The Hockey Star's Quiet Muse

At the College of Art at Kenton University, Elara Vance had just finished her design class when her phone vibrated.

An email from the Scholarship Committee sat at the top of the screen—"Preliminary review passed. Please submit your final work to the office as soon as possible."

Elara organized her drawings. This was her only way out in her senior year, her ticket to escape this cold campus.

In the hallway of the art building, it was already deserted at 4:30 p.m. Two of the corridor lights were broken, leaving only a dim yellow glow slanting in from the window at the far end.

She had deliberately chosen this shortcut, knowing that taking the main lawn would mean passing by the student center.

There were more people there, and where there were more people, they were more likely to show up.

But today, she chose wrong.

Elara clutched a thick stack of drawings, mentally going over the details of her scholarship application, but a lingering unease stayed with her.

This corridor was too quiet. With that thought, she quickened her pace toward the office.

Just around the corner, Jagger stood leaning against the wall, with only the bottom three buttons of his school uniform shirt fastened, revealing a patch of sunburned skin at his collarbone, a lollipop in his mouth, and a basketball spinning on his fingertip.

He teased Elara's outfit and work with a flippant tone. "Yo, poor girl rushing to meet another deadline?"

"How many cups of coffee can those few scraps of paper buy?"

Elara turned sideways, tugging her clothes back into place. She didn't answer and kept walking forward.

Better to avoid trouble than invite it; she still had to hurry and submit her drawings to the office to apply for the scholarship.

"Don't be so cold. It's not like we're gonna eat you."

Just then, Brock emerged from the other side, chewing gum, his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, making the fabric bulge. He was a full head taller than Elara and directly blocked her path.

"Move aside." Elara's voice was flat, but she knew her left hand had already started trembling. She hugged the sketchbook tighter, almost pressing it into her ribs.

Brock didn't move, just smiled. "Beg me. If you beg me, I'll think about it."

Elara said nothing, shifting half a step to the left, trying to slip around him along the wall.

Jagger walked over, the basketball hitting the ground and bouncing up sharply, grazing her cheek.

"Where do you think you're going? Did I say you could leave, kid?"

Elara froze in place, not daring to move.

Jagger leaned against the wall, his laughter harsh, pointing at Elara as if to say, "Look at this coward."

Elara forced herself to stay calm. She knew she couldn't fight back against the two of them alone—it would only make things worse.

Jagger suddenly reached out to touch the edge of her sketchbook, threatening, "Let me take a look, good student."

Elara jerked her hand back, her eyes sharp and fixed on him. This was her work, three months of effort—every page was proof of her staying up until dawn.

"It's none of your business," she said, her voice half a tone lower than before. "I need to go to the office."

"I heard you passed the preliminary review?" Jagger raised an eyebrow. "Too bad. This school isn't a place you can climb up in just by drawing a few pictures."

Elara remained silent, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

"I'm talking to you!" Brock reached out and deliberately bumped her shoulder, nearly causing her sketches to slip from her hands.

Elara steadied herself abruptly, leaning back against the wall. Her heart raced, but she remained silent. She knew that once she spoke, she would give them an excuse to keep toying with her.

"You know, the professor praised that set of designs you submitted last time for quite a while," Jagger said with a meaningful smile. "But praise is just praise. In the end, it all comes down to connections."

Brock chimed in, "For people like us, one word is enough to keep you from even getting an interview."

Elara's nails dug into her palms. She had heard these words before, but every time she did, her anger felt like it had been doused with oil.

Jagger and Brock grinned as they moved closer to her, one on each side, trapping Elara between them like two walls. She had no way to retreat—the corridor was too narrow.

Just as Elara was about to use her sketches as a weapon and force her way through,

"Enough." The voice was not loud, coming from the end of the corridor—languid and nonchalant.

The footsteps were slow and steady, like a hunter closing in.

The footsteps grew closer, and the smiles on Jagger and Brock's faces turned smug, as if they had received some signal.

Kian Sterling appeared by the window at the end of the corridor, one foot propped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His school blazer was casually draped over his shoulder, and his collar was slightly open.

The light came from behind him, casting his face in shadow, making his expression unreadable.

His hair was blond, but his eyes were cold—a grayish blue.

The only thing worse than being cornered by Jagger and Brock was having Kian there too.

Elara's heart sank instantly. She knew there was no way she was getting out of this unscathed.

Kian didn't even look directly at Elara. His gaze lazily swept past Jagger, then landed on Brock, and finally, as if granting a favor, shifted to Elara's face.

"Wasting time here again," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I told you to find someone, not to play around."

Jagger immediately stepped back, dropping his thuggish demeanor and becoming like a dog wagging its tail. "Kian, we were just..."

"Just what?" Kian moved. He left the window and walked over slowly.

He walked up to Jagger, raised a hand, and patted him on the shoulder. The force was light, but Jagger's entire body stiffened.

"How many times have I told you," Kian's voice dropped, as if speaking only to Jagger, "if you're going to play, do it properly. What kind of spectacle is this?"

