Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
14. Counterstrike & Consolidations
Coming of Age Story: 14. Counterstrike & Consolidations - 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
Mid-June 2010
The Agent Arrives: Michael Stewart
Morning creeps through the windows, and my ribs protest every breath after yesterday’s sparring with Rika. Kiyomi scheduled the meeting early, which means something big is about to move again.
On the wall, Kiyomi’s slides begin their slow rotation—clean design, white background, navy headers, her style. The first frame carries David Keane’s name in sharp serif letters, followed by a neat column of credentials: Founder – Keane Agency, New York; Former Model (Armani, Versace); Current clients – Dior, Burberry, Ralph Lauren, and numerous editorial houses. The following slide lists his partnerships with photographers, publicists, and stylists. Kiyomi never leaves introductions to chance.
Kiyomi enters first, posture straight, navy suit as exact as a blueprint. Behind her, a tall man with trans-Atlantic polish steps in—Keane himself, owner of Keane Artistic Agency, Manhattan confidence distilled into tailored wool.
“Mr. Stewart,” he says, Irish edge polished flat by years in New York. “Appreciate you seeing me in person. Flights to Detroit aren’t glamorous, but clarity is best done face-to-face.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Welcome to Ann Arbor.”
Melissa and Thomas join us by phone.
Kiyomi gestures to the table. “We’re all here. Let’s begin.”
She advances the slide deck. The first page of her briefing outlines Keane’s career trajectory, fashion-house affiliations, and why his agency was short-listed. “Mr. Keane represents several athletes transitioning into controlled brand portfolios,” she explains. “His clients include professional fencers, skiers, and a ballet company under athletic-performance endorsement rules. His compliance record is clean. That’s why I invited him here.”
Keane nods toward her. “That’s generous. I believe structure keeps careers alive longer than hype.” He looks at me directly. “Michael, may I call you Michael?”
“Sure.”
“Then I’ll be blunt. You’re sitting at a crossroads most clients reach five years later—public image, technical credibility, and athletic distinction. My job isn’t to create you; it’s to make sure those three parts don’t destroy each other.”
Melissa’s voice carries through the speaker. “That’s exactly our goal. NCAA oversight means we treat modeling as a separate professional lane—no linkage to athletic compensation, no conflicts of interest.”
Rourke adds from the phone line, “I’ll file formal documentation with the university’s compliance office this week. Every payment, every appearance will be routed through independent corporate entities. No grey zones.”
Keane flips open a leather folio, pages crisp. “Then we’ll need to discuss campaign strategy. Europe favors the ‘resilience’ narrative—post-Olympic recovery, triumph over fatigue. Dior’s Reborn line fits that perfectly. Armani’s watching, contingent on your visa status. Versace and Burberry are circling.”
“Before we go that far,” Kiyomi interrupts, “we’ll review legal eligibility.” She turns to me. “You’re still on a student visa. Paid U.S. shoots are restricted.”
Keane leans back. “Exactly my concern. If we shoot in SoHo or Los Angeles, he needs work authorization.”
Kiyomi nods once and taps her phone. “Bill Dixon will join us for that portion.”
While we wait for the connection, Melissa fills the silence. “I’ll handle the image framing—student first, athlete second, innovator third. No celebrity crossover, no glamour pieces that trivialize the AEGIS work.”
I smile faintly. “Good. No Waters twins, no tabloid spreads.”
“Understood,” she says. “You’re disciplined; the coverage should match it.”
The speaker beeps as Bill Dixon connects. “Morning, everyone. I’ve reviewed immigration statutes. The O-1 Visa—extraordinary ability classification—is our best route. Covers artists, athletes, and scientists. We’ll attach letters from Matsuda Industrial, Yamamoto Digital, and Keane Agency. I’ll draft within ten days.”
Keane’s eyebrows lift. “Excellent. That visa keeps the NCAA out of his pay structure. Once filed, I’ll have my New York counsel handle consular follow-up.”
Kiyomi scrolls to the next slide, which displays a schedule matrix listing endorsement letters, press references, and agency timelines. “Melissa, you’ll compile media excerpts—Olympic coverage, academic accolades, international features. Keep tone professional.”
“Already underway,” Melissa replies. “Sports Illustrated, CBC, Vogue Japan—articles that present him as disciplined, not decorative.”
Kiyomi allows a brief smile—the Matsuda version of approval. “Proceed.”
Keane glances across the table. “Kiyomi runs meetings tighter than any board I’ve sat on.”
I exhale through my nose. “That’s why I’m still in one piece.”
He laughs, genuinely. “Fair enough.”
