CHAPTER FIFTEEN THE FINAL HIT #2
Confetti fired from the rafters. Players lifted one another. Keller stood behind the bench with both hands over his face. Catherine Miller hugged Mara Singh near the tunnel.
Tyler and Brock found each other again near center ice.
This time the kiss was shorter and no less public.
The championship trophy arrived on a strip of black carpet.
The league commissioner called both captains forward.
“Who takes it first?” he asked.
Tyler looked at Brock.
Brock looked at Tyler.
“Both,” they said.
They placed four hands on the silver bowl and lifted together.
Milwaukee roared their names.
The trophy was heavier than Tyler expected. Brock adjusted his grip without taking more than half. They carried it toward the corner together while teammates followed.
Near the glass, Brock’s mother stood beside Miss Alvarez and three of his brothers. All of them were crying. Tyler’s mother had flown from Arizona for the first time, seated behind the bench in a quiet section Mara had protected from cameras.
Tyler saw her.
She pressed both hands to the glass.
He lowered the trophy, skated close, and placed one glove against hers through the barrier.
“You came,” he said.
She nodded, unable to answer.
Brock joined him. Tyler’s mother looked at the large man beside her son, then pointed at Tyler and mouthed, Take care of him.
Brock touched his C and nodded.
Tyler pointed at Brock and mouthed back, Both.
His mother smiled through tears.
The family photograph happened on the ice. Brock’s brothers lifted Tyler against his will. Miss Alvarez ordered the commissioner to move because he blocked her view. Tyler’s mother held the trophy while Brock’s mother kissed both captains on the face.
Keller watched from several feet away, trying to disappear.
Tyler caught his sleeve. “You’re in this.”
“Coaches are furniture in championship photos.”
Brock pulled him between them. “Expensive furniture.”
The final image contained the entire answer Milwaukee had voted for: two captains, one coach, two families, and a trophy no individual could lift without help forever.
The trophy moved through the team. Every player took a lap. When it returned to the captains, Tyler climbed into the bowl for a photograph until Brock pulled him out by the waist.
“Expensive,” Brock said.
“Club property.”
“Then definitely expensive.”
In the locker room, champagne became weather. Music shook the walls. Players shouted speeches no one heard. Tyler wore the wolf chain and championship cap with no shirt. Brock wore only base-layer leggings beneath the same cap.
Their visible arousal had finally subsided enough for cameras.
Barely.
Reporters asked Brock about the goal.
“Hayes made the play,” he said. “I finished.”
Tyler heard the old double meaning and smiled.
When Brock returned from interviews, Tyler stood on the wolf crest and raised a bottle.
“To the men somebody else could spare,” he called.
The room quieted.
“We arrived too old, too expensive, too young, too difficult, too injured, or too easy to replace. Tonight, Milwaukee keeps all of us forever.”
Players struck bottles together.
Brock took the bottle from Tyler and added, “And to the fastest man in hockey finally learning to pass.”
Champagne and laughter erupted.
Tyler pulled Brock forward by the wolf chain and kissed him again. The team surrounded them before cameras could capture another uniform problem.
“This service costs extra,” the backup goaltender said.
“Put it in contract negotiations,” Tyler answered.
At three, Keller ordered everyone out before the arena staff resigned. Players carried gear, champagne, flags, and pieces of the cut-down goal net toward the bus.
Brock took one section of net and tied it around Tyler’s wrist.
“Final hit,” he said.
Tyler looked at the white cord. “Final pass.”
“Better.”
They did not leave the arena until nearly three in the morning.
The team bus carried them through streets filled with fans. Brock held the trophy on his lap. Tyler sat beside him wearing Brock’s open number twenty-seven jersey over bare skin and black trousers.
At the loft, the trophy arrived between them.
They placed it on the kitchen island where the Captain’s Ledger had once waited.
Ash remained cold in the fireplace.
Tyler removed his trousers.
Nothing was visible beneath Brock’s open jersey.
Brock stared.
His reaction became immediate and obvious beneath his own clothing.
“Intended celebration?” Brock asked.
Tyler let the jersey open farther. “Captain’s discretion.”
“No ledger.”
“No score.”
“No winner?”
Tyler walked toward the gym. “Catch me.”
Brock did.
Their anniversary of collision began on the same mat as the first wrestling match. Tyler used speed. Brock used strength. They grappled naked beneath the open jersey until it landed beside the glass.
