.”
Brock leaned back against the stone edge while Tyler massaged carefully around the thigh. Their arousal remained pressed close beneath the surface, but the touch stayed focused on relief.
“You know what restraint taught me?” Tyler asked.
“That I am responsible.”
“That I can desire you without demanding performance.”
Brock’s eyes opened.
Tyler continued, “You can want me while I’m injured. I can want you while you’re aging. Wanting does not require either body to prove what it can do.”
“Say aging again and I leave you in the tub.”
“You love carrying me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Tyler smiled, then let seriousness return. “When you retire, this stays.”
He guided Brock’s hand over his heart, then lower to the visible physical response between them.
“Both,” Tyler said. “The feeling and the body.”
Brock’s thumb moved once against Tyler’s skin. “And when speed leaves you?”
“You remind me that I was never a stopwatch.”
“Deal.”
“No contracts in the bath.”
“Promise, then.”
Tyler rested back against his chest. “Promise.”
He massaged Tyler’s shoulders beneath the water, worked around the bruised ribs, and eased tension from his hips and thighs. Every touch remained careful. Every visible reaction went unanswered except by patience.
Tyler felt safer with each minute.
Pain fell from eight to five, then four.
“Actual?” Brock asked.
“Four.”
“Dizziness?”
“None.”
“Nausea?”
“Only from your bedside manner.”
Brock kissed the back of his neck. “No jokes.”
“One joke.”
“Approved.”
They remained in the bath until the water cooled. Brock added warmth without moving Tyler away. Outside, messages accumulated on both phones. The conference trophy waited at the arena. Cameras replayed the goal. None of it entered the room.
Tyler turned carefully inside Brock’s hold.
His body still carried pain. It also carried desire, trust, and the full certainty of choice.
“I feel safe,” he said.
Brock searched his face. “Pain?”
“Four.”
“Actual?”
“Four. And I want you.”
“We can wait.”
“I know.”
That knowledge made the next kiss possible.
Brock began with one hand at Tyler’s jaw and the other supporting his back beneath the water. Tyler felt the restraint in every finger. Nothing gripped harder than bruised muscles could receive.
“Eyes,” Tyler said when Brock looked down to check his ribs again.
Brock met his gaze.
Tyler had spent years training his face not to reveal pain, need, or overwhelming pleasure. Sponsors wanted controlled intensity. Reporters wanted a clean answer. Lovers had sometimes mistaken polish for distance.
He let every reaction remain.
When a movement pulled the injured side, Tyler flinched.
Brock stopped. “Pain?”
“Five. Change angle.”
They changed together.
When pleasure rose strongly enough to make Tyler’s hands shake, he did not make a joke. Brock watched the tremor and held him more carefully, not less.
“This is me,” Tyler said.
“I know.”
“Not the campaign version.”
“I know.”
“Not the captain.”
Brock’s mouth touched his. “All of them.”
The answer returned Tyler to Detroit and the first time Brock had undressed the performance rather than the man. Now nothing remained to remove except fear.
Tyler opened his hands, his face, and every response he usually controlled.