Bill interjects, “While we’re on structure, once income starts, we’ll need a financial manager and accountant for tax compliance. NCAA and IRS scrutiny are inevitable.”
Kiyomi replies smoothly, “Already in motion.”
Bill chuckles. “Of course you’re ahead of me for the financial manager. I’ll coordinate with them for reporting templates.”
“Good,” Kiyomi says. “That concludes visa and finance. Bill, remain on standby. The rest pertains to brand integration.”
The line clicks as he mutes.
Keane slides a document across the table—a contract outline. “My agency’s standard terms: ten percent commission, renewable annually, dual-signature clause for major endorsements. You retain full creative veto. I’m not here to own you, Michael; I’m here to make sure the world pays you correctly for what you already are.”
Kiyomi nods. “Then you’ll work under clan oversight. Any deviation requires my approval.”
“Understood,” he says.
We move through the hour like chess pieces—offers, contingencies, compliance notes. When Kiyomi prompts discussion of Calvin Klein, Keane’s posture tightens. “Their hesitation is political. The campaign fallout was mishandled on both sides. I can facilitate a re-entry if we frame it as growth, rather than scandal. A maturity narrative.”
Kiyomi studies him. “Acceptable, provided Klein’s cooperation is verified. Their finance head, Sydney Garnett, showed unusual liquidity last quarter. Bill, check whether the new investors are linked to Royal Technologies Trust.”
Bill’s voice returns. “On it. I’ll cross-reference by the close of business.”
Rourke adds quietly from the phone, “Re-entry’s fine as long as payments route through the agency, not direct endorsement. Keeps NCAA compliance intact.”
“Perfect,” Kiyomi says.
Keane looks at me. “Your version of the Calvin Klein breakup—I’d like to hear it directly.”
“Professional disagreement,” I answer. “They wanted a tabloid narrative, I refused. They leaked selective photos, so I walked.”
He nods slowly. “Good instinct. I’ll make sure we write contracts that stop that from happening again.”
The following slide transitions to projected campaign visuals: Dior’s muted palette, Burberry’s urban grit, Versace’s kinetic color. Watching the screen scroll, I realize Kiyomi’s slides weave a pattern bigger than fashion—it’s about control, data, image, and reach.
For a second, I feel the room tilt. The logos, the legal terms, the global channels—they’re all different languages of the same code. Hockey, modeling, AEGIS—they’re systems feeding each other. Power, I think, isn’t noise; it’s synchronization.
Kiyomi’s voice cuts through my reflection. “Then we agree: Klein re-entry under Keane oversight; Dior Reborn contingent on visa; Armani pending approval; Versace and Burberry proceeding under Melissa’s media parameters.”
Melissa says. “I’ll seed the narrative—multi-house détente led by an athlete-engineer. The press loves paradox.”
Keane laughs. “That headline writes itself. Thank you.”
Kiyomi’s tone sharpens just enough. “Keep it a headline, not a scandal.”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, raising both hands.
Rika’s voice from last night flickers through my mind: Discipline is not chains, it is direction. Every part of my life now runs through oversight committees—hockey schedules, code reviews, image management. I built AEGIS to teach systems to adapt, but somewhere along the way, I became one.
Kiyomi must sense it. “Michael?”
“Just making sure I still exist in there somewhere,” I say.
Her gaze softens a fraction. “You do. Excellence without order is chaos in disguise.”
Keane closes his folio; the leather snaps shut like punctuation. “And order without vision is just paperwork. I’ll have draft agreements ready by the end of the week. Once your visa is cleared, we will start making U.S. bookings immediately. It’ll simplify travel—and complicate your vacations with too many invitations to exotic places.”
“Understood.”
He grins. “Pleasure doing business with disciplined people. Rare species.”
Kiyomi inclines her head. “Discipline sustains legacy.”
The speakerphone chimes as connections end—first Thomas, then Melissa, then Bill. The room settles into quiet except for the faint hum of the projector cooling.
Kiyomi turns toward the hall, her voice lowering to the calm that silences rooms. “They either play by our rules,” she says, “or not at all.”
And I follow her out into the corridor, the morning light sharp enough to feel like command.
The Legal Wall: Bill Dixon
The rain began before dawn, a steady percussion on the skylight above Bill Dixon’s desk. He’d always done his best work when the weather kept everyone else indoors. Rain meant silence, and silence meant precision.
Stacks of binders surrounded him—color-coded spines marked AEGIS IP Chain, NCAA Correspondence, University Charters, and the newest: O-1 Visa Petition – Draft 2. A single desk lamp cast everything in amber light. He stapled the last appendix, exhaled once, and murmured into the quiet, “Proof of independence. Proof of life.”
