Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
11. Whispers and Entanglements
Coming of Age Story: 11. Whispers and Entanglements - Defenceman: Parallel Ice (A Non-Canonical Saga) builds on Cold Creek’s Defenceman series while offering a new interpretation. Michael Stewart’s journey extends beyond the rink into intrigue, modeling, and the launch of his AI: Aegis. From Ann Arbor to London, Japan, and Spain, the story explores honor, love, betrayal, and resilience. Rivals and allies test his limits in the arena, courts and shadows—where triumph demands sacrifice and heart both on and off the ice.
Caution: This Coming of Age Story contains strong sexual content, including Romantic Celebrity Sports Interracial White Female Oriental Female White Couple Royalty
Early May 2010
Yost Arena: Michael
My blades cut the ice in steady rhythm, the sound hollow in the empty arena, the season is over, the guys are home, but I’m still here. Yost feels different without their noise, without the slap of tape on shin pads or the ribbing before drills. I push through another sprint, lungs burning, then circle back to the blue line. I couldn’t let the team find out about the NCAA suspension secondhand, not from reporters or whispers, the captains deserved to hear it from me.
I remember gripping the phone hard, staring at headlines I couldn’t erase, “you’ve seen it,” I told them. “The suspension, the NCAA’s circling, I’m working on the issue.” The line stayed quiet a second too long, the kind of pause that says they trust you but don’t know what to say.
Carl’s and Matt’s voices came low, even, like they knew I was one bad push from snapping. “We’ve got you, Mike, this isn’t on you.”
I tighten my grip on the stick and rip a shot into the net, the puck slams iron and drops, clattering back to the crease. Maybe they believe, maybe they don’t, but I had to make the call, had to show them I’m not folding.
Kiyomi doesn’t argue, she never does, instead she simply folds her hands, studies me with those calm, fathomless eyes, and says the words that tilt my week on its axis: “Michael, London will help, Molly wants to see you.” It isn’t a command, not exactly, but the certainty in her tone is stronger than any order. By the time I realize she’s already messaged Molly, confirmed tickets, and arranged for Hanna to stay with Mitsy, it’s too late to mount resistance.
The NCAA hearings are pending, reporters stake-out the condo, and the dojo is a test I keep failing. Distance might give me something I haven’t had in weeks: space to breathe. At the curb, Hanna hugs me fiercely, small arms cinched tight as if she can anchor me to the pavement. “I’ll be fine,” she insists, even though her voice trembles, “Mitsy promised we’ll cook together and Kiyomi said she’ll take me shopping.”
“You’re going to have fun” I tell her, kissing the crown of her head, and maybe this time apart will let you feel normal, even for a week. She smiles bravely, releases me, and waves until I vanish through the sliding doors.
London
By the time I clear customs, I’m ready to see Molly and then one sound cuts through: “Michael!” Molly barrels toward me, navy coat flaring, hair catching the light like fire. There’s no model’s poise in her sprint, no choreographed entrance, just raw joy. She collides with me, arms around my neck, laughter muffled against my collar. I hold her close, feel the thud of her heart, and for the first time in weeks the knot between my ribs loosens.
The driver takes our bags, and Molly chatters through the ride into London. She outlines plans the way some people sketch dreams: an intimate dinner at home, tomorrow a walk along the Thames, an afternoon wandering galleries where no one cares if she’s recognized. I nod, listening more to the cadence of her voice than the words, it’s enough to know she is planning for joy and celebration.
The Buckingham Gate Street townhouse rises like a memory as we pull up — brick and white trim, windows glinting in soft spring light. Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and polish, my spare skates where I left them, books rest neatly on shelves, and yet ... I notice other signs almost immediately. Willow’s hair scrunchies on the guest bathroom’s counter, bright pink against porcelain. A strip of white tape marking a square on the gym’s floor and the expensive wine bottles in the pantry, the kind Elizabeth favors.
