The Art School Angler Reeled in the Ice Hockey Prince - Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Mogul’s Breakfast

What is the first step to being the assistant to a hockey mogul?

While brushing his teeth early in the morning, White Ming searched for the answer. It was the weekend, and since there were no classes on Monday, his work as an assistant began today.

Prepare training gear, maintain equipment, arrange schedules, ensure the athlete’s psychological state is sound… The images of off-ice and on-ice training equipment showed machines taller than he was. For the sake of that fishing rod, he decided to face today’s challenges head-on.

Connor was already gone by the time White Ming woke up. Last night, White Ming had brought his salad up to the seventh floor for breakfast; he planned to eat and then navigate to the stadium. Just as he opened the door, a dining cart passed by in the hallway. The person pushing it, dressed in a uniform, nodded to him politely.

He followed the cart to the kitchen. Behind him, the elevator opened, and two more carts rolled out. Students from other rooms saw the carts and followed them in. White Ming was bewildered. In the kitchen, Connor was leaning against the dining table reading a magazine, dressed in athletic wear as if he had just returned from a morning workout.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Six dining carts filed in, and silver plate covers were whisked open. Western-style truffle scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, maple syrup waffles, caviar blinis—and Chinese-style abalone chicken congee, crystal shrimp dumplings, and snow pear bird’s nest. For drinks, there were three large carafes of juice with tiny bits of pulp floating in them, clearly fresh-pressed that morning.

The tiny student apartment kitchen had transformed into a five-star resort buffet. The table was even set with cloisonné-style utensils.

White Ming was thoroughly shaken by the scale of Connor’s breakfast. Students in pajamas crowded the doorway, staring in awe. White Ming squeezed through the gaps between the carts to reach the fridge for his salad, the leaves of which were already turning yellow.

“Ming, this is your breakfast.” Connor looked up at him, gesturing for him to sit at the table.

?!!!!!!!

“Mine?!”

“A working meal.”

Is the dining standard for the hockey team really this high? White Ming sat down trepidatiously, holding his fork upside down. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I’ve already eaten. You have twenty minutes to enjoy breakfast. See you downstairs.” Connor closed his magazine and headed back to his dorm to shower.

“…”

The students scattered as Connor walked out. White Ming enjoyed this “Emperor’s Breakfast” alone. Twenty minutes later, he appeared punctually at the dormitory entrance.

Last night’s snowfall had been immense; the snow reached his knees, and the roadway had been pressed into rutted tracks by snowplows.

The sky wasn’t as gloomy as last night. The clouds hadn’t dispersed, but the sun shone through them brightly. A silver-grey sports car pulled up in front of him.

White Ming leaned down to look. The window rolled down to reveal Connor’s eyes. He tilted his head slightly. “Let’s go.”

In less than five minutes, they arrived at the stadium. The car entered the underground garage. Connor reached for his sports bag to get out, and White Ming thought he should help carry it. The other man glanced at him and let go.

The first time, White Ming couldn’t lift it. The second time, he used all his strength, and the bag cleared the car by a single centimeter. By the third attempt, Connor had already opened the door for him; he dragged the bag out of the car, nearly face-planting on the ground.

White Ming stood in the parking lot, eyeing the distance to the elevator. If he wanted to get it there, he’d have to drag it—provided Connor didn’t mind.

Clearly, Connor minded. He took the bag back, carrying it as easily as a plastic grocery bag.

Assistant Task Number One: Failure.

White Ming had never been inside this stadium. The internal structure was complex; after many twists and turns through bright corridors, they entered a room. White Ming looked up at the sign: Sports [XX] Room. Inside were a bed, a desk, and green plants. Instruments and equipment were piled in the corner, and the wallpaper was a gentle pale yellow. He guessed this was an athlete’s recovery room.

From the large bag, Connor pulled out manga, literary magazines, and photography weeklies, stacking them as high as the seated White Ming’s head. The very top book was actually the General Education textbook he was currently studying.

The rest of the bag contained other custom training gear. Connor checked the clock on the wall, zipped up the bag, and prepared to leave.

Eh?!

“What is my job today?”

At the door, Connor turned back and said, “Guard this place. Don’t let anyone in. The computer on the desk has internet, you can play games. If you’re bored, read. The one on top is mine.”

“I got an A+ in that class.”

The door closed. What was the meaning of that last sentence?

The corridor, which had been empty a moment ago, now had six or seven people standing around the door, arms crossed, looking at Connor with meaningful glares.

Connor scanned the group, brief and clear: “No one goes in.”

White Ming hadn’t expected his job to be this simple.

He had no interest in games, so he flipped through Connor’s textbook. Connor’s handwriting was messy, he could barely decipher it. He noticed there wasn’t a single redundant word in the notes. For massive reading texts, the chapter headers summarized the core meaning and exam points. White Ming hungrily absorbed the knowledge, trying his best to study, but he soon succumbed to “food coma” and drifted off at the desk.

The whole morning passed.

Feeling a bit bored sitting around, White Ming thought he’d peek outside. He pushed the door open slightly, only to lock eyes with a pair of searching eyes in the gap!

