BEYOND THE ICE

BRANDON

There was a reason Brandon Pierce was known as the team's wild card. In a pack full of omertà and hidden agendas, he was the one who sliced through the tension when nobody else would speak up.

He was the fixer, the one who found solutions to the problems the Alphas couldn't muscle through. His methods weren't always polished, and they’d landed him in a fair share of disciplinary hearings, but they kept the brotherhood from fracturing. In a family defined by massive egos, volcanic tempers, and enough shredded muscle to fill a stadium, you needed someone to keep the pot from boiling over.

Brandon wasn't just some impulsive brawler, though. At 6’4”, with heavy shoulders and a frame built for impact, his prowess on the ice was undisputed. Along with Viktor Petrov, he formed the defensive spine of the Stormbreakers—Viktor was the silent sentinel, while Brandon was the life of the party. That lifestyle hadn't been an issue until a certain elegant journalist decided to splash Brandon’s late-night exploits across a digital front page, earning him a half-season suspension for "conduct detrimental to the pack."

Ever since, Brandon had been looking for a way to return the favor. He felt like Lyon Navarro owed him a debt that could only be paid in skin.

Brandon threw on his street clothes and beat the rest of the guys out of the Team Locker Room. He wanted to be the one to deliver the "invitation" to the team dinner. "Invited" was a polite term; in reality, they were cornering him into a group date, banking on the fact that Lyon wouldn’t back down from an olive branch. Once they had him at the table, he belonged to the pack.

Lyon hadn't lingered after his showdown on the ice. He’d mentioned something about drafting press kits before heading toward the executive wing. Brandon caught up to him in the long, sterile corridor that connected the offices to the main concourse. Lyon was walking toward the exit, his stride measured and graceful, eyes fixed on his phone.

Brandon lengthened his pace, his heavy boots echoing on the concrete. "Hey! Lyon! Navarro!"

Lyon turned, a flicker of surprise crossing his sharp, handsome features. He stopped and crossed his arms, fixing Brandon with a controlled, lethal glare.

"The wolves are done licking their wounds already?" Lyon asked, his voice smooth and mocking.

Brandon looked him over, suppressing a grin. He didn't know who the other guys were kidding—this was always going to end in a hunt for the man standing in front of them. Lyon looked so striking in the dim hallway light that Brandon had to check his own primal urge to pin him against the wall right there.

"Yeah, yeah." Brandon waved off the jab, stepping into Lyon's path and leaning casually against the wall to block his exit. "I’ve got a few other things I’d like to lick next, if you’re game."

Lyon rolled his eyes, a look of practiced disgust on his face, but Brandon didn't miss the way a faint crimson heat touched the man's cheekbones. Despite the sneer, Lyon didn't back away. "You’re a pig, Brandon."

"Oink oink," Brandon shot back, smirking. Most people who hung around the Stormbreakers were easily dazzled by the fame and the sheer physical dominance of the Alphas. They usually just stared in awe. But Lyon was different; he bit back. Brandon just hoped that fire extended beyond their verbal sparring. "Listen, the guys and I want you at dinner tonight. Just the pack and you. A peace offering, since you turned out to be such a ringer on the ice."

"Dinner?" Lyon arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. He looked skeptical, but intrigued. "And why would I spend my evening being harassed by you lunatics?"

"Because we’re delightful company," Brandon replied. Or at least, they could be—if you found competitive, testosterone-heavy Alphas charming. "And it’s an opportunity to see us in our prime. Dressed up for once. I mean, since you already had the pleasure of seeing us so... dressed down."

Lyon’s gaze traveled over Brandon, and Brandon knew exactly what the man was remembering: the raw display of power in the locker room. Brandon might not have Rafael’s glacial beauty or Mateo’s terrifying height, but his dark hair, piercing green eyes, and rugged, boyish charm were a potent mix.

Brandon took the moment to study Lyon in return, imagining him out of the professional suit and into something more fitting for a night at the Coastal Prime Steakhouse. He’d known Lyon for years through the press, but today was the first time he’d realized how well the man’s refined elegance balanced the raw masculinity of the team.

Lyon wasn't just a PR handler; he was the perfect accessory. And Brandon was starting to think he didn't want to let him go once the season was over.

"I’d love to," Lyon finally said, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm, "but I believe I have prior engagements."

"Fine. I'll tell Rafael you’re busy." Brandon looked away, playing it cool, feigning total indifference. "I knew you’d fold. After that performance against Viktor, some of the boys thought you might actually have the backbone to hang with us. But I told them you wouldn't risk being out of your element like that." Brandon grinned sharply. "Rafael’s going to owe me a grand. It feels good to be right about you."

That hit the mark. Lyon’s competitive streak was his greatest weakness—or his greatest strength. Brandon could see the gears turning behind those amber eyes. The man couldn't resist a challenge.

"If I agree to this," Lyon said, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips, "I expect you to be on your best behavior. No stunts. If I find out you or Adrian have done anything foul to my drink or my meal, I’ll make a scene that will ruin this team's reputation forever." He tilted his head. "And I have a very loud voice, Brandon."

Brandon laughed. "Funny—I always figured you’d be a screamer."

"I’m serious," Lyon warned. "I’ll dine with gentlemen—not animals. Do you understand?"

"Oh, Lyon, do you even know us at all?" Brandon grinned as he finally stepped aside, letting Lyon pass toward the exit. "We’re only at our best when we’re behaving our worst. But for you..." He shrugged. "We’ll give it a shot. See you at eight."