CHAPTER NINE HARDEST AND FASTEST #2
The producer saw ratings.
Thirty seconds later, an attendant removed Brock’s shoulder pads. Brock pulled the silver jersey and base layer over his head, exposing his bare torso to the arena.
Noise rose in a stunned wave.
Brock stood shirtless on the ice.
Tape circled both wrists. Dark hair covered his chest and narrowed across an abdomen built for force rather than display. The tattoo on his left arm reached from wrist to shoulder. Bruises marked his ribs. Cold air tightened his skin, but nothing diminished the size or power of him.
Tyler’s reaction became immediate and visible beneath his uniform.
The fitted hockey pants could not conceal the sudden pressure. He shifted behind the boards, but Brock had already seen.
Brock held his gaze while accepting a new puck.
The arena announcer encouraged the crowd to get louder. Cameras moved close. Brock ignored them. Every part of his attention remained fixed on Tyler.
He skated backward to center.
Tyler stopped pretending not to stare.
Brock accelerated.
The stick rose above one shoulder. His entire body rotated into the shot—legs, hips, core, back, arms, every piece of strength joined in one violent sequence.
The blade struck the ice.
Then the puck.
The target net snapped backward.
109.1.
New record.
The number flashed across every screen in the arena.
Brock raised the stick with one hand. Teammates surrounded him, slapping his bare back and shoulders. He accepted the congratulations while looking through all of them at Tyler.
Five points.
Tie.
Tyler’s body remained visibly aroused. Brock smiled as if the reaction belonged beside the record.
Then Brock lowered the arm too carefully.
Tyler saw pain before the smile concealed it. He climbed through the bench gate and crossed the ice while officials prepared the next station.
“Hand?” Tyler asked.
“Working.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Brock flexed his fingers. The ring and little fingers responded slowly.
Tyler called the trainer with one sharp gesture.
The broadcast camera followed them to the bench. Tyler remained close while the trainer tested grip and sensation. Brock’s bare shoulder pressed against Tyler’s jersey. The contact intensified the visible problem beneath Tyler’s uniform, but concern overrode embarrassment.
“Temporary nerve irritation,” the trainer said. “No more shots.”
“Won’t need them,” Brock answered.
Tyler took Brock’s wrist and squeezed once. “Record stands.”
“So does something else.” Brock glanced downward.
“You removed your jersey in front of twenty thousand people.”
“Practical.”
“You stared at me during the attempt.”
“Target alignment.”
“You are impossible.”
Brock’s uninjured hand settled briefly at Tyler’s waist. “And tied.”
The camera captured the gesture. By morning, fans would analyze it from six angles. In the moment, Tyler let it remain.
The rest of the evening failed to separate them. Tyler’s team placed second in the relay and earned three points. Brock’s team did the same in the breakaway competition. Both finished with eight.
At the awards ceremony, they stood on separate platforms holding crystal trophies.
“Hardest and fastest,” the announcer declared. “Milwaukee takes both.”
Tyler and Brock lifted the trophies toward each other.
The public saw teammates celebrating.
They saw a tie requiring settlement.
Media obligations lasted another hour. Tyler answered questions about training, age, and whether he could break twelve and a half seconds. Brock explained that removing his jersey had been practical, not theatrical, while reporters replayed the footage behind him.
“Your co-captain seemed impressed,” one said.
Brock looked toward Tyler’s interview station. “He has good judgment.”
Tyler heard.
His body reacted again.
By the time they reached the arena tunnel, Brock’s shirtless record had become the weekend’s most replayed clip. His phone vibrated continuously. Tyler’s publicist sent a screenshot showing the phrase MILWAUKEE’S HARDEST MAN trending nationally.
Tyler held up the screen. “Marketing engagement.”
Brock read the phrase. “Accurate.”
“Debatable.”
“You have private evidence.”
Two equipment attendants passed before Tyler could answer. He waited until they disappeared, then stepped close enough that his silver jersey brushed Brock’s newly replaced base layer.
“Private evidence remains under review,” Tyler said.
Brock’s gaze lowered to the visible reaction still straining Tyler’s uniform. “Review looks favorable.”
In the elevator to the hotel garage, six fans recognized them. Tyler signed programs. Brock posed with a family wearing Frost sweaters. They remained public property through every floor, smiling and answering questions while their shoulders touched.
The youngest fan held both trophies in miniature on his T-shirt.
“Which one matters more?” he asked.
“Both,” Brock said.
Tyler looked at him. “Good answer.”
“Captain’s answer.”
When the doors closed behind the family, Tyler let his hand brush Brock’s. “Our answer?”
Brock linked their smallest fingers for the remaining two floors. “Same.”
Back at the Lakeshore Crown, both men entered Brock’s suite carrying trophies and overnight bags. The ledger waited open on the desk.
