CHAPTER ONE THE COLLISION #3
Brock stood at his stall with his back turned, wearing jeans and nothing else.
His damp hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.
Muscles shifted across his broad back as he packed his bag.
The tattoo covering his arm continued over one shoulder blade, where pine branches disappeared beneath the uninked skin.
Tyler stopped.
Brock looked at him through the mirror.
“Forget something?”
“Unfortunately, I remembered you.”
Tyler crossed to his stall and retrieved the phone. He should have left immediately. Instead, he shut the locker and turned.
“You lose control that easily in real games?”
Brock faced him. “Only when somebody needs correcting.”
“I scored on you.”
“In a scrimmage.”
“Through your legs.”
Brock’s jaw tightened.
Tyler stepped closer. “Is that what bothered you? Or was it everybody watching?”
“You think I care who watches?”
“You spent the entire morning watching me.”
The room seemed to contract around them.
Brock dropped the shirt he had been holding.
“You watched back.”
“Hard not to. You occupy most available space.”
“And you keep stepping into it.”
Tyler stopped directly in front of him. Brock smelled of soap, clean sweat, and the cedar scent of whatever he used after shaving. Up close, the scar through his eyebrow looked older than Tyler had expected. A fresh red mark crossed one collarbone where Tyler’s glove had caught him on the ice.
“Maybe I’m not afraid of you,” Tyler said.
“Maybe you should be.”
“That line work on many men in Milwaukee?”
Brock’s eyes sharpened. “You asking whether I like men?”
“I know you do.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Tyler did not have an answer he was willing to give.
Brock moved first.
He caught the front of Tyler’s sweater and drove him backward. Tyler struck the lockers hard enough to rattle the doors. Brock planted one forearm beside his head and held him there with the full, intimidating breadth of his body.
Tyler’s pulse surged.
“There,” Brock said quietly. “Now you’re afraid.”
Tyler gripped Brock’s bare waist. Heat radiated from him. Dark hair roughened beneath Tyler’s palms before giving way to the dense muscle of his back.
“Wrong,” Tyler said.
Their bodies answered before either man did.
Tyler’s arousal pressed visibly against his trousers. Brock’s response was just as unmistakable through his jeans. The contact stripped every insult of plausible deniability.
Brock looked down between them.
When he raised his eyes again, the aggression had changed. It remained dangerous, but it was no longer pretending to be anger.
“Tell me to move,” Brock said.
Tyler tightened his hands around Brock’s waist and pulled him closer.
“Make me.”
Brock kissed him.
There was nothing exploratory about it. His mouth took Tyler’s with the same absolute commitment he brought to a body check. Tyler opened under the impact, then bit Brock’s lower lip and used the surprise to reverse them.
Brock’s back struck the lockers.
Tyler pressed against him, one hand buried in his damp hair, the other gripping his side. Brock made a rough sound against Tyler’s mouth and caught both of Tyler’s hips. His hands were large enough to control them completely.
The kiss became a contest without rules.
Brock turned them again. Tyler hooked one leg behind Brock’s and nearly brought them both down. Brock compensated by lifting him just enough to destroy his leverage. Tyler’s body responded violently to the effortless display of strength.
He dragged his mouth along Brock’s jaw. Brock’s stubble scraped his lips. Tyler tasted clean skin and salt at his throat before Brock caught his face and reclaimed the kiss.
Every breath grew louder. Every point of contact became impossible to ignore. Brock held Tyler against the lockers from chest to thigh, his arousal hard and undeniable between them. Tyler’s own body strained against the confinement of his clothes.
“Still thinking about somebody else?” Brock asked against his mouth.
Tyler pulled Brock’s head back by the hair just enough to expose his throat.
“I’m trying to.”
Brock’s laugh became a groan when Tyler kissed the scar crossing his collarbone.
The reaction shocked them both.
For one instant, Brock’s grip changed. The brutal certainty disappeared, replaced by something open and unguarded. Tyler felt it in the hands at his back and the breath leaving Brock’s chest.
It was more intimate than the grinding contact, more dangerous than the kiss.
Tyler drew back.
Brock stared at him, breathing heavily. His mouth was red. A faint mark darkened the side of his neck. Tyler knew he looked equally wrecked.
The automatic lights shut off over half the room.
Darkness advanced across the stalls until only the illuminated Frost crest remained between them.
Reality returned with it.
This was the first day of training camp.
They were teammates. Possible captains. Two men expected to create unity from a roster of professional castoffs.
Tyler had known Brock for less than twelve hours and had already fought him twice, displayed an erection in front of him repeatedly, and kissed him hard enough to bruise both their mouths.
Tyler released Brock and stepped away.
Cold air entered the space between their bodies.
Brock did not follow. His chest rose and fell as he watched Tyler straighten his sweater.
“That,” Tyler said, fighting to restore his voice, “doesn’t happen again.”
Brock looked down at the unmistakable evidence still straining beneath Tyler’s trousers.
Then he looked at his own.
“Sure,” he said.
Tyler grabbed his phone and walked toward the door.
“Hayes.”
He stopped without turning.
Brock’s voice followed him through the darkened locker room.
“Mistakes aren’t usually that hard to stop.”
Tyler left before Brock could see him smile.