Molly notes my gaze catching on each relic, but she doesn’t flinch, instead, she draws me to the sofa, curls one leg beneath her, and explains softly: “Willow and Asuka wanted to see you, but Willow needed to be in Spain for her next concert...” She trails off. I wait for Elizabeth’s name, but it never comes. They haunt the house in my absence and strangely I find it comforting. Molly leans close, “this week is ours, Michael, just ours,” her voice leaves no room for doubt.
We celebrate quietly, not with champagne or noise, but with the rhythm of knives against the cutting board and the comfort of garlic sautéing in warm olive oil. Molly moves around the kitchen like she’s memorized its narrow aisles; I help chop while she stirs the sauce, and the space fills with an easy rhythm. Music hums low from the speaker, more pulse than melody, and when her laugh breaks, it slips between spoons and soft flame. Pasta flour dusts her cheek; I brush it away with my thumb before I can think better of it, she doesn’t pull back.
Dinner lingers between us — the smell of bolognaise, wine, and garlic bread heavy in the air. Candlelight flickers across the table, catching gold in Molly’s hair and deepening the steel-blue of her eyes as she pushes her plate away. Breadcrumbs cling to the linen, red wine pooling at the edge of her glass; “Tignanello Antinori, a Super Tuscan,” she says, swirling what’s left of her drink, lips curving into a small, wicked smile. “Think Elizabeth will mind that I drank the last of her wine?” A momentary stab of pain and then it is gone.
As we clear the table, she playfully tickles my ribs — a deliberate, contact that makes my pulse quicken and my body reflexively flinch. Molly notices the reaction and asks, “are you hurt?” Instinct says to cover the bruises, to hide the weakness, but Molly’s gaze doesn’t flinch. She sees what I’ve earned, not what I’ve lost — and I trust her enough to let her see them. I pull my shirt over my head, cool air hitting my skin. Her gaze drifts over the marks — the deep purple bruise along my right ribcage, the small constellations of yellow fading near my side; mementos from the last scrimmage.
She approaches, bare feet whispering against polished wood, circling behind me like she’s studying a painting, her fingertips brush the edge of the bruise — cool at first, careful. Then firmer, probing tender muscle, A sharp breath escapes before I can stop it, “hurts?” she murmurs near my ear, her voice and breath mix, warm and soft, and suddenly the scent of her — vanilla, clean linen, faint sunlight — overtakes everything else.
“Only when you poke it,” I manage.
Her palm finds my chest, right over my heart, hammering. My lips part slightly, and that’s all the permission she needs. Her fingers glide down the hard plane of my stomach, tracing the defined ridges, skimming the waistband of my jeans. Her other hand rests lightly on my shoulder, her thumb rubbing slow circles near my collarbone. Her gaze locks onto mine, holding it captive, the unspoken pulse that’s always between us erupts into a deafening roar in my ears.
I surge up, my hand tangling in the silk of her hair, pulling our mouths together. It’s not gentle, it’s a claiming, months of separation, the simmering tension of dinner, the sheer magnetic pull – it erupts. Her lips yield instantly, then push back, demanding equal force. Her arms snake around my neck, fingers digging into the muscles of my back, pulling me flush against her, the feel of her body, slender yet strong beneath the thin linen shirt, pressed tight against my bare chest, sends wildfire through my veins. My other hand finds her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip. She tastes like rich wine and something uniquely, devastatingly her.
The trip upstairs is a blur of tangled limbs, urgent kisses, and stumbling steps on the creaking wood. She turns within the doorway, facing me, the oversized shirt hangs open now, revealing the delicate black, lace bra, the smooth expanse of her stomach, the sharp angles of her hips. My breath catches, she is luminous, fierce, utterly captivating.
I step into her space, my thumb brushing the high curve of her cheekbone, her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat, a soft sigh escaping her lips. When they open again, the look she gives me strips away every pretense, every carefully maintained boundary; it’s raw, open, terrifyingly feral.
