The Art School Angler Reeled in the Ice Hockey Prince - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Snowman and the Willing Catch

Hook the bait, cast the line, release the reel. With a sharp whoosh, the lure weighted by the hook plunged into the lake.

Leaving the rest to fate, White Ming began to meditate.

If I catch a half-pound yellow perch today, I’ll have a salad.

If it’s over a pound, I can have a salad with meat.

If I catch a pike, I can go get the burger combo at the corner.

The northwest wind blowing from Canada turned into snowflakes as it crossed the Great Lakes. Before long, they covered him completely; his hair and eyebrows turned white, making him look like a crouching “Snowman Dumpling.”

In a Poké bowl shop a hundred meters away, Neil and Georgie watched the scene through the glass. Georgie framed the view with his hands. “This is practically a Walter painting!”

Georgie was a student reporter. He excitedly scribbled a bold headline on his paper: “Son of a Prominent Oriental Conglomerate and the Natural Art of Lake Michigan.”

This beautiful Asian youth, often seen walking across campus with a fishing rod on his back, was the President of the campus “Ten-Billionaire Fishing Club.” Like the yacht club and other high-end campus organizations, the entry threshold was a proof of assets in the tens of billions—a trifle for the wealthy White family. What made him unique in this social-heavy circle was that this little beauty always kept to himself, shrouded in mystery.

Having been politely declined by White Ming, Georgie had no choice but to find Neil. “Neil, I’m glad you could participate in this interview as the only other member of the fishing club.”

“My pleasure.”

“Tell us about Ming and your club.”

“Ming started this club when he first arrived. Maybe the threshold was too high, so not many people joined.”

Georgie shrugged. “Who’s going to spend a hundred million dollars on a fishing rod?”

Neil chuckled. “Fishing is Ming’s only hobby. You can usually find him by the lake after class. I think one day he’ll break the Guinness World Record for fishing all the way around the Great Lakes. Other than that, he’s indifferent to everything. He’s not interested in parties or dating, and he has no high standards for food—he usually just brushes off a meal with a salad.”

“He must be an environmentalist.”

“No, no. I think he’s a pure existentialist. He sells his catch at the fish market; he values the experience of living.”

“Oh, an Oriental philosopher! How cool! I have to get his permission to take a photo and preserve this moment.”

Georgie scribbled away, hung his camera around his neck, and grabbed his coat. But when he turned back, the pristine white scene had changed. The philosopher’s rod was shaking violently. As he reeled in the line, a gargantuan shape suddenly breached the ice. The boy fell back, struggled for a moment, and then—splash—was pulled right into the lake.

“Oh, no!”

White Ming let out a sigh just before he fell into the water.

He had almost fallen asleep, when he suddenly saw a shadow moving beneath the surface, a dark mass with an immense presence.

He took a deep breath, focused his mind, and reeled the hook in closer. The fish swam away. He had no choice but to release the line and cast further; the fish swam back toward him.

Good. An intelligent fish.

He stood up and peered over the edge. This fish had to be dozens of pounds—likely a record-breaking monster! If he could catch it, he wouldn’t have to worry about his food budget for the whole week!

Click—

A tiny vibration traveled up the hook. He had a bite!

White Ming prepared for the duel. Just as he was about to perform a beautiful rod-pull, the “fish” rose toward the surface at an eerie speed. Before he could move, the water broke, and a human figure appeared.

White Ming fell back onto the ice. It was a blonde man. Water rolled down his sharp features and broad shoulders, coating his well-defined muscles in a liquid sheen before trailing down his tight v-line into the lake.

A pair of pale green eyes stared at him. The narrow space between his brows gave him a natural sense of intimidation. White Ming looked for only a second before being pinned to the spot.

Did I just encounter the merman from Western folklore who steals sailors’ souls?!

The boy’s face was frozen to a powdery white, the tip of his nose a bright red. Following the line of the rod in the boy’s hand, the man saw the hook snagged in his own nipple ring. Realizing he had “caught” something terrifying, White Ming immediately let go of the rod, scrambled backward in a panic, and unfortunately stepped on a round spare float. He rolled right off the ice and into the lake.

The freezing lake water instantly locked down all his senses. He instinctively grabbed onto the “thing” next to him—whether man or ghost—and after a single moment of suffocation, he was lifted out of the water.

By the time the gold stars cleared from his vision, he found himself sitting in the crook of the merman’s arm. For the first time in his life, he was breathing the air at an altitude of over two meters, high enough to see the top of a nearby graffiti-covered electrical box. He panted, looked down, and saw long legs. A human.

“Thank you.”

A lake in winter is no joke. Most of the surface was already frozen, if this man hadn’t fished him out, he would have become a crunchy winter snack for the fish at the bottom. Yet, the boy’s reaction remained faint.

The man’s brows furrowed slightly, and the atmosphere grew heavy.

“You almost died.”

“Die?” White Ming glanced at the icy lake. “Oh, no. I’ve fallen in before. I float up automatically.”

The man’s expression grew even colder. What the hell? Is he a safety inspector?

The thought made White Ming shiver. Fearing some nonsensical fine, he made a move as if to dive back in. “I’m serious. Don’t believe me? I’ll demonstrate.”

The man’s expression could only be described as “ferocious.”

I’m doomed. Not an inspector—a freak. What kind of “good person” huddles at the bottom of a lake in winter for performance art…

Horrifying social news headlines exploded in White Ming’s brain. He barely suppressed his panic, breaking into a cold sweat as he struggled desperately. The man set him down, and White Ming prepared to bolt, only to be lifted by his collar like a little chick.