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, followed by the faint sound of a door closing. The outer suite belonged jointly to Dixon & Travers, an unusual partnership in a city where attorneys and publicists usually kept a polite distance. But Bill had learned that legal victories meant little if clients lost the public narrative. Melissa handled that side of the battlefield with surgical precision—crisis statements, leak management, and reputation triage—while he kept the law intact beneath it. Together they’d built something rare: a firm that could fight both the courtroom and the camera.
Moments later, Melissa Travers appeared without knocking, travel mug in hand, and that practiced press-officer grin ready. “Morning, counselor. You look like you wrestled a statute and won.”
“Close,” Bill said, sliding the final stack into a courier envelope. “Finished the rebuttal. Langley’s office can’t claim ownership now.”
“Then maybe you’ll sleep.”
“Sleeps for the acquitted. This is to be sent to the university’s general counsel at noon. After that, we stop playing defense.”
She tilted her head. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we formalize the empire before someone else names it.”
Melissa smirked. “Empire sounds expensive.”
“Cheaper than surrender.”
By nine-thirty, the conference room was filled. Kiyomi Matsuda arrived first, tablet under her arm, expression unreadable. Michael followed, hoodie damp from the rain, eyes alert but restless. Jack Danner and Mitsy Matsuda came last, carrying thermoses and a kinetic energy that could power the building.
Bill spread the documents across the long oak table. “Everyone here represents a pillar—legal, operational, communications, security. Today, we make AEGIS a legal organism.”
Michael studied the heading on the top sheet. “AEGIS Edge Holdings Inc.—Toronto?”
“Canadian parent company,” Bill confirmed. “Commonwealth jurisdiction keeps it outside U.S. collegiate reach. We incorporate under Crown charter, leveraging the same privileges granted through the Queen’s commendation. Think of it as your legal citizenship in corporate form.”
Michael nodded slowly. “And here?”
“AEGIS Edge LLC, Ann Arbor,” Bill said. “U.S. operating arm. It manages Northern Edge revenues and any AI work on American soil. Dual structure—clean firewall between you, the university, and future investors.”
He tapped another folder. “That firewall only holds if every region handles taxation cleanly. We’re crossing four regimes—NA, LATM, APAC, and EMEA—and each comes with its own treaties and reporting quirks. I’ve been working with Tony Venezia at Venezia, Shore & Lang LLP to map the overlaps. He’s meticulous, speaks the language of both accountants and regulators. If we bring him in formally, he’ll coordinate with Castile’s auditors in Madrid and Yamamoto’s compliance group in Tokyo to keep AEGIS compliant in every jurisdiction. Alongside him, I want Michele Katz on board as your personal financial planner. She’s a CFA—her focus will be your portfolio, income streams, and long-term personal financial growth. Katz and Venezia will coordinate for your individual tax filings, keeping your personal and corporate finances separate. Venezia builds the wall; Katz guards what’s behind it.”
Michael leaned back in his chair, considering. “Bill, you’re my attorney. If I can’t trust your judgment, who can I? If you like them, hire both of them. I’ll sign the paperwork.”
Kiyomi’s eyes warmed with quiet approval. For once, Michael had accepted advice without argument—learning the lesson she’d tried to teach for months: a true leader delegates to strength.
Mitsy whistled. “You’re basically giving him diplomatic immunity for code.”
“Not immunity—governance.” Bill slid another folder forward. “Proposed ownership structure starts provisional—Michael Stewart holds the controlling interest at fifty-one percent. The remaining forty-nine percent will be distributed among strategic partners once each group’s contribution is formalized. Matsuda Industrial, Yamamoto Digital, and Castile Logistics are the intended anchors; however, we’ll finalize the equity only after the scope and capital commitments are confirmed. That preserves flexibility while keeping full control in your hands.”
Kiyomi reviewed every line before setting her tablet down. “This aligns with our prior understanding. Once the equity structure is formalized, the Royal Technologies Trust will act as fiduciary for the Duke’s participation. I’ll have Lady Margaret verify the Crown endorsement.”
She looked toward Mitsy. “You and I will brief Kim Yamamoto and the APAC finance council tomorrow morning, so their compliance and reporting frameworks match ours before filing.”
Michael’s thumb brushed the embossed seal. “So I own the idea, but we guard it together.”
“Exactly,” Bill said. “A corporation with a conscience.”
Michael smiled faintly. “You sound like Sensei Ogata.”
“That’s where he learned it,” Kiyomi murmured.
