CHAPTER SEVEN FULL CONTACT, HANDS OFF
The no-contact agreement began because Tyler fell asleep during a sponsor meeting.
He did not drift gently. One moment he was seated beside Brock beneath a screen displaying premium ticket packages. The next, his head landed on Brock’s shoulder in front of the franchise president, three corporate partners, and Mara Singh.
Brock caught him before he slid from the chair.
Mara stopped speaking.
Tyler woke to eighteen people watching.
“Jet lag,” he said.
“We played at home last night,” Keller replied from the back row.
“Emotional jet lag.”
The meeting resumed. Brock kept one hand behind Tyler’s chair, ready in case exhaustion defeated him again.
At the loft that evening, Keller’s message arrived in both their phones.
Sleep. Recovery. Whatever private contest you two are running, pause it before somebody pulls a groin.
Tyler read it twice.
“He knows,” he said.
Brock stood at the stove stirring pasta. “He suspects we’re idiots. Strong evidence.”
“We need distance.”
“You’re twelve feet away.”
“Real distance.”
Brock turned off the burner. “Terms.”
The ledger came out.
Five days without sexual contact. No kissing, deliberate touching, shared beds, shower encounters, massages, or private wrestling. Necessary hockey contact remained permitted, as did medical assistance and emergencies. Morning accidents did not count unless one man encouraged them.
The first to touch lost every saved reward.
Tyler had two requests and the joint-victory command from the fundraiser. Brock had one request and his matching command. The stakes were considerable.
“Five days is nothing,” Tyler said.
Brock printed the deadline beneath the rules. Friday, eight in the evening.
“Agreed.”
They shook hands to start the clock.
The handshake lasted too long.
“That doesn’t count,” Tyler said.
“Starting signal.”
They released.
The first twelve hours passed easily because both men slept.
Tyler woke in his own bed at six thirty. Morning arousal strained beneath the sheet. He reached toward the empty space beside him before remembering the rule.
Across the loft, Brock’s shower started.
Tyler imagined water moving over the dark hair on his chest and pulled the pillow across his face.
At breakfast, Brock cooked shirtless.
“Put something on,” Tyler said.
“My shirt’s in the dryer.”
“You own twenty.”
“All wet.”
“How?”
“Laundry.”
Tyler opened the dryer. It contained one sock.
Brock smiled over his shoulder.
The loose sweatpants at his waist failed to conceal his morning erection. Tyler’s gaze caught there, then rose over the thick line of body hair and the muscles shifting across Brock’s back as he cracked eggs into a pan.
Tyler’s own response became immediately visible beneath his thin lounge shorts.
Brock looked down.
“Problem?”
“Biology.”
“Could eat in your room.”
“Could cook dressed.”
“Could surrender.”
Tyler took his plate and sat at the island. “Four days, thirteen hours.”
“Counting already?”
“I like knowing the terms.”
Practice made the agreement worse.
Keller opened with battle drills. Tyler and Brock were assigned opposite sides of a faceoff circle. At the whistle, the puck dropped between them.
Brock crowded forward. Their helmets touched. His glove closed around Tyler’s stick while their hips collided.
Necessary hockey contact, Tyler reminded himself.
He leaned back harder.
Brock’s eyes widened behind the visor.
“Professional,” Tyler said.
“You’re cheating.”
“Faceoff.”
The puck fell. Tyler kicked it backward and tried to escape. Brock caught him around the waist and drove him toward the boards.
The collision pressed them together through full equipment.
Tyler’s body reacted inside his protective gear.
Brock felt it. Tyler knew because Brock’s breathing changed and his own arousal aligned unmistakably with Tyler’s.
They remained against the glass after the puck had moved away.
Keller’s whistle shrieked. “Lawson. Release him or buy him dinner.”
Brock pushed away.
“Necessary,” Tyler said as they returned to line.
“Next time I’m using the boards harder.”
“Promise?”
For the rest of practice, hockey became their only permitted language.
Brock finished checks with one extra fraction of pressure.
Tyler crowded him after whistles. During net-front drills, Tyler’s glove settled at Brock’s lower back to establish position.
Brock lifted Tyler’s stick and held him trapped against his side.
Every contact had an explanation.
Every explanation was a lie.
In the locker room, removing equipment revealed the cost. Tyler’s arousal remained hard beneath his base layer. He sat at his stall, elbows on knees, waiting for it to subside before changing.
Across the room, Brock faced his locker in compression leggings. The fabric outlined an equally obvious response.
The backup goaltender walked between them, glanced left, glanced right, and stopped.
“Good practice?” he asked.
“Leave,” both captains answered.
He left laughing.
The first evening brought mandatory film review at home.
They usually shared the sofa, Brock at one end and Tyler gradually occupying more of the middle until their legs tangled. Under the agreement, Brock took the leather chair. Tyler stretched across the entire sofa to prove the distance did not bother him.
