Undercover Muse: A Hockey Player's Unexpected Day in the Art Studio

Curtis had always tried to be a good boyfriend, standing in the freezing bleachers for Zoe's dance recitals, just as she braved the ice and roaring noise of his hockey games. But this—he thought, glancing nervously at his reflection in the fine arts building's pale bathroom mirror—was something else entirely. His girlfriend’s dance outfit looked impossibly small, but he’d squeezed into it, following Zoe’s step-by-step instructions. The thong was the worst part—he'd never let his teammates find out about that. The tights stretched taut over the muscles that had seen more squats than pliés, and the leotard clung to his biceps and broad chest, even with the silicone falsies glued over his pecs. Curtis clumsily tied the ballet shoes, the ribbons barely long enough, then adjusted the wig. The roots were glued elaborately, making it look—at least from a distance—almost real. He found Zoe outside the classroom, her eyes crinkling with laughter. “Remind me what I get out of this again?” he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “My eternal gratitude,” she whispered, checking his hairline. “And you know the assignment rules. I have to paint myself, but everyone has to paint from life. You’re the only one who could… well, fill in for me, at least in size.” She kissed his cheek, powdering away any complaints. Curtis followed her into the sun-drenched studio, feeling every pair of eyes land on him. There were surprised snickers and some incredulous stares, but one of Zoe’s friends winked at him, murmuring, “You’re braver than I thought, hockey guy.” He took the stool under the spotlight and sat, stretching his back as Zoe adjusted his pose. She tilted his chin, guided his hand gracefully against his knee, positioned his shoulders to echo her favorite photo of herself before a recital. She quickly swept a sponge over his face, evening out his stubble and brushing a little color onto his cheeks. Curtis took a deep breath. Even though he looked nothing like Zoe—no amount of makeup could slim his jaw or soften his brow—he held the pose. As the other students’ brushes started to move, Curtis saw something else on Zoe’s canvas: the shadow of a strong jaw beside delicate shoulders, the hard lines of a defender’s build in the soft hues of a dancer’s world. Zoe’s concentration was fierce—like his, before a big play. The hour passed slowly. Something unexpected happened. The art students giggled less, focused more, their laughter settling into the quiet scratch of charcoal and paint. Curtis’s embarrassment faded as he watched Zoe work, her tongue caught between her teeth, oblivious to everything but the movement of her brush. He realized he’d never sat still long enough to really look at her art this way. The timer dinged, and everyone relaxed. Curtis reached for his hoodie, but Zoe stopped him, handing him her phone. “Look,” she whispered. Curtis stared at the painting: a powerful, awkward figure in a borrowed leotard, an affectionate tribute to both their worlds. The face was unmistakably his—the strong jaw, the uncertain smile, but with Zoe’s grace infusing every line. Somehow, he looked… beautiful. “Thank you,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him as the others gathered up their materials. Curtis grinned, feeling bolder than after any game-winning goal. “Next time I want to see you in a goalie kit,” he joked, but deep down, he knew he’d never forget the morning he’d traded skates for slippers—for art, and for love.

Liam couldn't believe he had agreed to this. As a star player on the college hockey team, he'd been through his fair share of tough, physical challenges, but this was an entirely different arena. His girlfriend, Emily, had been stressed for weeks about her final assignment for her fine arts class: a self-portrait. When her model had canceled last minute, she turned to him in desperation. "Please, Liam. It’s just a few hours, and I really need to finish this. We’re both starting our careers soon, and my grade depends on it," Emily had pleaded, her eyes wide and hopeful. Liam sighed, knowing he couldn't resist her when she was in a bind. "Alright, alright. I'll do it. But you owe me." So here he was, the morning of the arts class, being ushered into a small dressing room. He looked at the pile of Emily's dance gear on the bench. He took a deep breath and got to work. The first item was a thong that seemed impossibly tiny. With a chuckle, he slipped it on, feeling the unfamiliar fabric stretch across his skin. Next came the falsies. He peeled off the protective backing and pressed them onto his chest, the silicone feeling cool and alien against his skin. The sensation was odd, but he quickly moved on to the tights, carefully rolling them up his muscular legs. They clung tightly, highlighting every muscle and curve. He picked up the leotard, stretching it wide to accommodate his broader frame before shimmying into it. The material was snug, leaving little to the imagination and slightly constricting his movements. He then crammed his feet into Emily's ballet shoes, tying them securely. Finally, he placed the prepared wig onto his head, adjusting it until the silicone fringe blended seamlessly with his natural hairline. Liam glanced at himself in the mirror, stifling a laugh. He didn’t look female by any stretch of the imagination, but he admired the effort. He gathered his courage and stepped into the arts room, greeted by a chorus of stifled giggles and curious glances. Emily rushed over with a smile, leading him to a stool in the center of the room. She lovingly applied some makeup to his face, her focus entirely on the task. As she worked, Liam looked around the room. Easels and canvases were arranged in a semicircle, students poised with brushes in hand, ready to capture the scene. He felt a rush of nervousness but tried to keep a confident demeanor. "Alright, everyone, let’s get started," announced the professor, her tone a mix of amusement and professionalism. Liam sat on the stool, trying to strike a natural pose despite the snug and unfamiliar attire. Emily settled in front of him, her eyes flicking between Liam and her canvas as she began to paint. Minutes turned into hours, and though Liam’s muscles ached from holding his position, he remained still out of love for Emily. He could see the concentration on her face, the way she captured each detail with care and precision. He knew how much this project meant to her, and seeing her so engrossed in her work made the discomfort worth it. Finally, the professor clapped her hands, signaling the end of the session. The students began to clean up, but Emily stayed at her easel, adding a few final touches. Liam stretched, grateful to move again, and glanced at her canvas. The likeness was uncanny, capturing not just her features but the essence of her determination and passion. Emily looked up, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Thank you, Liam. You have no idea how much this means to me." He leaned in and kissed her forehead, feeling a swell of pride. "Anything for you, Em. Now, about that favor you owe me..." They both laughed, the awkward morning melting away into a memory they would cherish—a testament to love, support, and the lengths one would go for the other. Despite the challenges, Liam knew he would do it all over again for Emily, and she, in turn, would be his biggest fan on and off the ice.