C1 The Boy Who Owned the Rink
The first time Roxy Mercer saw Knox Vale bleed, she was standing on the hood of his black Mercedes with a hockey puck in her hand.
The second time, she would be the reason three men searched the city for him.
But that was a problem for another day.
Right now, she had a more immediate problem.
“Get off my car.”
Roxy looked down at the boy standing in front of her. Six feet of expensive arrogance, dressed in a black hockey jersey with the number seventeen on his back, dark hair falling across his forehead, and grey eyes that made half the girls at Blackthorn High forget what they were saying.
Knox Vale. Captain of the Blackthorn Wolves. Star forward. University scouts' favorite. Son of the family whose name appeared on half the buildings downtown.
And, according to the rumors Roxy had heard that morning, the biggest asshole in the school.
She appreciated a challenge.
“Ask nicely,” she said.
His gaze moved from her scuffed motorcycle boots to the leather jacket thrown over her uniform. Grease shadowed two of her fingernails. Her father had needed help with a stubborn carburetor before school, and Roxy had been unwilling to leave him wrestling with it alone.
Knox looked as if he had never touched anything that couldn't be cleaned with a thousand-dollar product.
“I don't ask twice.”
“Then this should be educational.”
Students gathered around them. Someone lifted a phone. Someone else whispered Knox's name as though the syllables were a prayer.
He ignored them all.
“You know what that car costs?” he asked.
“No. I usually judge cars by whether they start in winter.”
“It's worth more than your father's workshop.”
The laughter around them faded. The remark hit exactly where he intended. Mercer's Motor Works wasn't glamorous, but it paid their bills, kept food in the fridge, and had been the one thing her father refused to sell after her mother died.
Roxy stepped off the hood.
Knox's mouth shifted, almost a smile. He thought she had backed down.
She placed the puck on his windshield instead.
“You're right,” she said. “The workshop has more character.” She tapped the puck. “And I don’t give a fuck how much your car costs. You’ve still got emotional problems.”
She walked away before he could reply.
By lunchtime, the story had spread through every classroom. Someone had stuck a printout of Knox's car inside Roxy's locker with FUTURE EX-CONVICT scrawled across it. She left it there. Free advertising for her sense of humor.
Her best friend, Dani Brooks, found her at the lockers. “You understand he could get you suspended?”
“For what? Improving his personality?”
“I'm serious, Roxy. Stay away from him.”
“Why?”
Dani checked the corridor before answering. “People say things about his family.”
“People say things about everyone’s family.”
“Not like this.”
The warning bell rang, stealing the rest of the conversation.
Roxy had no intention of looking for trouble after school. She was supposed to deliver sponsorship forms to the athletic office, collect her motorcycle, and spend the evening helping her father rebuild an old Triumph. Trouble, however, was apparently scheduled beside the rink.
A crash sounded from the equipment room. Then a man's voice cut through the corridor.
“You think being Vale's son makes you untouchable?”
Roxy stopped outside the partly open door. She knew she should keep moving. She also knew that if someone was cornering another person, she would never forgive herself for pretending not to hear.
Inside, Knox stood by a row of metal lockers, a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. The man facing him wore a charcoal coat and had no school badge, no visitor sticker, and no reason to be in the building.
“Leave my family out of this,” Knox said.
“Your family left unfinished business.” The man held up a photograph. “You have until Friday. After that, your father's debts become your problem.”
“My father is in prison.”
“His debts aren't.”
Knox's expression didn't change, but the coldness in his eyes made Roxy's skin tighten. “You threaten me in a school, Julian, and you expect me to believe you're clever?”
The man—Julian—smiled without warmth. “I expect you to remember who kept your family standing while your father fell.”
He put the photograph into Knox's hand and left through the other door.
Roxy ducked behind a supply cabinet. When the footsteps faded, she stepped into the room.
Knox turned sharply. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Delivering forms. Your extracurricular activities are more interesting.”
“You saw nothing.”
“Funny. I remember seeing a grown man threaten you.”
“Forget it.”
“Your advice is usually this helpful?”
He stepped closer. The blood on his mouth made him look less like a school legend and more like a boy trying not to show pain. “You have no idea what you're talking about, Mercer.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“No.”
“Fine.” She turned for the door.
“Roxy.”
It was the first time he had used her name without an insult attached. She looked back.
“Whatever you think you saw, stay away from it.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It's advice.”
“Your advice sucks.”
Outside, rain silvered the parking lot. Roxy reached her motorcycle and found a photograph trapped beneath the strap of her backpack. It showed Knox beside Julian outside a warehouse. A third figure stood behind them, face blurred by the flash. On the back, someone had written four words in black ink: THE BOY IS THE BOSS.
Her phone vibrated. Unknown number.
You should not have taken that photograph.
A second message followed before she could type.
If you give him the photograph, your father dies.
Across the lot, Knox stood beneath the entrance awning, watching her. He wasn't angry now. He looked as if he had just understood that someone had put a target on the one person he had warned to stay away.
Roxy looked at the photograph again. The warehouse number painted on the loading door was familiar. Her father had kept a faded work order with that same number pinned above his desk for years.
She started her motorcycle.
For once, she wasn't riding home to ask her father a question. She was riding home to find out what he had been hiding.
