CHAPTER FOUR POWER LINE
Coach Keller introduced the new power-play formation with two magnets and a threat.
“Lawson goes net-front,” he said, placing Brock’s black marker at the edge of the crease. “Hayes rotates behind him from the goal line. Lawson screens. Hayes uses the space. If either of you turns this into another private competition, I put both of you on the second unit.”
Tyler studied the board. “What would make you think we’d compete?”
The entire video room laughed.
Brock sat beside him with both arms folded. “I’m very cooperative.”
Keller moved the magnets until they overlapped. “Then cooperate this closely.”
Tyler stopped smiling.
The first drill required Brock to plant himself above the crease while Tyler carried the puck from behind the net.
A defenseman pressured from the weak side.
To protect the puck, Tyler had to skate directly behind Brock, use the larger man’s body as a screen, and release the pass before emerging on the opposite side.
In theory, the route was simple.
In practice, Tyler’s chest met Brock’s back every time he crossed.
Their equipment collided from shoulder to thigh. Brock shifted with deliberate precision, widening his stance so Tyler could pass within inches. The first three repetitions remained professional.
On the fourth, Brock pushed backward at the exact moment Tyler moved behind him.
Their hips connected through layers of pads.
Tyler nearly lost the puck.
“Stable screen,” Brock said.
“Obstruction.”
“Use the space.”
Tyler accelerated around him and fired the puck too hard. It struck the crossbar and ricocheted into the corner.
Keller blew the whistle. “Again.”
The drill repeated.
Contact became a language no one else could hear.
Brock’s glove settled briefly at Tyler’s waist to guide his route.
Tyler pressed his shoulder into the center of Brock’s back before slipping around him.
A turn of the hips said remember the shower.
A shove after the whistle said remember the ledger.
Each accidental touch became more deliberate than the last.
Their bodies responded beneath the equipment.
Protective cups, base layers, and padded pants concealed the evidence, but not from each other. Tyler recognized the change in Brock’s stance. Brock heard the shift in Tyler’s breathing. The knowledge became a private joke performed in front of coaches, teammates, and two thousand empty seats.
“Faster,” the assistant coach called.
Tyler gathered the next puck.
He circled behind the net, entered Brock’s shadow, and remained there half a second longer than the play required.
His body aligned with Brock’s from behind.
Brock went completely still.
Tyler released the pass, emerged on the far side, and scored before the goaltender could see the puck.
Keller struck the board with his marker. “That. Again.”
Tyler turned in celebration.
Brock waited beside the crease.
“Problem?” Tyler asked.
“No.” Brock leaned close enough that their helmets touched. “But you’re going to regret that.”
Tyler smiled through his mouthguard. “Promise?”
Keller’s whistle forced them apart.
The next progression added a second defender and removed half the available ice.
Tyler had to make decisions beneath pressure while Brock absorbed repeated contact above the crease.
On the first attempt, the defenders trapped Tyler against the goal line.
Brock reached one-handed through the traffic, caught Tyler’s pass, and redirected it wide.
“Again,” Keller called.
On the second attempt, Brock sealed the nearest defender against his back. Tyler cut so close that one skate passed between Brock’s. For an instant they moved as a single four-legged shape, Tyler steering from behind while Brock created the path.
The puck reached the point. The shot came low. Brock tipped it over the goaltender’s pad.
He did not raise his stick. He turned toward Tyler and tapped the blade once against the ice.
The gesture meant your turn.
Tyler answered on the next rush. He used Brock as a stationary wall, banking the puck off his blade, circling behind him, and receiving the return pass in the slot. Goal.
Teammates shouted from the line.
“That’s disgusting,” the second-unit center said.
“Wait until teams have film on it,” Brock replied.
Tyler skated past him. “Film won’t help.”
Keller heard. “Confidence is useful, Hayes. Arrogance bags pucks after practice.”
“Fine line.”
“You skate it daily.”
For twenty minutes, the unit repeated the pattern from every angle.
Brock’s body became a moving landmark Tyler could find without looking.
A shift of one shoulder warned that a defender was coming.
The position of Brock’s stick told Tyler which lane had opened.
Their private awareness, inconvenient everywhere else, translated into instant hockey intelligence.
The realization unsettled Tyler.
He had played with gifted linemates. He had built chemistry through hundreds of repetitions, watched film until passing routes entered muscle memory, and learned to trust men he did not particularly like. Nothing had ever developed this quickly.
Brock seemed to know where Tyler wanted space before Tyler created it.
