Pirouettes & Pucks: Dancing on Thin Ice

1. PRESIDENTIAL MEMORANDUM Disclaimer: This story is fictional. Any references to ballet and ice hockey are merely part of the characters’ dynamics and do not reflect the author’s views on those two fields. ---- In the Hawthorne University studio, heavy with the scent of pine wood and sweat, Oceana's breathing was rapid. The classical piano music from the speaker had just stopped, but her focus remained locked on a single point in the mirror. Her toes, wrapped in pointe shoes, clung tightly to the wooden floor, maintaining a grand battement at ear height without swaying even a bit. Beneath her apparent calmness, deep in her heart, a big question bothered her mind. It was just that she was too used to hiding her anxiety perfectly. Ticket sales for her ballet performance last week were completely unexpected. Out of the hundreds of seats available, maybe only ten percent were filled. As a result, rows of seats looked completely empty. Oceana kept racking her brain wondering where she had gone wrong, but she couldn't find a single flaw. Long before the performance day, she had promoted it thoroughly on social media—leveraging her follower count that reached tens of thousands. In the comment section, they claimed to be enthusiastic and ready to come. Yet on the day of the event, those ticket sheets remained almost untouched. Slam! The studio door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud thud. "Crazy! The president is f*****g crazy!" Oceana hissed softly, then lowered her leg gracefully without losing control. Through the mirror's reflection, she saw Ace Theodore—the most arrogant ice hockey captain on campus—walk in without taking off his hockey helmet. His broad shoulders were covered in thick protective pads, bringing the cold scent of ice mixed with a sharp air of competition. Oceana had no idea why this guy suddenly barged into her room. "Theodore, you're dirtying my studio floor with melting ice," Oceana's voice was calm, yet piercingly cold. She grabbed a small towel and wiped her sweaty neck without looking directly at him. "Your studio?" Ace chuckled, his deep voice echoing in the corner of the room. He took off his helmet and messied his blonde hair, which was damp with sweat. "Starting today, half of this elegant studio of yours belongs to the Hawthorne hockey team, Beatrice. And our ice rink? Half of it belongs to your ballet team." Oceana turned around quickly, her eyes narrowing sharply. What kind of information was that? Why did her usually sharp brain suddenly go blank? "What do you mean?" Ace stepped closer. His towering six-foot-two frame shadowed Oceana, creating the intimidating pressure he usually used on the ice to knock down opponents. But Oceana didn't back down an inch. She held her head high, staring straight into Ace's brown eyes, which were always filled with a provocative smirk. "I thought you were smart like the rumors say. Turns out you're slow, too." Receiving that blatant insult made Oceana's blood boil even more. Before this, they had never even spoken to each other, but suddenly this arrogant guy barged in without even giving her time to think. "Hold on. What did you say?" Oceana crossed her arms, glaring at Ace fiercely. "How am I supposed to understand when you suddenly walk in and randomly babble about sharing practice space? Not a chance!" Ace clicked his tongue softly, then tossed a document titled PRESIDENTIAL MEMORANDUM onto the wooden bench at the edge of the studio. "That's why you read!" Before Oceana could finish the first line, Ace spat out a follow-up comment. "Both our budgets got cut by ninety percent. You're the ballet captain, but you're the last to know? No wonder your ticket sales flopped yesterday." Oceana flinched, a wave of heat instantly rushing to her chest. This guy's mouth really needed to be stuffed. Oceana was known for being feminine and always in control of her emotions, but facing Ace Theodore, her defenses crumbled instantly. This guy truly deserved to be used as a punching bag. Before she could answer, an old rumor suddenly crossed her mind. The hockey team. A few days ago, she had overheard people talking about them in the hallway—something about a game that had completely spiraled out of control. Someone mentioned that the hockey players had trashed the opposing team's locker room after the match. She hadn't cared enough back then to ask what actually happened. But apparently, she still remembered it clearly enough. "And your hockey team just trashed the opponent's locker room facility last month," Oceana countered sharply, her eyes flashing with anger. "You're no better than me, Theodore! It really is hard when you have a brain but rely purely on muscle for everything." Ace scoffed harshly, his jaw tightening. "That's because they started it—" "Shh! Shut up. I'm reading." Oceana cut him off without hesitation. She sat on the wooden bench, letting her eyes scan every line on the paper. Her fingers suddenly stopped moving on the last page. Right next to the university seal, there was a signature in bold black ink that she recognized all too well—the signature of Arthur Beatrice, Hawthorne's main donor and her own father. This budget cut was clearly intentional. Oceana's chest rumbled, holding back a sudden surge of emotion that constricted her breathing, but she forced herself to look up, hiding her shaken state behind a fierce glare at Ace. "The president only has one condition if we still want to get operational funds for the national championship?" Oceana murmured, standing up restlessly. Ace took slow steps toward Oceana. Without warning, he bent down slightly, closing the distance between their faces until Oceana could inhale the minty scent of his breath mixed with the coldness of the ice wafting from his uniform. "The Arts and Sports Collaboration Program," Ace whispered softly, his eyes locking onto hers. "We have to put on a joint show on the ice next month. I have to learn balance from you, and you... have to learn step-by-step on the ice with me." Oceana let out a brittle laugh—a brief laugh full of rejection. "Me? Dance with a group of people armed with wooden sticks who only know how to slam opponents into glass walls? No. Absolutely not!" "Don't get cocky yet, Prima Ballerina," Ace tilted his head, glancing briefly at Oceana's feet wrapped in pink ribbons before looking back into her eyes. "You think I want to? I came to you for my team. We're on the edge and don't have the luxury of choice. To the hockey guys, you're just jumping around in tight clothes. My team lifts two hundred pounds every morning before you even wake up." The tension between them suddenly exploded in the air. Neither was willing to yield. Eyes met eyes, breath collided in the studio room that suddenly felt increasingly narrow and hot. Oceana stepped an inch closer, erasing the safe boundary between Ace's broad chest—padded in protectors—and her lightweight body. She raised her hand, pointing directly at Ace's chest with her slender index finger. "Listen here, Captain," Oceana said in a low voice—her sweet ballerina tone completely gone. "On the ice, you might feel like a king. But if you dare underestimate what I do one more time... I'll make you kneel on this studio floor crying for mercy within the first five minutes of practice." Ace's smirk grew even wider. Far from being intimidated, his eyes gleamed, aroused by the challenge thrown by the girl in front of him. He leaned down even further, leaving a paper-thin gap between the tips of their noses until Oceana could feel the warmth of his breath brushing against her cheek. "Just try it," Ace whispered in an intensely sensual, challenging tone. "Let's see how a tiny little thing like you is gonna make me kneel, Beatrice."