White Ming let out a startled cry and stumbled back a few steps.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Caught peeking, the person showed not a hint of embarrassment. He stood up straight and extended his hand, greeting him warmly. “Hello, I’m the hockey team’s recovery specialist and sports psychologist, Antya.”

The books on the desk obscured the nameplate of the room’s owner: Senior Therapist. A rare multi-talented professional.

“Con…” The job title was a bit difficult for White Ming to understand, but based on the pronunciation, he gathered it meant something like “doctor.”

Oh, so this is his room! White Ming looked back at the pile of books on the desk and said apologetically, “Hello, I’m White Ming.”

Fearing Antya wouldn’t know him, he added: “I’m Connor’s temporary assistant.”

“I know.” Antya wore a gentle smile. “I came here to find you.”

“Find me?” Since the person seemed kind, White Ming proactively asked, “Is there anything I can help with?”

The expression on Antya’s face vanished, instantly turning serious. He stood up to ensure no one was at the door, closed it, and asked White Ming to sit down.

“Do you sincerely want to help? What I’m asking might be a bit difficult.”

Trading for a fishing rod—he was sincere. White Ming: “Tell me about it?”

Antya propped up his head in thought, the white standby screen of the computer illuminating his face with a deathly pale light. “To be honest, Connor told me to take the day off. I shouldn’t be here. But the coach asked me to come.”

“Hm?”

What did that mean?

Antya didn’t continue. He swiveled his chair, his sharp eyes behind his glasses looking at the boy seriously. “What do you think of Connor as a person?”

White Ming thought for a moment. “Tall. Handsome. Very kind.”

Antya laughed and shook his head, he felt he could proceed with the topic. “We know completely different people.” He clicked on the desktop and pulled up a video showing Connor on the ice.

How is this different? I’ve seen this.

But the clip Antya played was one he hadn’t seen—a video of Connor fighting on the ice. The quality was a bit blurry, it likely wasn’t recent. White Ming had used his free time this morning to learn the rules of hockey. A hockey rink is a pressure cooker; with everyone packed together, collisions are inevitable. To prevent emotions from boiling over, fighting is allowed—just sit in the penalty box for a few minutes afterward.

What was the big deal?

In the video, Connor took off his gloves and fought the opponent bare-fisted. The rules dictate that such fights must stop once someone goes down and shouldn’t be excessive; the movements of both parties were clearly suppressed and controlled. But a close-up of Connor’s face made White Ming gasp.

His jaw was clenched tight, the corners of his eyes flushed crimson. Elite athletes have a natural fire in them, but the violence in Connor’s eyes was like a beast on the verge of a rampage, prepared for a life-or-death struggle. It didn’t look like he was facing an opposing player—it didn’t even look like he was facing a human, but rather an inescapable volcanic eruption that was about to destroy the world.

White Ming wondered if there was something he didn’t know—did they have some private blood feud? He imagined all the melodramatic “rich family vendetta” dramas he’d watched, but none of them seemed enough to make a person make that face.

Seeing Connor walk to the penalty box, he was left speechless.

Connor’s breathing was clearly abnormal. The hand gripping his glove trembled uncontrollably; one could see he was trying his best to control himself, but the embers of madness still flickered in his eyes.

White Ming stared blankly at the computer. This unexpected version of Connor was framed in a small rectangular box, reflected in his pupils.

The screen flickered and jumped to another video. Before he could see what it was, Antya cut the video. The words he spoke next made White Ming’s heart—which had almost stopped beating, sink even further.

“This is the result after treatment.”

The term Neil had told White Ming—obsessive-compulsive/paranoia—leaped into his mind.

“After treatment…? It was even more serious before?”

“Yes. As you can see, we won this game. He can control the occasional symptoms now, it doesn’t affect the matches. But before this, he was out for the entire previous season. The situation was very bad. He only returned last month.”

For some reason, White Ming suddenly thought of that warm, molten-heart egg tart. A layer of mist covered his eyes. “Why is it like this?”

“You mean the cause of this state?”

“Yes.”

“Psychological issues.” Antya shrugged. “It’s not exactly a secret in the hockey league.”

“The specific reason is Connor’s personal privacy, I can’t tell you. But what I can say is, you might be able to help him.”

“How?”

“He doesn’t have any friends in a real sense. He doesn’t like physical contact with people. We want to find someone to get close to him, to establish an intimate friendship.”

“During a hypnosis session, he described a strange scene to me.” Antya’s gaze went vacant, as if he were placing himself in that ethereal space. “We believe that when his paranoia flares up, he shuts himself into an imagination where he is with another person.”

“An imaginary friend?!”

“No, not necessarily a person. It might even just be a shadow. We believe that shadow is the key. If we know what that shadow is, we can cure him completely.”

“Can’t you just ask him?”

“No. He refuses to answer. His subconscious is extremely resistant; even hypnosis doesn’t work. So we can only infer what the shadow looks like by finding someone he is interested in.”

Antya looked at him, placing great hope in him. “The hockey team is very important to him. You are the first stranger he has ever brought into the team.”

White Ming hesitated.