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KAP 2
It was a Friday night, just like any other.
“You idiot! You should’ve passed it there! Dammit!”
“Fuck, my grandmother has faster reflexes than that prick.”
‘The Judge Club’ was a sports pub filled with coarse swearing and shouting.
Located near Chatsworth University—a prestigious Ivy League school in upstate New York—it was a sanctuary for sports fanatics.
Kora Su-hyun Han, a Korean-American student at Chatsworth who had worked here as a server for the past few months, had come to realize that for these people, ice hockey was practically a religion.
If that were the case, the god they worshipped would be the man on the TV screen: Tristan Lockwood.
The captain of the Chatsworth Reapers, the strongest team in the college ice hockey league, and a hockey prodigy. He was the young master of the Lockwood family, someone who would never set foot in a casual pub like this.
‘I wonder why they’re so obsessed with a game where muscle-heads hit a disc with sticks on ice.’
Kora stared at the screen with indifferent eyes before looking away and beginning to wipe down a table. Just as she was sweeping away damp potato chip crumbs—
Vroom—
A humming noise echoed from somewhere beyond the window.
The noise, which had sounded indistinct as if coming from afar, gradually shifted into a rhythmic, crude chant.
“Who owns the Ice?”
“We own the Ice!”
Stopping her hand mid-wipe, she gazed out the window and blinked twice at the bizarre sight unfolding before her.
“...What is that?”
About thirty male students were huddled together around the neon signs of the darkened parking lot.
For some reason, despite the chilly night air, every single one of them was wearing nothing but trunks.
Despite their embarrassing half-naked state, the students all looked remarkably confident.
Their muscles, honed by weight training, looked almost like armor, though their cheeks and ears were flushed bright red, proving that there was no defense against the cold.
“Whose Ice?”
“Our Ice!”
Repeating the chant, they leaned back and let out a thunderous roar—Woooo!—like Spartan warriors heading into battle.
Then, they began to charge toward the pub like a herd of African buffalo.
The large glass windows rattled slightly, and then the door burst open as they stormed into the pub.
Bang!
“Attention everyone! The Reapers have arrived!”
“Yeah, baby! What’s up, what’s up!”
The sudden shouting made Kora’s ears ring.
Moreover, they had kicked the door so hard that a hockey stick hanging on the wall clattered to the floor.
The heat radiating from the crowd that had occupied the pub caused the air to turn sultry in an instant.
One student climbed onto a table, making barking sounds—“Woof, woof!”—and went as far as beating his chest to show off his muscular physique.
Kora clicked her tongue, picked up the fallen hockey stick, and fixed it back onto the wall.
“...Hah. There goes any chance of going home early today.”
From the looks of it, the students were players from the Chatsworth Reapers.
But why were they wearing trunks today?
If she were being generous, she could call them short shorts, but the designs of the trunks were far from normal.
Some had elephant trunks, some had hockey sticks drawn on them, and some were embarrassingly suggestive, featuring a peeled banana right in the center.
A few players were wearing hockey helmets on top of that, or had foam finger cheer-tools on their hands.
Seeing them wearing only equipment on their naked bodies was somewhat ridiculous. Though it seemed they had intended it to be that way.
“Go, Reapers!”
Fortunately, most of the customers were delighted by the Reapers' appearance. Kora, on the other hand, felt as if she were observing underdeveloped Neanderthals.
“Looks like they’re streaking for the freshmen initiation.”
Turning her head toward the voice, she saw a mature beauty with blonde hair. It was Angela, who worked as a server here alongside Kora.
“Ah, streaking....”
Streaking was, so to speak, a childish college culture of sprinting through public spaces naked.
It was a custom with a surprisingly deep history, said to have started from the madness of students whose stress exploded during exam periods, running across campus naked to vent.
Since the Chatsworth hockey team was notorious for its brutal training, they often engaged in such deviations on campus.
However, since going completely naked these days was considered illegal, they seemed to have reached a compromise among themselves to wear trunks.
Kora spoke as she cleared four beer glasses at once with practiced movements.
“But is it okay to walk around outside wearing only trunks? Isn’t that also illegal?”
“Who knows. I mean, who would dare say anything to the Reapers?”
“Sigh.... Can you believe it? That these morons have the skill to play with a ‘puck’ and will eventually earn millions of dollars a year?”
“Millions? What are you talking about? The top tier make tens of millions.”
Kora gasped at Angela’s words.
“...Sometimes I feel like life is one big joke. To earn tens of millions, I probably should have started serving beer before the founding of America.”
“They’ll probably all clear out in about ten minutes. Just hang in there.”
“I’d just prefer if they left quickly.”
As she turned around while holding the glasses, the boisterous pub suddenly fell silent.
Sensing something strange in the sudden ebb of noise, Kora followed the gaze of the crowd and looked toward the door.
There, she saw a massive man squeezing his way through the entrance.
Judging by his extraordinary build, he was definitely a hockey player.
As he walked inside, the noisy students lowered their voices as if by agreement.
A few who had been staggering in a drunken stupor even tucked their tails and stepped aside to make way for him.
The mere appearance of the man made the chaotic pub feel instantly organized. And yet, his face looked familiar.
‘Tristan Lockwood?’
Why was he here?
She had passed him a few times on campus, but this was the first time he had graced a noisy pub like this with his presence.
Seeing him up close, he exuded a cool, intimidating aura.
Furthermore, unlike the other hockey players who were shirtless, he was fully dressed.
He was wearing nothing more than a simple white T-shirt and jeans.
The feeling of encountering a celebrity was likely because she had heard the customers here talking about him so much.
“Lockwood was already drafted as the number one overall pick for the NHL. He’s just playing in the college league for fun.”
“But why did he come to college instead of going pro right away?”
“A lot of hockey players spend a year or two in the college league to build up their physique before starting their careers. And since Chatsworth is practically owned by the Lockwood family, it’s not surprising. You know that statue of the school founder in the main quad? That’s his fifth-great-grandfather.”
“Plus, his dad is the owner of the New York Sentinels. I heard they have money rotting in their house.”
In short, he was the ‘old money’ son of a prestigious hockey dynasty who had everything.
‘I heard the girls use every trick in the book to get involved with him. His nickname is something like a walking Powerball. Because meeting him is like winning the lottery for your life.’
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