Roxy POV
The blinding glare of the stadium spotlights reflected off a smear of bright red blood on the white ice.
The roaring crowd of fans went dead silent in a single instant.
The sudden lack of noise was deafening, thick enough to crush the air straight out of my lungs.
Down on the ice, number 17 didn’t move.
Jaxon lay completely still on his side near the goalpost, his arms limp, his dark hair fan out against the freezing surface.
The red streak near his face stood out like a stain against the white ground.
My chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood up.
I didn’t care that Dean Cooper was watching me.
I didn’t care that Richard Montgomery was sitting three inches away, or that Cassandra was staring at me with cold, calculating eyes.
Every single fake rule, every boundary, every lie we had built between us vanished into thin air.
The terror ripping through my chest was entirely, painfully real.
“Jaxon,” I whispered, my palm slamming hard against the thick glass of the box.
My heart was hammering in my throat so hard it felt like it would break.
Get up, I pleaded in my head, my breath fogging the cold pane.
Please, Jaxon, just get up.
Three medical trainers and Coach Owen’s assistant sprinted onto the ice, dropping to their knees beside his motionless body.
The referee waved his arms quickly, calling for the medical team as the rival defenseman who delivered the dirty hit skated casually toward his penalty box, looking unbothered.
Beside me, Richard Montgomery didn’t flinch.
He didn’t stand up.
He sat in his leather chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his dead grey eyes watching his only son lie unconscious on the ice as if he were reviewing a bad business investment.
“Sit down, Miss Brooks,” Richard said coldly, his voice devoid of a single drop of worry.
“He’s fine. He’s built to take a hit.”
“He hit the steel post headfirst!” I snapped, turning on him with furious hatred flashing in my eyes.
“He isn’t moving! How can you just sit there?”
“Because I know my son,” Richard replied smoothly, not even turning his head to look at me.
“He is drama and temper. Nothing more.”
Before I could scream at him, a low murmur rippled through the bottom bleachers.
On the ice, Jaxon’s black glove twitched against the red line.
Slowly, his thick shoulders surged upward.
He pushed off the hard surface, fighting against the hands of the medical trainers who were trying to keep him lying down. Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
He shoved a trainer’s arm away with force, shaking his head side to side like a wounded, dangerous animal clearing its vision.
A thick stream of dark blood was running down his left cheek, dripping off his sharp jawline and staining the white collar of his jersey.
His helmet lay ten feet away, but he didn’t care.
Jaxon pushed himself up onto his skates.
He wobbled for one brief second before digging the steel blades deep into the ice, finding his balance.
The arena erupted into a chaotic wave of cheering, but Jaxon didn’t listen to the fans.
He lifted his head.
His face was a terrifying mask of sweat, bright red blood, and rage.
He didn’t look at the medical team screaming at him to go to the bench.
He didn’t look at his teammates.
Jaxon turned his head and locked his stormy grey eyes directly onto the legacy box.
Directly onto his father.
The air in our luxury room turned to ice.
The silent battle between the two Montgomery men cut right through the thick glass.
Richard’s jaw twitched very, slightly, his cold composure finally showing a tiny crack under the heat of his son’s hatred.
Jaxon reached down, snatched his hockey stick off the ice with one hand, and wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his dirty glove, smearing the crimson across his jaw.
He didn’t put his helmet back on.
He just skated straight to the face-off circle, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with a dangerous fire.
The referee tried to stop him, but Jaxon shoved past the official, taking his position right across from the rival center.
There were only twelve seconds left on the stadium clock.
The score was tied zero to zero.
“The boy is out of his mind,” Coach Owen grumbled behind us, his voice laced with a mix of terror and deep respect.
“He’s going to get himself killed.”
“No,” I whispered, my fingers pressing so hard against the glass my nails turned white.
“He isn’t going to get killed. He’s going to destroy them.”
The referee blew the whistle and dropped the black rubber puck onto the ice.
Jaxon didn’t just win the face-off, he smashed his stick down with such terrifying force that the rival center’s stick snapped in half with a loud snap.
Jaxon scooped the puck behind his skates, spun on his left blade, and exploded forward like a missile launched from a cannon.
The rival team’s defensemen rushed toward him, forming a wall of armor to block his path.
Jaxon didn’t try to dodge them.
Driven by fury, he accelerated straight into the trap.
With five seconds on the clock, he executed a brilliant, lightning-fast toe-drag, pulling the puck between the first defenseman’s skates so quickly the player tripped over his own feet and crashed onto the ice.
Four seconds.
The huge defenseman who had delivered the dirty hit stepped up, lowering his shoulder to finish Jaxon off for good.
But Jaxon was ready.
Without slowing down, Jaxon feinted to the left, dropped his shoulder, and delivered a bone-crushing reverse hit that sent the dirty player flying backward into the boards, his helmet flying off as he hit the glass.
The crowd went wild, screaming at the top of their lungs.
Three seconds.
Jaxon was alone in the slot, fifteen feet from the net.
The rival goalkeeper dropped into a butterfly stance, covering the entire bottom of the goal.
Blood was actively dripping from Jaxon’s cheek, splattering onto his black jersey, but his eyes were focused, locking onto the tiny top-right corner of the net.
He wound back his stick, his entire upper body coiling like a loaded spring.
“Crack!”
The slap shot echoed like a gunshot through the deafening arena.
The puck traveled so fast it became an invisible black blur, blasting straight past the goalie’s glove and slamming straight into the top-right metal water bottle before tearing into the back of the net.
The red light above the goal flashed bright and blinding.
The horn blared, signaling the end of the match.
1 – 0.
Kingston Blackwells win.
The entire stadium exploded into pure madness.
Thousands of people jumped out of their seats, screaming Jaxon’s name, stomping their feet until the whole building shook to its core.
Down on the ice, Jaxon didn’t raise his arms.
He didn’t celebrate with the teammates who flooded the ice to throw their arms around him.
He stood right in front of the goal, his chest heaving wildly, blood dripping off his chin onto the white ice.
Slowly, he looked straight back up at the legacy box.
He stared directly at his father, raised his blood-stained glove, and pointed it like a loaded gun straight at Richard’s face.