Roxy POV
The athletic wing of the academy smelled different from the rest of the campus.
It didn’t smell like old paper or fake lavender.
It smelled of wealth, high-end citrus cologne, and expensive leather.
The leather chairs in Coach Owen’s private office looked like they cost more than my parents’ car.
The air inside felt thick with the pressure of a million-dollar sports program.
Coach Owen sat behind his desk, rubbing his temples.
He looked up when I walked in, his eyes tired and bloodshot.
“Roxy Brooks,” he said, reading my name off a folder.
“The top student in the freshman class. Sit.”
I sat down on the edge of the leather chair, keeping my backpack tightly against my chest.
“Mildred sent me from the financial aid office. She said you need an urgent tutor.”
Owen let out a long breath.
He didn’t waste time.
He slid a thick, white contract across the desk toward me.
“We don’t just need a tutor, Roxy. We need a miracle,” Owen said, leaning forward.
His voice dropped to a serious whisper.
“Jaxon Montgomery is on the verge of academic expulsion. He is our star player, our legacy, and the captain of the Kingston Blackwells. If he fails his upcoming economics module, he is legally ineligible to play in the season qualifiers.”
“Economics is my strongest subject,” I said, my voice steady despite the rapid drumming of my heart.
“I can help him pass.”
“It’s not about the subject, kid. It’s about the boy,” Owen warned, pointing a thick finger at the paper.
“Jaxon is a monster to deal with. His father is Richard Montgomery. The billionaire who funds half this campus. Because of that, Jaxon thinks he is untouchable. He has already destroyed three previous tutors this month. One girl left this office sobbing her eyes out. He doesn’t want help, and he will do anything to make you quit.”
I looked down at the contract.
The number, $5,000 was printed in bold black ink near the bottom.
I thought about the red text on my student portal.
I thought about the forty-eight-hour deadline.
“I won’t quit,” I said, picking up the pen on his desk.
“I need this job, Coach.”
Owen watched me sign my name.
A look of genuine relief passed over his face, mixed with a hint of pity.
“Alright. You have the authority of the athletic board behind you. He has to sit with you for at least two hours a day, or I bench him for the next game. He’s currently in the private player lounge. Go find him.”
I took the signed copy of the contract and a printed copy of the economics syllabus.
My chest felt tight as I left his office and walked down the long hallway toward the exclusive athlete lounge.
I pushed the double doors open.
The lounge was massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows, couches, and a private juice bar.
It was completely empty except for one person sitting on a couch in the far corner.
Jaxon Montgomery.
Even sitting down, his physical presence was overwhelming.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and long legs stretched out in front of him.
He wore a black Kingston Blackwells varsity jacket, the leather sleeves gleaming under the recessed lights.
He smelled intensely of sharp mint and that expensive citrus cologne Owen’s office had been soaked in.
His dark hair was messy, falling slightly over his forehead as he stared down at his phone.
My boots made a loud squeaking sound against the polished floor as I walked toward him.
He didn’t even blink.
He ignored me, his thumb casually scrolling through his screen.
I stopped right in front of him, blocking the light from the window.
“Jaxon Montgomery?”
No answer.
His jaw was tight, his face a mask of cold arrogance.
“My name is Roxy Brooks,” I said, making my voice clear and firm.
“I am your new academic tutor. Coach Owen signed the order five minutes ago. We are starting our first session right now.”
Jaxon still didn’t look up.
He let out a low, gravelly rasp of a laugh, his eyes remaining fixed on his phone.
“Get lost, Tutor. Tell Owen to send someone else for me to break. I’m busy.”
“I’m not getting lost,” I said, my temper flaring.
I stepped closer, my fingers tightening around the printed syllabus.
“Your father’s money might buy you everything else in this school, but it doesn’t buy your way out of failing grades. If you don’t study with me, you get benched. Those are the rules.”
At the mention of his father, Jaxon’s thumb froze on the screen.
The air in the room suddenly felt twice as heavy.
Slowly, he raised his head.
His eyes were a piercing, stormy grey, completely devoid of warmth.
He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my faded jeans and the cheap plastic pen in my hand.
A cold, mocking smirk played on his lips.
“You think you’re tough because you get straight A’s?” Jaxon asked, his voice a dangerous, quiet rumble.
He stood up, and I had to force myself not to take a step back.
He towerered over me, his massive frame blocking my view of the room.
The size of him was terrifying.
“I don’t care about your grades, and I don’t care about your rules,” he whispered, stepping into my personal space until I could smell the fresh mint on his breath.
“You’re just another charity case looking for a paycheck from my family.”
“I earned my place here,” I snapped back, my chin tilting up defiantly.
I refused to let him see me shake.
“And right now, my job is to make sure you don’t ruin your own future. Here is the syllabus for the economics module. We are starting with macro-theory.”
I extended my arm, holding the printed papers right in front of his face.
Jaxon looked at the sheets of paper, then down at the low glass table between us.
On the table sat a tall, ceramic mug filled to the brim with steaming, hot black coffee.
Without breaking eye contact with me, Jaxon reached out.
His large hand snatched the printed syllabus directly out of my grip.
Before I could even gasp, he dropped the papers straight into his mug.
The hot black liquid immediately splashed over the edges, soaking the white sheets.
The ink began to bleed and blur, turning the entire document into a ruined, soggy mess of black mush.
Jaxon leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest.
His stormy grey eyes flashed with a cruel, satisfied amusement.
“Oops,” he said, his voice entirely flat and unbothered.
“Looks like our lesson is canceled, Tutor.”