CHAPTER FOURTEEN NOTHING LEFT TO WIN #3
“If you are allowed to leave and stay anyway, I can trust the staying.”
Tyler moved across the water and straddled Brock’s thighs. Their arousal pressed close, open and familiar.
“I choose this,” he said.
Brock’s arms closed around him. “I know.”
They kissed while snow fell across Milwaukee.
The kiss deepened without urgency. Tyler held Brock’s wet face. Brock supported Tyler where he straddled his thighs. Warm water, cold air, and the open city made every sensation distinct.
Snow melted against Brock’s shoulders. Tyler brushed it away, then traced the broad muscles beneath.
“Every part,” he said.
“What?”
“I want every part. The body that hits, the knee that hurts, the hands that hold, the fear that makes you foolish.”
Brock moved one palm over Tyler’s chest. “Every part. The speed, the exhaustion, the polished answer, the man who steals my jerseys and refuses to buy reasonable quantities of clothing.”
“Fifty jackets is reasonable.”
“No jokes.”
Tyler let the smile fade. “Every part.”
Their foreheads touched.
The intimacy that followed remained slow and mutual.
Water held their weight. Snow hid the city in soft intervals.
Control passed whenever one man tired, changed position, or asked for more.
Neither treated visible arousal as an emergency.
They allowed desire to remain present while attention moved across scars, muscles, bruises, and faces.
By the time they left the water, both men were shaking from pleasure, cold, and exhaustion. Brock wrapped Tyler in the shared blanket. Tyler covered Brock’s shoulders with the other half.
They descended the stairs side by side, each carrying part of the warmth.
The hot tub led them back to bed after midnight. Water dried on their skin beneath the shared blanket. Tyler curled around Brock from behind, one arm across his chest. Brock covered Tyler’s hand with his own.
They fell asleep naked and physically joined, neither man owning the position.
Morning arousal woke them before the alarm.
Tyler opened his eyes with his body pressed hard against Brock’s. Brock turned, equally aroused, and looked at him without embarrassment or urgency.
“Game day,” Brock said.
“In six hours.”
“Recovery.”
“Extremely important.”
Neither rushed from the bed.
For twenty minutes, they allowed morning desire to exist without converting it into schedule. Brock lay on his side, studying Tyler in snow-reflected light. Tyler watched the older man’s arousal remain open between them, neither hidden nor used as challenge.
“You know what today used to mean?” Tyler asked.
“Game-day discipline.”
“Cold shower. Separate breakfast. No touching until after the game.”
“Terrible system.”
“We thought frustration made us sharper.”
“Sometimes did.”
“And sometimes made us idiots.”
Brock moved closer, allowing their bodies to align. “What does today mean now?”
“We leave this bed when we choose. We eat. We recover. We pass the puck.”
“Advanced strategy.”
Tyler took Brock’s hand and laced their fingers. “And whatever happens tonight, we come back.”
“Here?”
“To each other.”
Brock’s eyes softened. “Good system.”
They shared one unhurried kiss, then remained tangled together until the alarm rang a second time. Only then did they stand, shower, and prepare for Game Three.
Neither body became less aroused through restraint. Both became calmer through certainty.
Tyler traced Brock’s jaw. “Come home to me.”
“We are home.”
“After the championship. After contracts. After hockey.” Tyler held his gaze. “Whatever happens, come home to me.”
Brock kissed the center of his palm.
“Always,” he said.
They dressed for the arena together. Tyler chose a black suit. Brock tied his tie correctly on the first attempt. At breakfast, they shared one plate because neither wanted enough food for two. Brock iced his knee while Tyler reviewed New York’s penalty kill.
The drive took eleven minutes.
Fans lined the garage entrance beneath falling snow, holding TWO CAPTAINS signs and chanting before the truck stopped. Tyler looked at Brock.
“No auditions,” he said.
“No categories.”
“No opponents wearing our jerseys.”
Brock extended a fist. Tyler struck it once.
Inside the locker room, their captain stalls faced each other across the wolf crest. The equipment manager had removed the motivational message from above them. In its place, the rookie winger had taped a blank sheet of paper.
“What is that?” Tyler asked.
“Nothing,” the rookie said. “Thought you two could try it.”
The team laughed.
Tyler dressed without looking at the contract notifications on his phone. Brock accepted treatment without minimizing pain. When Keller drew the first power-play formation, both captains stood beside the same board and asked what the team needed.
No private score waited beneath the game.
At the tunnel, Tyler reached for Brock’s glove. Protective equipment met protective equipment.
“Home after,” Tyler said.
“Always,” Brock answered again.
That night, the championship would ask which team was better; the morning had already answered the harder question of whether love required either man to lose himself to win.
Downstairs, the final ash of the Captain’s Ledger cooled inside the fireplace.
Nothing remained to win from each other.