Then he turned to Elara, his eyes sweeping over the sketches in her arms before falling on her pale face. There was no expression, yet it made her feel as if all the blood in her body was freezing.

He walked closer slowly, his pace unhurried, as if surveying his own territory.

Jagger turned around and gave Elara a provocative smile. "Looks like someone's going to have a bad day today."

Elara instinctively stepped back, only to find her retreat blocked by Brock. Her lips pressed into a thin line; she hated herself for her silence at this moment.

Kian seemed satisfied with her reaction, or perhaps dissatisfied—she couldn't tell. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly—not a smile, but something more mocking than a smile.

"Jagger," he said, "if she wants to leave, let her leave."

Jagger was stunned. "Kian?"

"I said, let her go." Kian shifted his gaze away from Elara, looking toward the other end of the corridor. "She's in a hurry to get to the office and hand in her artwork. If she misses the scholarship application deadline, can you afford to make up for it?"

These words were more ironic than any mockery.

Elara's cheeks burned. She knew Kian was mocking her—mocking her for needing a scholarship to get through college, for staying in the studio until two or three in the morning every day, for wearing a sweater from a thrift store while a random T-shirt of theirs could feed her for a month.

Elara slipped between them, her drawings pressed tightly against her body. The hallway was less than fifteen meters long; she just needed to reach the end.

Five meters. Three meters. One meter.

She was almost brushing Kian's shoulder. He was blocking the narrowest part of the corridor, with only enough space behind him for one person to squeeze through sideways.

"Excuse me," she said.

Kian didn't move. He tilted his head, looking at her as if admiring an interesting object.

"Your paintings," he said slowly, "do you really think they'll make the cut?"

Kian reached out, his fingertips almost touching the edge of her drawings, but he didn't grab them right away, just waited for her to show fear.

"You'd better let go now." Her voice was so low it was almost inaudible, but it carried an uncontrollable tremor.

Kian smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Let go? On what grounds?"

Just as Elara curled into herself, Kian gave a slight lift of his chin, and Jagger snatched the sketch away.

The moment the sketch was taken, Elara's world seemed to hit a pause button. It wasn't just a sketch; it was her entire effort and future.

"Give it back!" Elara shouted, her voice hoarse with panic.

Elara instinctively lunged forward to snatch it back, but was knocked sideways into the wall by Brock, stumbling and nearly falling.

Jagger held up the drawing high, swinging it around in the corridor like a trophy, whistling through his teeth.

"Don't rush, let us take a look and give you some advice," Brock said with a smile.

The drawings scattered, and a few pages fluttered to the ground. Elara knelt down to pick them up, but someone stepped on her hand.

Kian stood aside the whole time, hands in his pockets, his expression like he was watching a boring farce.

Elara's anger was already burning, but what she felt more was fear—these drawings had cost her months of hard work.

Jagger handed the sketches to Kian with a smile, his eyes full of fawning.

"Boss, take a look at a poor man's art."

Kian took them and flipped through a few pages casually. A hint of mockery curled at the corner of his mouth.

He looked up at her, his voice low. "Is this all you've got?"

"Give it back to me," she said, word by word, her eyes reddening.

Finally, he stopped on a certain page—the design Elara was most proud of—and gently rubbed the paper with his fingers.

"The composition is average, but the color scheme is quite bold... Too bad no one has ever cared about a poor student's courage."

He didn't return the sketches to Elara, but handed them back to Jagger, his gaze coldly sweeping toward the puddle on the floor.

That was the rainwater that had leaked in yesterday, mixed with mud, dust, and debris.

"You know what to do."

Jagger understood, and with a wave of his hand, he threw the sketches into the puddle.

Elara rushed over to pick them up, but Brock grabbed her arm and shoved her hard back against the wall.

Jagger even lifted his foot, grinding the sole of his shoe into the sketches, slowly and forcefully.

Every crushing step felt like it was pressing down on her chest. Elara watched helplessly as the water swallowed the lines, the colors blurring, just like her future being erased bit by bit.

Humiliation, anger, and despair intertwined as she bit her lip tightly.

Kian stood looking down at Elara. "See, this is where the work of people like you belongs."

Elara did not cry, nor did she beg for mercy. She just stared at him fixedly, her eyes filled with hatred.

After speaking, Kian turned to leave, but then stopped and added over his shoulder, "Don't bother struggling. The fate of poor girls like you is in the hands of others."

Elara's breath caught. She had always believed that as long as she worked hard enough, she could surpass these people through sheer ability.

But now, she truly understood that in their eyes, she didn't even have the right to fair competition.

Brock let go of her, patted her shoulder, and said in a hypocritical tone, "Don't take it too hard. It's not like you'll ever get to use these anyway."

The two of them followed Kian away, their laughter echoing in the hallway.

Finally breaking free from Brock, Elara rushed to the puddle to try and salvage the sketches, but only touched the shredded pulp.

Elara stood alone before the ruined sketches, dirty water dripping from her fingertips.

She lifted her head to look out the window. Kian's figure was crossing the courtyard, surrounded by that group of followers.

I will make you pay for what you did today.