CHAPTER SEVEN FULL CONTACT, HANDS OFF #3
They began with simple passing. Distance made it safe. Then Tyler shortened the lane. Brock increased the force. The puck snapped between their sticks while skates carved the quiet ice.
“Faster,” Tyler said.
Brock obeyed.
Tyler missed one pass. Brock collected it and carried toward the boards. Tyler pursued.
“No checking,” Brock reminded him.
Tyler stole the puck and turned. “Try to stop me.”
Brock did.
He caught Tyler at the waist and drove him gently but decisively against the glass. The contact was pure hockey for less than a second.
Then Tyler pressed backward.
Brock’s body aligned with his.
Their arousal became unmistakable through the inadequate layers between them.
“Necessary?” Tyler asked.
Brock’s mouth hovered beside his ear. “Not anymore.”
Tyler turned inside the hold.
Neither man could claim who touched first. Tyler’s hands caught Brock’s shoulders at the same instant Brock’s closed around his waist. Their mouths met before the puck stopped sliding.
Five days broke in one desperate kiss.
They struggled along the boards, trying to pull closer through pads and clothing. Brock lifted Tyler onto the narrow ledge. Tyler wrapped both legs around him. Skates scraped for balance.
Voices echoed from the service corridor.
They froze.
“Penalty box,” Brock whispered.
They crossed the ice too quickly, opened the home box, and stumbled inside. Brock locked the door.
The waist-high boards concealed them from the corridor but not from each other.
Tyler pulled the gray base layer over Brock’s head. Brock removed the oversized jersey from Tyler. Cold air met heated skin. Their visible arousal strained beneath the clothes that remained.
Footsteps passed beyond the tunnel.
Neither dared speak.
The silence intensified everything. Breaths replaced commands. Hands asked questions. Nods answered. The narrow bench forced their bodies together while arena employees discussed ice temperature less than thirty feet away.
Brock covered Tyler’s mouth with one hand when a sound threatened to escape. Tyler kissed the center of the palm, then dragged Brock close again.
Their reunion remained frantic but consensual, every movement checked by a glance despite urgency. Five days of restraint collapsed into physical intimacy that left no room for the ledger, the rivalry, or pride.
When footsteps returned, they stopped together, foreheads pressed, fighting for quiet.
The employees passed.
Neither captain had the strength to resume.
They sat side by side on the penalty-box floor, half dressed and breathing into the cold.
“Who lost?” Tyler whispered.
Brock looked at their hands, still locked together.
“Both.”
“You touched first.”
“Simultaneous.”
“Video review?”
Brock glanced toward the arena cameras.
Tyler followed his gaze.
“Absolutely not,” they said together.
Brock laughed silently, shoulders shaking. Tyler leaned against him.
“We had twelve hours,” Brock said.
“Poor clock management.”
“Worth it?”
Tyler tightened their joined hands. The obvious answer had nothing to do with the encounter. Five days had proven desire was not the only thing he missed. He missed Brock’s palm at his back, the weight beside him in bed, the unconscious reach across a kitchen. Contact had become a form of home.
“Completely,” he said.
Brock kissed his temple.
That touch violated nothing. The agreement was already gone.
They dressed in the penalty box because crossing open ice half naked seemed difficult to explain. Tyler pulled Brock’s jersey over his head again. Brock struggled into the damp base layer and left it untucked.
When he unlocked the door, a maintenance worker stood on the other side holding a bucket of tools.
All three men froze.
The worker looked at Tyler’s street trousers, their flushed faces, and the abandoned shoulder pads on the bench.
“Equipment issue,” Brock said.
The worker’s gaze moved to the lock. “In the penalty box.”
“Discipline issue,” Tyler added.
The man nodded with the solemnity of someone accepting a story for his own protection. “Ice crew comes through in ten.”
“Appreciated,” Brock said.
They crossed the rink without touching. It was no longer required, but the narrow escape had restored caution. Inside the tunnel, hidden from the cameras over the ice, Tyler caught Brock’s hand.
Brock stopped.
“You’re allowed now,” Tyler said.
“I know.”
“Then why do you look surprised?”
Brock examined their joined fingers. “Because you did it where somebody might see.”
Tyler heard the truth inside the observation. Privacy had protected him, but it had also trained Brock to expect release whenever the world came close.
“Nobody’s here,” Tyler said.
“Maintenance worker.”
“He knows discipline when he sees it.”
Brock laughed and brought Tyler’s hand to his mouth. The brief kiss against Tyler’s knuckles felt more dangerous than anything hidden behind the boards.
They walked through the tunnel together, separating only when voices approached.
Back at the loft, they opened the ledger and crossed out the entire challenge.
Tyler wrote NO WINNER beneath it.
Brock added NO SAVED REWARDS LOST.
“Convenient ruling,” Tyler said.
“Co-captains’ decision.”
“Unanimous?”
Brock pulled him close, finally free to use both hands. “Required.”
For once, neither man needed a scoreboard to know what they had won.
Tyler kissed him without checking the clock.