The kiss, this time, is different, still hungry, a little desperate, and laced with a profound tenderness that cracks something open inside my chest. My hands slide under the open shirt, pushing it off her shoulders. It pools at her feet; Molly’s fingers make quick work of my jeans. Cool air hits my heated skin, then the searing heat of her palms as they glide up my bare back, tracing the landscape of muscle she knows intimately.
We move towards the bed, a slow, deliberate dance now, the soft duvet yields beneath us. There’s no frantic rush, only the deep, aching need to reconnect. My mouth finds the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, tasting salt and sweetness, Molly gasps, arching her neck, offering more. My lips travel lower, tracing the elegant line of her collarbone, the swell of her breast, the hard peak beneath lace. Her hands roam my back, fingertips skating over old bruises, the familiar ridge of the childhood scar on my shoulder blade. She pauses there, her lips pressing against the faded mark – a kiss so gentle, so unexpected, it sends a wave of warmth through me that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with being seen.
The intimacy builds, slow and devastating. Every touch resonates deeper, her legs part as I settle between them. The world narrows to this moment, this connection. Her pupils are wide, dark pools reflecting the faint glow and something infinitely deeper. With a shared breath, I sink into her, she rises to meet me, a low moan vibrating against my lips as I kiss her. A perfect, familiar fit that somehow feels entirely new. There’s a raw vulnerability beneath the physical joining, a silent acknowledgment passing between us in that locked gaze. We move together, finding a rhythm that’s less about friction and more about communion. Slow, deep strokes that draw gasps from her lips, that coil tension deep in my core. Her hands clutch my back, urging me closer, deeper, her head tips back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat. The sight unravels me.
The pace builds, driven by an urgency that echoes in our ragged breathing, the slick heat between us, the unbearable pressure coiling tighter-and-tighter. Her body tightens around me, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically. A silent cry catches in her throat as her back arches sharply off the bed, her eyes squeezing shut in pure, shattering release. The sight, the feel of her coming undone beneath me, triggers my own downfall. My control shatters and I bury my face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in – vanilla, sweat, her – as my own climax crashes over me. A wave of blinding, white-hot sensation that leaves me trembling, utterly spent, anchored only by the feel of her body trembling beneath mine.
The room hums with the aftermath, sweat cools on our skin and the scent of sex and shared warmth hangs heavy. I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, settling her against my side. Her head finds its familiar place on my chest; her arm draped across my stomach. My arm wraps around her shoulders, holding her close, her breathing slows, deepens, matching mine. The frantic energy has dissolved into a bone-deep languor, a heavy, perfect stillness. It’s quiet, profoundly quiet, the kind of quiet that usually makes me itch for movement, for distraction. Here, now, wrapped around Molly, smelling her hair, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breath against my skin ... it just feels like a deep, anchoring calm I rarely find anywhere else but on the ice.
I press my lips to the top of her head, she doesn’t say anything, neither do I; words feel meaningless. The silence speaks volumes – exhaustion, contentment, a shared vulnerability laid bare in the aftermath. Her breathing evens out further, becoming slow and rhythmic against my side. Sleep pulls her under, I feel its tug on me too, the adrenaline crash and the sheer physical release dragging me down into the warmth of the bed, the warmth of her body pressed along mine. My arm tightens around her instinctively, holding her closer as my own eyelids grow impossibly heavy. The last thought before the darkness pulls me under is simple: the quiet isn’t empty, it’s full of her, and for once, that thought doesn’t scare me. It just ... is.
The next morning, sunlight sneaks through heavy curtains, Molly is already awake and up, hair tangled, eyes bright. She watches me with a softness that makes me uncomfortable and grateful in equal measure.
“Tea,” she announces, holding out a steaming mug, and then declares “no news, no calls, just us today.”
I laugh into the cup, “Doctor’s orders?”
Molly counters, “Senpai’s orders,” mimicking Kiyomi’s serene tone, we both laugh, and the day begins lighter than I thought possible.
I am grateful that even here, Kiyomi is watching and caring for me.
