Roxy POV
The booming roar of five thousand fans stomping on the metal bleachers made the concrete foundation beneath my feet shake so much.
I stood inside the glass-fronted legacy box, the vibrations traveling straight up through the thin soles of my heels and rattling deep inside my chest.
The noise was total chaos—a wall of screaming students, air horns, and thunderous drums echoing off the ice rink far below.
But inside the luxury suite, the air was dead silent, cold, and suffocating.
I smoothed down the front of the emerald silk dress, my fingers trembling slightly against the soft fabric.
I felt like a lamb that had been washed, dressed up in thousands of dollars of silk, and offered directly to a pack of lions.
“You’re standing too close to the glass, Miss Brooks,” Dean Cooper’s sharp voice sounded from behind me.
I turned slowly.
Sitting at the long table in the center of the box were members of the athletic board, their faces carved out of stone.
Next to them sat Coach Owen, Jaxon’s coach, his broad arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he watched me with deep suspicion.
And sitting at the far end, looking like an ice queen in a tailored white blazer, was Cassandra Belmont.
Cassandra didn’t utter a word or make a scene.
She sat cross-legged, sipping sparkling water from a crystal glass, her blue eyes tracking my every movement with cold gaze.
She looked at my designer dress, then at my face, a slow, cruel smile touching her pale lips.
She was waiting for me to trip.
She was waiting for the board to strip my scholarship away and throw me out into the streets.
“I’m just watching the warm-ups, Dean Cooper,” I said, keeping my voice steady and polite, forcing myself to use the calm, academic tone I used when tutoring.
“See that you stay focused,” Dean Cooper replied, leaning back in his leather chair, his grey hair neatly combed.
“This board is here to evaluate whether Jaxon Montgomery’s academic standing—and his choice of companions—aligns with the moral standards of Kingston Academy. We do not tolerate distraction, Miss Brooks. Nor do we tolerate academic fraud.”
My jaw tightened.
The accusation hung in the air, but I remembered Jaxon’s words in the fitting room.
Look at me like you want to devour me.
I held my head high, refusing to let them see me break.
Down on the ice, the double doors opened, and the crowd erupted into a deafening, glass-shattering cheer.
The Kingston Blackwells hockey team flooded onto the bright white surface.
They moved like lightning, their sharp skates tearing into the ice, black jerseys flashing under the blinding arena lights. The source of this chapter is g.com.
But my eyes locked onto only one person.
Number 17.
Jaxon strode out at the head of the Kingston Blackwells team, his huge form broad and imposing in his full pads.
His dark hair was damp with sweat, his jaw set in a rigid, fierce line as he glided across the blue line.
He looked wild, dangerous, and in his element.
The hockey stick in his gloved hands looked like a weapon.
As the team circled the net for their final pre-game drill, Jaxon suddenly came to a hard stop right in the center of the ice.
The ice sprayed up around his skates in a white cloud.
Slowly, deliberately, Jaxon lifted his head.
He didn’t look at the five thousand screaming fans.
He didn’t look at the student section holding up signs with his name.
His stormy grey eyes shot straight up through the thick glass of the legacy box, locking directly onto me.
The air rushed out of my lungs.
Across the big, noisy arena, it felt as if the rest of the world vanished, leaving only the two of us tethered together by a single thread.
Jaxon didn’t smile.
His face remained fierce, intense, and deadly serious.
Slowly, he raised his black hockey stick.
He tapped the wooden blade twice against the center of his chest—right over his heart—before pointing the tip straight up at me.
A collective gasp echoed through the donor box behind me.
“Is he serious?” Cassandra muttered, her cold composure cracking for a second as her fingers tightened around her glass until her knuckles turned white.
“Unbelievable,” Coach Owen grunted, though his stern eyes softened just as he looked between Jaxon on the ice and me at the window.
My heart raced so wildly I thought it would burst right through the silk of my dress.
Jaxon’s gesture wasn’t just a show for the crowd.
It was his way of telling me that no matter what happened in this room, he was standing in front of me.
I raised my hand, pressing my palm flat against the cold glass, letting him see that I wasn’t running away.
Jaxon turned, dug his skates into the ice, and blasted toward the bench as the referee blew the opening whistle.
“A touching little theatrical performance,” Dean Cooper said, his voice dripping with judgement as he adjusted his golden pen.
“But romantic gestures do not erase a formal complaint of bribery, Miss Brooks. When the match ends, you will answer our questions.”
“She won’t be answering a single thing to you, Cooper.”
The sharp, commanding voice cut through the noise of the arena like a blade.
The wood-paneled door of the legacy box swung open with a loud clack.
The room instantly went dead silent.
Dean Cooper stood up from his chair, his arrogance vanishing in a split second.
Four heavy steel-toed boots stepped into the suite first.
Three huge private security guards in dark suits moved into the room, expertly scanning the corners before stepping aside to clear a path.
Then he walked in.
Richard Montgomery looked like a terrifying, older version of his son.
He wore an expensive dark suit that fit his broad form perfectly.
His hair was silver at the temples, but his face was carved out of cold, merciless granite.
He possessed the exact same stormy grey eyes as Jaxon, but where Jaxon’s eyes burned with wild, rebellious fire, Richard’s eyes were dead, frozen, and devoid of any human warmth.
He didn’t look at the Dean.
He didn’t look at Coach Owen or Cassandra.
Richard Montgomery stepped into the center of the box, his expensive leather shoes silent against the ground tiles.
His cold, calculating gaze swept over the room before dropping down onto me.
He looked at my emerald dress, my scuffed heels hidden under the silk, and the dark, fierce look in my eyes.
An unbearable, crushing weight filled the room, making it hard to take a single breath.
“So,” Richard Montgomery said, his deep, thick voice carrying an authority that made the room freeze.
“This is the scholarship girl ruining my son’s career.”