Tyler caught Brock’s wrist and guided him down. Brock could have resisted. He followed, landing on his back with Tyler above him.
“First night, you reversed this in two seconds,” Tyler said.
“You were arrogant.”
“Was?”
Brock smiled. “You are champion-level arrogant now.”
Tyler pressed their aroused bodies together. “Do something about it.”
The old challenge held no threat. Brock rolled them, careful of his knee, and settled above Tyler without pinning him.
“Done,” he said.
Tyler laughed and pulled him into a kiss.
They replayed each remembered position differently. Brock lifted Tyler and asked where he wanted to go. Tyler answered, “Shower.” Tyler trapped Brock’s wrists and released them before Brock moved. Brock offered his full weight. Tyler accepted, then asked for space and received it.
The gym became a record of transformed instincts. Force remained exciting. Masculine strength remained central to their desire. Neither required defeat to experience it.
Brock carried Tyler past the trophy.
Silver reflected Tyler’s bare legs around Brock’s waist and the open number twenty-seven jersey on the floor.
“We should put it somewhere safer,” Brock said.
“We should put everything somewhere safer.”
“After.”
“Responsible.”
“Extremely.”
They reached the glass door still laughing.
Nothing repeated exactly.
Brock lifted Tyler. Tyler laughed instead of treating it as defeat. Tyler forced Brock onto his back. Brock opened his arms instead of escaping. Every old move returned transformed by choice.
The contest moved to the glass shower.
Water struck them as Brock carried Tyler inside. Tyler turned the temperature cold in revenge for their first night. Brock shouted, laughed, and changed it back to warm.
Their bodies remained openly aroused. Neither used the response to prove victory. They explored, held, kissed, and changed control whenever one man asked.
The shower led to the bedroom.
They stopped once at the recovery table. Tyler removed the remaining tape from Brock’s wrist. Brock checked the bruised side Tyler had carried through the final games. Care became part of celebration instead of an interruption.
“Pain?” Brock asked.
“Two.”
“Actual?”
“One.”
“Mine is four.”
“Actual?”
“Four.”
Tyler kissed the injured knee. “Championship progress.”
Brock pulled him upright and held him against his chest. “Home.”
The word contained the gym, shower, table, bedroom, city, and body waiting around him.
“Always,” Tyler answered.
The championship trophy remained visible through the open door, silver reflecting city light.
Tyler climbed above Brock. “We won.”
“Team won.”
“Good answer.”
Brock rolled them carefully. “Still no winner here.”
“Better answer.”
Their celebration continued until sunrise without a single recorded point.
ONE YEAR LATER
Brock Lawson retired with a championship goal as his final shot.
He became an assistant coach for the Frost and discovered he could intimidate an entire defensive unit while holding a clipboard. His knee improved when he stopped asking it to survive eighty games. His hands still went numb sometimes. He said so when they did.
Tyler signed a six-year contract with Milwaukee.
He accepted less salary than New York offered and gained commitments the Empire would not make: annual funding for community rinks, expanded medical protection for veteran players, and a transition path allowing Brock to coach without being used as cap relief.
The Frost kept both captains in different forms.
Brock resisted retiring for twelve days.
He skated alone, met three specialists, and asked Tyler the same question every morning: “Am I stopping because I choose or because fear finally won?”
On the thirteenth day, they returned to the community rink where he had learned to play. Brock stepped onto the rebuilt ice with twenty children and coached for two hours without checking his knee once.
In the truck afterward, he removed his old playing glove and placed it on the dashboard.
“I choose,” he said.
Tyler took his hand. “Then I choose with you.”
Retirement day filled the Frost arena. Brock’s number remained active because he refused immediate ceremony, but every teammate wore twenty-seven during warmups. Tyler presented him with the final-hit puck inside a frame containing the white piece of championship net.
Brock’s first coaching practice began the next morning at six.
He arrived at five.
Tyler found him drawing defensive rotations on the glass and kissed him before the rookies entered.
“Professional,” Brock warned.
“Marketing engagement.”
They never became discreet enough to satisfy Keller.
Their championship banners hung above the arena. The photograph of Tyler tackling Brock became the franchise’s most sold poster. League broadcasts showed the kiss so often that the backup goaltender demanded residuals for providing camera cover.
The brewery loft became permanent.
The club offered to sell it after Tyler signed. Brock negotiated the price. Tyler negotiated the furniture. They bought the property together and replaced the engraved FROST HOUSE key fob with a plain brass plate reading HAYES + LAWSON.