“That’s rich.” Adrian kept his voice low, a razor-edged smirk playing on his lips, but the rhythmic thrum of his pulse betrayed a predatory anger. He wasn't about to let this outsider challenge the pack without drawing a little blood from that inflated ego. “I’m not the one who built a career on high-school-tier character assassinations.”

That pushed the tether too far.

Lyon’s composure snapped, and he swung a fist toward Adrian’s chest in a blur of frustration. But the wolf was faster. Adrian caught Lyon’s wrist mid-air, his grip like a steel shackle, killing the momentum instantly.

Suddenly, the elegant strategist was completely physically dominated.

Something in the way Lyon’s breath hitched told Adrian he might not entirely hate the sensation.

Adrian didn't let go. He wasn't even using his full strength; Lyon could have twisted away if he truly wanted to. But the way the man was pinned against him, eyes locked onto his… Lyon knew exactly what an Alpha could do to him. Adrian leaned in, his voice a low, teasing vibration. “I was actually hoping to see if you had any scandalous photos saved. I’ve always wondered what you’re hiding under those pristine, tailored shirts.”

“Keep wondering,” Lyon spat back, wrenching his hand free with a sharp, dismissive jerk. He immediately smoothed his shirt and adjusted his cuffs, desperate to reclaim his shattered poise. “I don't display the goods for just anyone. Unlike the local exhibitionists.”

“Given the show you just got from the pack, I’d say we’re due for a reciprocal viewing.” Adrian’s eyes traveled slowly down Lyon’s lean, athletic frame. The man looked delicious—good enough to hunt, good enough to break. Adrian could sense that with just one more shove, the strategist’s professional mask would crack wide open.

Unfortunately, the ice was calling. As Adrian turned to head back to the locker room, he saw Lyon staring at his phone, a small furrow between his brows. Adrian hadn't actually looked at the private files—he had some vestige of a code—but he’d enjoyed the scare.

“You should head to the stands and witness a real practice,” Adrian called over his shoulder. “All those hit pieces you wrote, and I bet you’ve never actually watched us go all out.” He paused, a dark glint in his eyes. “You’ve never seen us when we’re going hard on the ice. Or off it. Maybe you’ll finally see something you actually want.”

Lyon only glowered, a soft, rose-colored flush creeping up his neck. “I highly doubt that, Adrian.”

Adrian chuckled as he walked away. The man didn't know if he wanted to kill them or climb them. Most people would be speechless after being thrown into the deep end with the Stormbreakers, but Lyon was still swinging. And if teasing was the way to dismantle him, Adrian was more than happy to oblige.

VIKTOR

It was the dawn of the season, and Viktor Petrov was relegated to puck-handling drills. While the rest of the pack blurred across the ice in high-speed passing formations, the massive goalie was left alone in the crease, tapping the black disc back and forth. It was Coach Vargas’s order. After the long hiatus, the skaters needed to regain their edge before facing the "Wall of San Diego."

Viktor didn't like the isolation, but he understood the necessity. In a squad where every man was a giant, Viktor was the titan. Standing 6’6” and broad enough to block out the sun, his physical presence dominated the net. With his golden hair and thick beard, the fans called him "The Storm Lord," a title he preferred over the one Lyon Navarro had tried to pin on him years ago.

Lyon had once published a story claiming Viktor was "The Siberian Sellout," alleging he was begging for a trade back to Europe after a locker room dispute. It was a lie. Viktor had played his college years here; he was as much a product of this city as any of them. It had taken a season of shutouts to win back the pack’s trust. He didn't forget debts like that.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Lyon appeared in the stands near the glass. Viktor watched him. Lyon was clearly trying to project an aura of control, using that lean, sharp aesthetic to command the room. It was almost working. As Viktor’s gaze traced the lines of Lyon’s body, a mixture of cold fury and hot interest stirred in his gut.

When Adrian skated onto the ice a few moments later, wearing a triumphant grin, Viktor knew the needle had been pushed. He decided it was his turn to play. Skating to the edge of the rink, Viktor looked up. Lyon was fixated on the front line—Rafael, Mateo, and Logan.

“Hey,” Viktor called out.

Lyon jumped, startled out of his trance. People thought Viktor was the silent one, but he knew that when the quietest man in the room speaks, people listen. Lyon was listening now, his attention fully captured by the towering goalie.

“I need a shooter for stick-save drills,” Viktor rumbled. “The others are occupied. There are skates by the bench. Get down here.”

Lyon’s eyes went wide. “No,” he said instantly, trying to sound dismissive. But Viktor smelled the hesitation. “No way. Find one of the reserves.”

“You were hired to improve this team,” Viktor countered. “I cannot improve without a target. You do not even need to skate well. Just stand and fire.”

It was a trap, and they both knew it. Lyon had stood up to their threats and their nakedness, but the ice was the pack’s true domain.

“I’m a PR consultant,” Lyon insisted. “Not a practice target.”

“A wager then?” Viktor’s lips curled into a rare, predatory grin. “Five shots. If you score once—even by accident—I will follow your every directive for the entire season. No arguments.”