It bothered him immediately.
Onscreen, the previous night’s opponent cycled the puck behind Milwaukee’s net. Brock paused the clip and asked Tyler to identify the breakdown.
“Weak-side winger stayed high,” Tyler said.
“And?”
“Center lost the slot.”
“And?”
Tyler looked at him. Brock wore gray sweatpants, a fitted thermal shirt, and reading glasses. One ankle rested over the opposite knee. The posture pulled the fabric tight enough to show that his attention had drifted far from defensive coverage.
“Captain is distracted,” Tyler said.
Brock followed Tyler’s gaze, then looked at the shape visible beneath Tyler’s own lounge pants.
“Both captains.”
Tyler shifted onto his stomach. That made the pressure worse but concealed it from view.
Brock rewound the clip.
They lasted twenty minutes before Tyler threw a pillow toward the chair. Brock caught it without letting the fabric touch his body, apparently concerned even indirect contact could become a loophole.
“You’re impossible,” Tyler said.
“You proposed this.”
“For recovery.”
“Recover.”
“I am recovered.”
“Then suffer.”
Tyler turned off the television. “Separate bedrooms.”
“Already a rule.”
“Separate ends of the loft.”
Brock rose and carried the pillow to Tyler’s door. He set it on the floor without crossing the threshold.
“Good night, Hayes.”
Tyler watched him walk away. The deliberate restraint contained a kind of care: Brock would honor the agreement even while both wanted to break it.
“Good night, Lawson,” Tyler answered.
He lay awake for another hour listening to the building settle and hating the empty half of his bed.
Day two began with Tyler wearing Brock’s oversized number twenty-seven jersey.
It reached mid-thigh and nothing else showed beneath it.
Brock entered the kitchen carrying coffee. He stopped.
“Where are your pants?”
“Laundry.”
“The machine’s empty.”
“Emotional laundry.”
Tyler reached above the cabinet for a mug. The jersey lifted enough to reveal black briefs and the curve of his thighs.
Brock’s hand tightened around the coffee cup.
“Take it off.”
“Command?”
“Property request.”
“Spend a point.”
Brock turned and walked into the gym.
Ten minutes later, metal struck metal.
Tyler followed the sound and found Brock bench-pressing shirtless. Sweat moved through the hair on his chest. Each repetition swelled his arms and tightened his abdomen. He wore compression shorts that displayed how completely the jersey had affected him.
Tyler leaned against the glass.
Brock racked the bar and sat up.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Team property inspection.”
“You’re wearing my name over your body.”
“Marketing engagement.”
Brock rose. He crossed to the glass until only its clear barrier separated them.
Tyler’s reflection overlapped Brock’s body.
“Come inside,” Brock said.
“Why?”
“Need a spotter.”
Tyler entered. He stood behind the bench while Brock lay down again. The jersey brushed Brock’s hair when Tyler leaned over to check the bar.
“No touching,” Tyler reminded him.
“Safety exception.”
“Only if you fail.”
Brock completed twelve flawless repetitions while staring directly upward at Tyler’s bare thighs.
On thirteen, the bar slowed.
Tyler’s hands hovered beneath it.
Brock drove the weight into the hooks without assistance.
They breathed inches apart.
“Almost,” Tyler said.
“Not close.”
Brock rolled off the bench and moved toward the cable machine. Tyler should have left. Instead, he sat where Brock’s body had been, warm vinyl beneath his thighs.
“Next exercise?” Tyler asked.
“Pull-downs.”
“Need help?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
Brock gripped the wide bar. Each pull drew his elbows down and expanded the muscles of his back. Tyler watched through the mirror, wearing Brock’s name, while the obvious response beneath the jersey became harder to ignore.
Brock watched that too.
“Four sets,” he said.
“I can count.”
“You lose track when distracted.”
Tyler stood behind him, close enough that the hem of the jersey brushed the bench but not Brock. “One.”
The weight rose.
“Two.”
Sweat moved along Brock’s spine.
“Three.”
Brock’s control slipped for one repetition. The bar returned too quickly and the plates struck.
Tyler smiled. “Distracted?”
Brock released the handle and stood. The turn trapped Tyler between his body and the machine without contact. Bare chest hovered near the borrowed number.
“Take one step,” Brock said.
“Why?”
“Because if I do, the challenge ends.”
Tyler’s pulse jumped.
For several seconds, he considered staying. The saved rewards felt insignificant compared with one step from Brock.
Then Tyler retreated.
“Three days, eight hours,” he said.
Brock exhaled. “Coward.”
“Strategist.”
At practice that afternoon, the strength coach assigned partner stretching. Brock and Tyler looked at each other across the turf.
“Necessary contact,” Tyler said.
“Medical assistance,” Brock agreed.