CHAPTER THIRTEEN SUDDEN DEATH #3
Tyler kept his eyes open. He allowed Brock to see every response—the first sharp breath, the tremor when a hand moved along uninjured skin, the vulnerability of needing slowness. No jokes concealed him. No command turned desire into a game.
Brock followed every signal. Their tenderness deepened into slow physical intimacy within the warm water, each movement deliberate and easily stopped. Tyler guided when he needed. Brock steadied when pain threatened. Neither hurried toward an ending.
They became wrapped around each other inside the bath, Tyler seated against Brock’s chest, Brock’s arms enclosing him without pressure on the bruises.
Tyler touched the scar over Brock’s heart.
“I love you,” he said.
Brock’s entire body went still.
“Again,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
“Not because I scored?”
“You are impossible.”
“No jokes.”
Tyler turned far enough to meet his eyes. “I love the man who scored. I love the man who carried me home. I love the man who wanted everything and waited until I was ready.”
Brock pressed his face into Tyler’s wet hair.
“I love you too.”
They remained wrapped together while the bath cooled around them.
Eventually, Brock stood first and stepped onto the mat. He wrapped a towel around his waist, then lifted Tyler from the water with one arm beneath his knees and one supporting his back.
“I can walk,” Tyler reminded him.
“I know.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you keep confusing capability with obligation.”
Brock dried him while Tyler held the counter for balance. Bruises had deepened into purple across his ribs and back. Brock touched none without asking.
They ate soup in bed because solid food felt ambitious. Tyler took the prescribed medication. Brock set alarms for every two hours despite the doctor confirming neurological observation was mostly precaution.
“You need sleep,” Tyler said.
“So do you.”
“I have medication.”
“I have stubbornness.”
“Dangerous dosage.”
Brock switched off the lamp.
At midnight, he woke Tyler and asked his name, location, and score.
“Tyler Hayes. Milwaukee. Three to two.”
“Good.”
“Relationship to large man interfering with sleep?”
Brock hesitated.
Tyler answered for him. “Man I love.”
The darkness concealed nothing. Brock kissed his forehead and allowed him to sleep.
At two, Tyler woke before the alarm.
“Brock Lawson. Milwaukee. Three to two,” he said.
“You forgot the question.”
“I’m efficient.”
At four, Brock’s arm had gone numb beneath Tyler’s head. He did not move it until Tyler woke naturally.
“Capability versus obligation,” Tyler murmured.
“I chose.”
“You can choose blood circulation.”
They shifted carefully. Tyler rested against Brock’s chest instead of his arm.
Morning entered the room in thin gray lines. Pain had fallen to three. Brock’s thigh had stiffened overnight. They limped to the kitchen together, each pretending not to notice the other’s uneven steps until both began laughing.
Their phones contained hundreds of messages. One from Keller stood above the rest.
CHAMPIONSHIP PREP AT NOON. CAPTAINS ON VIDEO ONLY. IF EITHER APPEARS AT THE RINK, SECURITY HAS ORDERS.
Tyler showed Brock.
“We could use the service entrance,” Brock said.
“Responsible captaincy.”
“Extremely.”
Neither went.
They returned to bed with ice packs, coffee, and the game puck the goaltender had slipped into Brock’s bag. Tyler placed it beside their joined hands.
The winning goal belonged to both. Recovery did too.
At noon, they joined the team meeting from bed. Tyler wore a robe. Brock wore reading glasses and enough athletic tape to look reconstructed.
The video room appeared on the television. Twenty teammates applauded when both captains connected.
“Medical privacy,” Tyler said.
“You are broadcasting from the same bed,” the backup goaltender replied.
“Housing shortage.”
Keller muted the room before the explanation deteriorated. He displayed the championship opponent.
NEW YORK EMPIRE.
Tyler stared at the logo from his unsigned offer.
New York had finished with the league’s best record. Their roster was fast, deep, and expensive. Their general manager had spent the week telling reporters that Tyler would look excellent in Empire blue regardless of the championship outcome.
“They will use the contract,” Keller said. “Every press conference, every faceoff, every mistake. They want Milwaukee wondering whether Hayes is already theirs.”
Brock’s arm tightened behind Tyler.
“He is not,” Brock said.
Tyler looked at him.
Keller continued. “Then play like the room knows it.”
The meeting shifted into systems. New York attacked in waves and punished slow changes. Brock took notes. Tyler asked questions until medication made the screen blur.
Before signing off, Keller said, “Rest. You have five days to become impossible again.”
Tyler closed the laptop.
“New York,” Brock said.
“Afraid?”
“Yes.”
Tyler settled against his chest. “Good answer.”
The championship would demand everything they had left. For one more morning, neither captain saved strength for it.
Outside, Milwaukee celebrated the winning goal while inside the loft its two captains practiced a quieter victory: allowing pain, desire, fear, and love to occupy the same bed without one defeating another before the championship asked them to prove what partnership meant under pressure.
For once, sudden death had led them somewhere neither wanted to escape.