On the third morning, the phone rings, Molly answers, listens, and her posture straightens subtly. When she hangs up, she smiles, though her eyes gleam with something more mischievous, “lunch,” she says, “with the Queen.”
I nearly spill my tea. “You’re joking.” But she isn’t and is enjoying my discomfort entirely too much.
Luncheon with the Queen is equal part surreal and mundane. The meeting is discreet, the Palace corridors hushed, the dining room intimate with soft cream light and portraits that watch politely from their frames. Her Majesty greets me with warmth that disarms, she asks about studies, about hockey, about Kiyomi with a glint of humor that suggests their correspondence is livelier than I imagined.
The NCAA surfaces only briefly, “institutions,” she muses, “must guard both principle and people. Patience, Mr. Stewart, rarely worsens judgment.”
I nod, grateful for the lesson wrapped in gentleness.
Molly fills the spaces with talk of film, fashion, and the oddities of London weather. By the time we leave, I’m bemused; on one hand, I imagine this is what it must feel like to have a grandmother and on the other, she is Her Majesty the Queen.
The rest of the week is a collection of moments that knit themselves into something stronger than rest. A gallery visit where Molly debates a painting’s symbolism with a stranger until both are laughing. Steak frites at a small bistro where no one glances twice at us. An afternoon fixing the library hinge while Molly sprawls nearby, planning outfits for a photo shoot she has accepted.
The calls from Ann Arbor come, NCAA numbers flashing on my phone, but I let them fall to voicemail. Boundaries, I remind myself, are a form of strength too. On our last night, Molly oversalts the Lemon-Herb Salmon and laughs so hard she nearly drops the pan. I eat every bite, pretending it’s perfect, until she catches me out and smacks my arm. We linger at the table long after plates are cleared, talking of nothing and everything — families, futures, the odd way storms re-map coastlines. Later, standing at the bedroom window, I watch Buckingham Gate settle into night, the street is quiet, lamps glowing steady. Molly leans against my shoulder, hair spilling warm across my chest.
I whisper into the dark, “For once, I can breathe” and return to bed grateful that Kiyomi insisted on this visit and ponder what this all means for Molly and me.
Replaced: Asuka
The rehearsal hall smells of ozone and sweat, cables coiled like snakes across the floor, lights humming faintly overhead. Willow is somewhere down the corridor with her band, voices rising and falling as they argue about tempo. I should be listening, learning the patterns of her music the way I once measured the cadence of Michael’s stride, but instead I’m pacing. My body moves without thought, steps sharp, hands ready, every nerve restless. My mobile rings, Mitsy’s name flashes, I answer quickly, grateful for the distraction.
“Asuka.” Her voice is quieter than usual, missing its usual zeal, “I need to tell you something before it spreads.”
My chest tightens, “what is it?” There’s a pause, the kind that tells me the blow has already landed, even if the words haven’t followed.
“Sensei Ogata has formally named Rika Sato as Michael’s partner at the dojo.”
For a moment, the world tilts, the air feels thinner, my grip on the phone slips, and I steady it against my ear as though sheer force can hold the truth at bay. “Rika,” the name tastes like ash.
“Yes,” Mitsy hesitates, “it was the clan’s decision, Michael needs someone relentless, without the ... complications of history.”
Complications, that is what I have become — not loyalty, not devotion, not sacrifice, complication.
“I see,” voice steady, a kunoichi’s mask, but inside something tears open. He is training with her now, my place beside him taken, my absence filled not with memory but with another’s presence.
Mitsy’s silence tells me she hears what I don’t say, and sighs, “I’m sorry, Asuka, I know this cuts deeper than you’ll admit.”
“I chose this,” I reply, the words feel like glass in my throat, “I stepped away, it gave others permission to enter.” When the call ends, I stand motionless in the center of the hall, the phone heavy in my palm, around me, sound swells — drums, guitars, voices — but I hear none of it.
