Jaxon POV
The low, rumbling vibration of my own voice felt loud in the quiet of the empty lounge.
It sounded like a threat, the kind that usually made people back away, drop their gaze to the floor, and stutter an apology.
I knew the power of my own presence.
At six-foot-three and packed with muscle from years on the ice, I was used to crowding people out of a room just by breathing.
But the girl standing in front of me didn’t move an inch.
I leaned back against the cushions of the couch, letting my eyes track her deliberately.
My gaze locked onto her face, scanning the sharp line of her jaw and the fierce, wide curve of her eyes.
They weren’t just brown—they were dark, hot, and practically spitting fire straight at me.
I stayed unfazed by the anger rolling off her in waves.
I had seen that look on plenty of faces before.
Every tutor Coach Owen dragged into my life started out brave, fueled by a savior complex or a desperate need to please the athletic board.
They always thought they would be the one to finally tame the wild Blackwells captain.
Then, within an hour, they realized I could break their spirit without even raising my voice.
“I don’t do tutors,” I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet rasp that usually ended conversations before they could start.
“Especially not charity cases who smell like cheap vanilla laundry detergent. You’re wasting your time, Brooks. Pack up your little high school attitude and leave.”
I expected her to snap.
I expected her to get flustered, turn red, and run straight back to Owen’s office with tears welling up in her eyes.
That was the usual routine.
Instead, Roxy just let out a sharp, breathless laugh.
It wasn’t a scared sound.
It was utterly mocking.
Without taking her eyes off me, she slid the frayed strap of her backpack off her shoulder.
Her hands were small, her skin pale against the dark fabric, but her fingers didn’t shake.
She unzipped the main compartment with a loud, aggressive rip, reached inside, and pulled out another stapled packet of white papers.
“Good thing I printed a backup copy,” she said, her voice smooth, cutting, and steady.
She stepped forward, her cheap boots clicking against the hardwood, and slapped the fresh syllabus down on the glass table.
She placed it right next to the ceramic mug where her previous copy was currently drowning in black coffee.
“You think you’re the first spoiled brat I’ve had to deal with, Montgomery?” she asked, tilting her head with a look of disdain.
“You think dropping paper in a coffee cup makes you look tough? It doesn’t. It just makes you look childish. And honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
I narrowed my eyes.
The smug, easy smile I usually wore began to slip from my face.
The casual amusement died in my throat, replaced by a sudden, tight pressure in my chest.
Roxy stepped even closer, leaning over the low table until she was directly in my personal space.
I could smell that sweet, cheap vanilla scent again, overpowering the expensive leather of the couch, mixing with the sharp mint on my own breath.
“I looked at your academic file before I came down to this lounge,” she whispered.
She spoke the words slowly, ensuring every single syllable twisted the knife.
“Your economics scores aren’t just bad, Jaxon. They’re pathetic. A middle-schooler could understand basic market liquidity better than you. You play a great game on the ice when you have a helmet protecting your head, but the moment you sit in a classroom, you’re completely useless. Tell me, do the Blackwells know their fearless captain is practically illiterate?”
The words hit my massive ego like a punch to the solar plexus.
Hot, dark rage flared in my gut, spreading through my veins like acid.
My jaw clenched so hard the bone clicked near my ear, and the skin across my knuckles went tight as my hands balled into heavy fists against my thighs.
Nobody spoke to me like that.
Not the coaches, not the dean, and certainly not some scholarship student who looked like a stiff breeze could knock her flat on her back.
She was entirely out of line, crossing a boundary that usually resulted in me screaming a room down.
But beneath the blinding anger, a sudden, dark curiosity sparked in the back of my mind.
She wasn’t begging for her paycheck.
She wasn’t trembling or looking at the exit.
She was biting back with a venom that actually tasted real.
She had looked at my files, found the exact spot where I felt the most suffocated—the constant reminders from my father that I was a failure outside of sports—and she had driven the blade right into it.
Slowly, I stood up.
I didn’t do it quickly.
I did it deliberately, letting her watch every single inch of my height unfold.
My frame blocked out the bright afternoon light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a long, heavy shadow right over her small body.
I stepped out from behind the glass table, closing the distance between us until there were only inches of air left.
I used my size to crowd her, forcing her to tilt her neck back just to keep eye contact with me.
Most guys on the hockey team backed down when I stood up like this.
Most defensemen shivered when I crossed the blue line with this exact look in my eye.
Roxy didn’t flinch.
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths beneath her faded denim jacket, telling me her heart was running a race.
I could see the tiny pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat, proving she knew exactly how dangerous the situation was.
But her pride—that stubborn, ridiculous pride—wouldn’t let her take a single step backward.
She anchored her boots to the floor and stared right back into my eyes, her expression defiant.
She was terrified, but she was refusing to break.
I liked that.
A dark, twisted thrill ran down my spine.
It made the entire boring tutoring setup feel like an actual game.
It made her someone worth breaking.
I leaned down, tilting my head until my face was inches from hers.
I let her feel the heat of my skin, my voice dropping so low it was almost a growl against the dead silence of the lounge.
“You think you’re smart, Brooks?” I murmured, my stormy grey eyes drilling into hers, watching her pupils dilate in the shadow of my face.
“You think you can come into my facility, stand in front of my face, and lecture me about what I am?”
I reached out, my hand moving slowly.
I didn’t touch her skin, but I let my fingers brush against the worn nylon strap of her backpack, tugging it just enough to make her gasp softly, her lips parting.
“Meet me at the private rink at midnight,” I whispered, a dark, dangerous smile finally returning to my face as I saw the sudden flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
“Let’s see how much mouth you have left when you’re standing on my territory.”