“Sir,” White Ming tried to appeal to his logic, “you just fell into the lake, and I saved you! With my excellent fishing skills!” Then he tried to appeal to his emotions, though his English was a bit “tongue-scorching”: “Saving a life is better than making seven egg tarts!”

“Oh? Is that so? Thank you, then.”

The man raised an eyebrow and, carrying both the boy and the fishing rod, walked away from the lake.

“Hey! Hey!”

No matter what White Ming said, the man was unmoved. He struggled twice, but the hand clamped around his waist was as solid as iron. A few passersby walked by; faster than his cry for help was the gasp of a pedestrian: “Connor!”

Connor!

Such a familiar name.

White Ming couldn’t remember who that was, but based on the situation, he was likely a student. Fine, he thought, relaxing. Every second of struggling was another calorie wasted.

He hung off the man like a large towel. However, the water on this “towel” was about to turn to ice, and he was shivering violently in the cold wind. The heat from the man’s body was the only source of warmth, so he secretly pressed a little closer. By the time he came to his senses, they were at the lakeside shower rooms.

White Ming thought the man was going to bathe and quickly turned away. But there was no sound of water—only the rustle of clothes being put on, followed by a large blanket dropping over his head. White Ming looked up, the tips of his hair brushing the man’s abs. The man patted his head.

For me? White Ming blinked, dried himself off a bit, then folded the blanket and tried to hand it back. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. You fell in because of me.”

White Ming saw a bulging sports bag in the corner and realized. “Were you… winter swimming just now?”

“Yes.”

…White Ming felt a bit awkward. He was the weird one after all.

The man hoisted him up again.

“Whoa, what are you doing?”

“You’re injured.”

“Huh?” White Ming twisted around and saw a small bloodstain on his pant leg. A sharp shard of ice must have grazed him when he fell. It was strange; he had thought the pain was just from the cold.

“It’s nothing. Where are you taking me?”

The man named Connor ignored him. The scenery blurred past; they were heading toward the student dorms. Connor swiped his card at the turnstile. “Room number.”

“316.”

The dorm was crowded. White Ming heard people greeting Connor the whole way, but the elevator was quiet, filled with a bizarre atmosphere. The two of them were dripping water everywhere. He wrapped the blanket tighter around his head.

Only after they exited the elevator did people let out expressions of disbelief. Wait, why is the hockey team captain hanging out with that “cutie” who wanders the campus with a fishing rod every day?!

Room 316 was a double. A curtain separated the beds. Connor placed White Ming on his bed. The boy stiffened. “Don’t! Don’t get my bed wet!”

He scrambled to sit on the nightstand. A snowman plushie with a carrot nose and chocolate-bean buttons was squeezed off the edge, he kicked it under the bed.

Connor pulled disinfectant spray and bandages from his sports bag. “The infirmary is a bit far. I’ll patch you up first.”

He’s going to treat my wound himself?

White Ming slowly rolled up his pant leg. The wound wasn’t deep; there was just a lot of blood because it was a long scratch. The hand Connor used to hold his calf was warm. White Ming regained some sensation. The man handled the wound quickly, like someone who had been professionally trained. White Ming didn’t feel a thing. “This bandage is waterproof. You don’t need to change it when you shower.”

White Ming nodded. He was quite surprised. He often received help from strangers on campus; the world really did have many good people. He thanked him again, very sincerely.

The heater in the room was blowing warm air. White Ming’s eyes were bright. He had taken off his soaked coat while getting treated; his white shirt underneath was damp and nearly transparent. The warm yellow light hit his delicate skin, revealing a hint of pink at his collar.

Connor glanced over then averted his eyes, noticing the nearby desk. it was covered in sticky notes filled with vocabulary words. A workbook lay on top. “White Ming?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Connor nodded and held out his hand. “Connor Mile.”

White Ming shook it. By comparison, his own hand looked tiny—less of a handshake and more like his hand was being unilaterally swallowed. He silently withdrew it, praying the man wouldn’t ask about his major, what he did for fun, or how he liked the school. People here talked about that stuff with everyone they met, and his tongue was still a bit numb from the cold.

Ring—!

The phone in White Ming’s bag went off. A lifesaver! He leaned over to rummage through his bag. It was Neil.

Connor took his bag and prepared to leave. “Answer that. Take a shower soon so you don’t catch a cold. See you next time.”

“Thank you! Bye-bye!”

“Ming, are you okay? I saw you fall into the lake! Did Connor save you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. By the way, how does everyone know Connor?”

“…Look out your dorm window!”

White Ming hopped on one foot to pull back the curtain. Outside, on a massive wall mural, Connor stood in the center position.

It was a promotional poster for the hockey team, shot like a Hollywood advertisement.

Oh, the hockey team.

“Even if you don’t care about sports, that poster has been up for days! You only think about fishing!”

White Ming scratched his cheek. “Haha. He’s a pretty good guy.”

“A good guy?!”

“Isn’t he?”

“I called because I’m worried about your safety! He’s a morbid obsessive!!!”

“Huh?” White Ming didn’t understand the term. He opened Google Translate.

Seeing the translation, White Ming let out a scoff and closed his phone. He never believed these kinds of sensational rumors behind people’s backs. He believed his own eyes. The guy was clearly a “Golden Retriever” type—a very good person. He let out a yawn. The ice on his hair began to melt and drip. He grabbed the towel on his bed to dry off.

Wait! Something was wrong. Why was he using Connor’s blanket? There seemed to be an embroidered pattern on the corner. White Ming turned it over and saw the letter “M”, the initial of Connor’s last name.

I forgot to give it back!