HAYES: 8.
LAWSON: 8.
Brock set down the crystal puck. “Tiebreaker.”
“Hotel training studio,” Tyler said. “Three rounds.”
“Terms?”
“Athletic clothes. Best of three. No intentional sexual contact until one of us wins.”
Brock removed his jacket. “Specific events?”
“Winner of each round chooses the next.”
“You assume you win first.”
“I’m fastest.”
“I’m hardest.”
The words hung between them.
Tyler looked down at Brock’s trousers. “Currently?”
Brock’s physical response was clearly outlined. “Come find out.”
The private studio occupied the hotel’s top floor beside a closed spa. At one in the morning, it stood empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Chicago. Mats, free weights, balance equipment, resistance machines, and a short turf lane filled the room. A glass door led to the steam room.
Tyler wore black compression shorts and a sleeveless top. Brock wore gray shorts and no shirt.
“You keep forgetting half your clothes,” Tyler said.
“Shoulder mobility.”
“Marketing engagement.”
Brock locked the studio door.
Round one belonged to Tyler.
He designed a balance-and-speed circuit using two unstable platforms, a low hurdle, a medicine ball, and the turf lane. Each man had to stand on one leg while catching ten passes, cross the platforms without touching the floor, clear the hurdle, and sprint to the far wall.
Brock caught every pass but lost time on the second platform. Tyler moved across both like changing edges on ice.
He reached the wall three seconds ahead.
Tyler did not stop at the line. He planted one foot against the padded wall, turned, and caught the medicine ball Brock had thrown after him.
“Show-off,” Brock said.
Tyler balanced the ball on one palm. “Athletic excellence.”
“You moved the second platform.”
“It moved itself.”
“You placed it closer to your stride length.”
“Strategic course design.”
Brock came within reach and took the ball. Their fingers overlapped around the textured rubber.
“No intentional contact,” Tyler reminded him.
“Equipment transfer.”
Brock pulled. Tyler kept hold. The medicine ball became the only space between their chests.
Both men’s arousal showed through the compression shorts.
“Release,” Brock said.
“Command?”
“Request.”
Tyler let go without charging a point. Brock nearly lost balance when the resistance vanished.
“Fast,” Tyler said.
Brock set the ball down. “Second round.”
“One,” Tyler said, raising a finger.
Brock approached without hurry. Sweat already moved along his chest.
“Enjoy it.”
“I plan to.”
Tyler chose wrestling for round two because arrogance remained one of his most consistent weaknesses.
The rules were simple: first man to force the other into a ten-second strength hold won. No strikes. No clothing grabs. No use of Brock’s damaged knee or ribs.
They met in the center of the mat.
Tyler attacked first, driving low for Brock’s hips. Brock widened his stance and caught Tyler beneath the arms. Tyler twisted, broke one side of the hold, and climbed behind him.
Brock shifted Tyler’s weight and threw him over one hip.
The mat struck Tyler’s back.
Brock followed him down, pinning both wrists near Tyler’s shoulders while keeping pressure away from the protected joints.
Their bodies aligned.
Arousal became visible beneath both pairs of compression shorts.
“One,” Brock counted.
Tyler wrapped his legs around Brock’s waist and disrupted the balance.
“Two.”
Tyler turned one wrist, created space, and rolled them.
He straddled Brock’s hips and forced one arm toward the mat. Brock held him there through six seconds, then lifted Tyler bodily and reversed them again.
The display of strength sent a sharp physical response through Tyler.
Brock noticed.
“Seven,” he said near Tyler’s mouth.
“You skipped numbers.”
“Distracted?”
Tyler tried to escape. Brock trapped both thighs with his own, captured Tyler’s wrists, and held.
“One.”
Tyler strained upward.
“Two.”
Brock’s arousal pressed against his, impossible to dismiss as accidental.
“Three.”
Their breathing synchronized.
“Four.”
Tyler stopped fighting for one dangerous second.
“Five.”
Brock’s eyes moved to his mouth.
“Six.”
Tyler almost kissed him.
“Seven.”
He turned his face away.
“Eight.”
Brock tightened the hold.
“Nine.”
Tyler gave one final effort. It failed.
“Ten.”
Brock released him immediately and sat back.
“Tied,” he said.
Tyler remained on the mat, chest rising hard. “Choose the final round.”
Brock considered the equipment, then pointed toward the mirrored wall.
“Controlled endurance. Wall sit. Medicine ball held overhead. First man to stand loses.”
“That favors your legs.”
“Your first round favored balance.”
“Your knee.”
“Other side. I stop if it hurts.”
Tyler studied him. “No minimizing.”
“Agreed.”
They placed their backs against the wall, lowered until thighs stood parallel to the floor, and raised weighted balls above their heads.