I abandoned him, I told myself it was honor, that leaving was protection, but honor has teeth and now it bites me. Did I think he would wait, frozen in time? Fool! My fists clench so hard my nails bite crescent moons into my palms. My heart screams abandonment, longing, fury, but my face stays calm, because that is what I was trained to be.
“I gave him up,” I whisper into the cavernous space, the words sharp as a blade unsheathed, my eyes close.
Barcelona: Willow
The Barcelona light slides toward amber when I step into the Le Méridien Barcelona after rehearsal. I would never stay in such a grand hotel, but the label insisted and the suite, with a full kitchen, is gorgeous and right on the La Rambla. Before the door even clicks I hear her—seven strides down, pivot, seven back, each turn sharp enough to cut thought from bone. Asuka’s pacing again, breath measured, rage held tight beneath the surface. Her movements are too deliberate, too restrained—the way she gets when Mitsy delivers bad news from home. ”Mitsy called, didn’t she?” I say, already knowing the answer. The air stills, a single nod.
We move to the kitchen, and I fill the kettle because movement helps me think. While the water boils, Asuka resumes her pacing, she doesn’t stop until the scent of green tea fills the room. She takes the cup but doesn’t drink, only holds it, as if heat can anchor her.
“Rika,” she says at last, and the name lands like a blade set carefully on the table. “Sensei appointed her, she will train Michael now—in my place.”
I blink, unsure, “Rika?”
“She was my rival once,” Asuka explains quietly, eyes fixed on the steam. “Faster, harder, if I am shadow, she is storm. The clan believes she will sharpen him where love made me soft.” Her laugh is dry, thin, “they are not wrong.”
I shake my head. “That isn’t kindness.”
“No,” she answers, voice a whisper of steel, “it’s order, I stepped away, and they filled the void.”
She starts moving again, not pacing now but striking at ghosts—fists stopping inches short of walls, precision trembling into restraint. I step closer, feeling the air shift with each controlled hit. “This isn’t a battle you can win by fighting it,” I say softly. “It’s a choice, you can make another one.”
Her eyes flash, all pride and pain, “Do not simplify what you don’t understand.”
“I’m not,” I answer, “but leaving him without letting him ask you to stay—that wasn’t honor, Asuka, that was control.”
Something breaks in her expression—barely, but enough to see the wound beneath the armor. I say, the words tasting like salt. “We gave him up.”
She turns toward the window, the city spilling light across her shoulders, the hum of scooters and the smell of sea in the air, for a moment, the fight drains from her, leaving only quiet.
“What if I can’t undo it?” she asks.
“Then you learn from it,” I tell her. And maybe you find a way back anyway.
For once, she isn’t hiding behind precision, and I feel something shift—the first small surrender that sounds like hope. Asuka’s shoulders drop a fraction, not surrender exactly but an acknowledgment that the stance she’s been holding is unsustainable. She looks at my mouth, then away, then back again, and I know that dance, the approach and retreat of wanting to be seen without wanting to be caught, and I do what I always do when she teeters on a decision that scares her — I offer what I can without asking for anything in return, I open my arms.
She doesn’t rush; she never does. She steps into me like entering a shrine, deliberate, head lowering until her forehead meets the hollow above my shoulder, and I wrap her in both arms and hold on, not tight enough to trap, firm enough to convince the body that abandoned does not have to be the default state. She is almost shaking, not from cold, from rage decaying into grief, and grief into something softer still, the way ice becomes water and then, if you’re patient and lucky, water becomes steam that warms a room instead of flooding it.
I breathe for both of us, slow in, slower out, and with each breath she resists a little less, lets herself be born a little more. My shirt dampens just at the collar where her breath collects, and I slide a hand up to caress the back of her neck because that is the place that always reminds her, she has a body and a name apart from duty, and after a long moment I feel the first warm drop against my skin.
There is no crying, just a quiet leaking, a surrender that is somehow more violent than any breakdown. I rock us an inch, another inch, the smallest sway like the ocean teaching us how to keep time again.
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