During the final sequence, Tyler circled beneath the goal line while two defenders crowded Brock. One cross-checked him in the lower back. Brock’s knees bent, but he held position. The second defender leaned into his chest.
Tyler saw the opening.
He accelerated behind Brock, brushed him from hip to shoulder, and slipped the puck beneath the first defender’s stick. Brock shifted exactly two inches. The goaltender followed the movement of his body.
Tyler passed through the empty space Brock had made.
The weak-side winger scored into an open net.
Keller blew the drill dead. “That’s the formation. Remember it.”
The players moved toward the benches for water. Tyler remained near the crease, watching Brock flex his back.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Cross-check.”
“I saw.”
Tyler placed one glove against the spot before remembering where they were. Brock looked down at the contact. The touch lasted through pads and jersey, perfectly explainable, but concern made it feel more revealing than desire.
Tyler withdrew his hand.
“Ice it,” he said.
“That concern?”
“Captain’s order.”
Brock’s eyes softened. “Yes, Captain.”
The title in Brock’s low voice traveled beneath Tyler’s equipment and settled somewhere dangerous.
Keller gathered the unit at the board to review the drill. He praised their timing, corrected Tyler’s first route, and warned Brock that officials would call interference if he moved his feet too aggressively.
“Your job is to occupy space,” Keller said.
Tyler looked at Brock’s width beside him. “Finally, a natural talent.”
Brock rested one gloved hand on top of Tyler’s helmet and pushed down.
The team laughed. Keller did not see Brock’s thumb stroke once across the edge of Tyler’s exposed neck before releasing him.
Tyler did.
The next repetition was nearly perfect. So was the one after it. By the end of practice, the first unit had scored on seven of ten attempts, and Tyler had spent so much time moving against Brock’s body that removing his equipment in public felt dangerous.
He waited until half the team had showered.
Brock waited too.
They dressed on opposite sides of the room, exchanging no visible sign. Tyler pulled on soft black trousers. Brock chose jeans and a thermal shirt. When they passed in the corridor, Brock placed two fingers against Tyler’s lower back for less than a second.
Tyler’s entire body tightened.
“Loft,” Brock said.
The ride home remained silent.
Inside, Tyler placed the Captain’s Ledger on the kitchen island.
“You didn’t earn a point,” he said.
“Neither did you.”
“Then your threat lacks authority.”
Brock removed his coat. “Endurance challenge.”
“Terms?”
“Sauna. No water. No touching. First man out loses control for the evening.”
Tyler considered the cedar room visible beyond the gym. “Clothes?”
“None.”
Heat started beneath Tyler’s collar before the sauna had been switched on.
“Towels,” he countered.
“Scared?”
“Of splinters.”
Brock opened the ledger and recorded the challenge. Both men signed beneath it.
Twenty minutes later, the sauna thermometer passed one hundred eighty degrees.
Tyler entered first wearing a white towel low around his hips. Brock followed in black. The room contained two cedar benches, a bucket of water they had agreed not to use, and a narrow window overlooking the gym.
They sat opposite each other.
The air attacked immediately.
Heat pressed against Tyler’s face and entered his lungs. Sweat appeared along Brock’s hairline, then moved down his temples and into the dark hair covering his chest.
“Comfortable?” Brock asked.
“I’ve had warmer interviews.”
“You wear less to those too?”
“Only for premium outlets.”
Five minutes passed.
Tyler kept his hands flat on his thighs. Brock leaned back, spreading both arms along the upper bench. The posture displayed everything: broad shoulders, heavy chest, powerful abdomen, and the towel barely secured across his lap.
Tyler’s gaze lowered.
The fabric had begun to rise.
Brock’s arousal was obvious beneath it.
“Eyes up,” Brock said.
“Mine are.” Tyler met his gaze. “Mostly.”
Brock recognized the stolen line and smiled.
Tyler’s own towel offered no better concealment. Heat, memory, and the sight across from him combined into a physical response that pushed visibly beneath the white cotton. He adjusted one knee. The movement exposed more thigh and solved nothing.
“Problem?” Brock asked.
“No.”
“You look uncomfortable.”
“I’m looking at something uncomfortable.”
Brock shifted forward, forearms on his knees. The towel tightened further. “Could stop looking.”
“Could surrender.”
“Not close.”
Ten minutes.
Sweat tracked across Tyler’s collarbones and down his chest. Brock watched each drop. Tyler watched Brock watch. The no-touch rule transformed attention into contact. A glance lingered like a palm. One slow breath felt like a mouth against skin.