He saw the spark of ambition in Lyon’s amber eyes. One Alpha under his thumb would change everything. Lyon scanned the ice, looking for the catch.

“How do I know you won’t cheat?” Lyon demanded.

“One puck, one net. There is no cheating in the crease,” Viktor said, flashing a smile that was surprisingly charming for a man of his size. “Trust me.”

To the astonishment of the entire squad, who had stopped to watch the exchange, Lyon stood up and marched toward the bench, his chin held high in defiance.

“You have a deal, Petrov.”

LYON

Viktor was a mountain. He filled the goal so completely that there seemed to be no light passing through. Lyon knew he should be terrified. He should be worried about looking like a fool. But the chance to bend the "Storm Lord" to his will was too intoxicating to pass up.

One goal, and he could force Viktor into quiet interviews and professional conduct. The others would follow. As he descended the stairs, Lyon looked at the rippling muscle of Viktor’s frame and thought of a few unprofessional things he might like to order the goalie to do, too.

He found a pair of skates and a stick. The pack gave them a wide berth, watching with predatory curiosity. Lyon stepped onto the ice, shivering slightly, but his heart was racing too fast for the cold to take hold. It was time for his secret: he hadn't just written about hockey because of the gossip. He had grown up in a house obsessed with the sport. He had spent his childhood chasing his brothers across frozen ponds.

Viktor slid the puck toward him. Lyon caught it with the stick, a fluid, practiced motion. He slapped it back—a low, biting shot toward the left post. Viktor snapped his stick down to block it, but Lyon saw the flicker of surprise in the goalie’s eyes.

The pack went silent. Viktor grunted, returning the puck. This time, Lyon built up speed, skating in a tight arc before firing a hard strike to the opposite side. Viktor dropped low, his massive pad taking the hit.

“Beginner’s luck!” Brandon Pierce barked from the sidelines, his voice a mix of a sneer and a question. “Come on, Viktor, end this.”

Third shot. Lyon feinted left, then whipped the puck high to the right. Viktor’s composure slipped; he had to launch himself into a glove save that looked far more desperate than he would have liked.

“What? You thought I was just a suit?” Lyon called out, widening his stance, a triumphant fire in his eyes.

“Don’t get cocky, Navarro,” Rafael’s voice rang out across the ice. Lyon turned to see the captain grinning, his gaze lingering on Lyon’s form in a way that made the strategist’s skin tingle. “Two shots left. And we have all season to break you.”

Rafael used a pet name—Navarro—but the tone was almost intimate. Lyon turned back to the puck. He skated back and forth, luring Viktor out. As the goalie bit on a fake move, Lyon fired between his legs. Viktor dropped into a butterfly block just in time.

Last shot. Viktor was no longer relaxed; he was coiled like a spring, scowling. Lyon took a wide circle, building maximum velocity. He came in at an angle, forcing Viktor to pivot, and put every ounce of his strength into a shot over the goalie's left shoulder.

“Bozhe moi!” Viktor snarled as he twisted mid-air.

It wasn't pretty. Viktor slammed into the ice, blocking the goal with the sheer mass of his torso. The puck bounced off his shoulder. It was a save, but a frantic one. If it had been anyone but the league's best goalie, Lyon would have scored.

“Did you see that?” Logan Hayes asked, genuinely impressed.

Viktor had blocked them all, but the victory felt hollow for the pack. The smart comments had died. They knew that Lyon Navarro had just proven he belonged in their world.

LOGAN

Back in the Team Locker Room, the air was heavy with a new kind of tension. Lyon wasn't just a hack; the man had ice in his veins.

“Pure fluke,” Mateo rumbled, though he didn't sound convinced.

“That wasn't a fluke,” Adrian said, unlacing his skates. “That bitch... he’s going to be impossible to manage now that he knows he can play.”

“We’ll find another way to ground him,” Rafael said. He stepped out of his gear, standing naked as he turned to Logan. “Logan, do we still have the Coastal Prime reservations for tonight?”

The team dinner was a sacred tradition—one last night of excess before the strict seasonal regime began.

“You want to invite him?” Logan asked, catching the glint in Rafael’s eye.

“It’s our turf,” Rafael said. “If we can’t beat him on the ice, we’ll show him how the pack really plays.”

Logan checked his reflection in the mirror. People called him the black sheep of the Hayes dynasty, but he took pride in his own path. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, wondering how Lyon would see him in a sharp suit instead of hockey pads.

“You want to get him drunk, Rafael?” Brandon laughed. “Afraid he won’t notice you otherwise?”

“Bet I’m the one who gets him home first,” Brandon challenged.

The room went still. The ice had been broken. It wasn't just about PR anymore. Lyon Navarro was a trophy, and every man in the room wanted a piece.

“Please,” Adrian scoffed. “You saw how he looked at me in the hall. I could have had him right then.”

“In your dreams,” Logan challenged. “You see the way he looks at me? He’s got a crush on the 'reckless' one.”

Rafael stood up, heading for the showers. “We’ll see. Just don't fill up on appetizers tonight. I have a feeling the main course is going to be spectacular.”

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."