By midday, the focus shifted to the visa. Bill cued the checklist on the projector, bullet points glowing against the wall.
Letters of Support – Matsuda Industrial & Yamamoto Digital
Press Clippings – Olympic and Modeling Credentials
Expert Affidavits – Keane Agency (New York)
Petition Narrative – Filed with USCIS
Concurrent Filing – AEGIS Edge Holdings Proof of Incorporation
“Five documents, one story,” he said. “Extraordinary ability. That’s the phrase, and it’s true. The O-1 isn’t just permission to work—it’s recognition he belongs in the same class as Olympic champions and Nobel candidates.”
Melissa nodded. “We’ll flood the petition with coverage—CBC features, Vancouver gold, tech-press on Northern Edge’s codebase.”
Kiyomi added, “Yamamoto Digital’s endorsement highlights his adaptive-intelligence work. The Matsuda letter will frame him as a cultural bridge.”
Jack tapped the table. “Security note—any AEGIS documentation included in these filings has to be sanitized. Everything submitted to a U.S. agency falls under FOIA, and we don’t need to hand out blueprints to curious clerks or journalists.”
Bill didn’t bother hiding the faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Already done. What USCIS gets is a skeleton—dates, signatures, nothing proprietary. But it’s good to keep everyone alert.”
Jack gave a short nod, satisfied.
“Visa and incorporation go out concurrently,” Bill continued. “Paper and narrative move faster than rumor.”
Melissa leaned over his shoulder. “You’re writing like the Magna Carta.”
“Maybe. That one lasted eight hundred years.”
“Then we’ll settle for a decade.” Her phone buzzed; she glanced at the screen. “Keane confirmed—they’ll handle New York consular scheduling. He wants a draft tonight.”
“Send it.”
Across the room, Michael and Kiyomi stood by the window, voices low. The rain had eased to a mist over the courthouse dome. Bill watched them for a beat—the kid looked older now, pressure carving away the last of youth.
Jack reached for his phone instead of his tablet. “I’ll make a call. A friend in the Bureau — we were colleagues back in D.C. — we still help each other out when background checks need to move faster than paperwork.”
Bill gave a knowing half-smile. “Keep it light, Jack. We’re hiring an accountant and financial manager, not arms dealers.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “You’d be surprised how often those overlap.” He stepped into the hallway, voice low as he spoke into the phone.
When he returned a few minutes later, he set the phone down. “Nothing flagged. Clean record, no sanctions, no sealed investigations. Venezia’s firm looks solid, and nothing on Katz.”
Bill nodded once. “Good. That’s all I needed.”
Jack scrolled through his notes again. “I also checked who Venezia’s firm tends to partner with on international audits. There’s a small Ann Arbor outfit they’ve used before—solid reputation, clean record, good NCAA familiarity. The Tokyo firm, on its past filings, is top-tier but carries an old rumor about Yakuza ties, two owners back.”
Kiyomi considered. “That rumor’s ancient. They handle half of Yamamoto’s audits. Use Tokyo for structure, Ann Arbor for reporting—dual oversight.”
“Twice the fees,” Mitsy pointed out.
“Twice the insulation,” Bill replied. “Redundancy costs less than scandal.”
Shifting Lines & Games: Hanna Sanders
Melissa Travers’s voice carried through the speakerphone on the coffee table, bright and composed even from her own home office.
“He’s overdue for a refresh. The Olympic and modeling posts still pull attention, but there’s been nothing new for months. His fans think he disappeared.”
Hanna sat cross-legged on the couch, notebook open, tablet balanced across her knees.
“He doesn’t like posting,” she said. “He says it feels like selling pieces of himself.”
“Understandable,” Melissa replied. “But perception shapes truth. If we don’t guide the narrative, others will. You said you wanted to help him—this is how.”
That line steadied Hanna more than caffeine ever could. For months, she’d been the unseen half of Michael’s days—laundry folded, training gear cleaned, meals prepped down to the minute. This was different. This was trusted.
“All right,” she said. “You’ll approve everything?”
“Exactly. You draft; I vet. Keep it genuine—training, Northern Edge progress, a few personal glimpses. Think Olympic discipline meets graduate-student charm. Human, not headline.”
A small smile tugged at Hanna’s lips.
“So ... more hoodies, fewer suits?”
Melissa laughed softly through the line. “Now you’re catching on.”
They hung up a few minutes later. Midday light shifted across the room, bright and calm. Hanna opened Michael’s long-dormant Facebook account, fingers poised over the keys.
Morning conditioning, code in the afternoon. Balance matters.
She paired it with a candid photo she’d taken a few days earlier—Michael at the whiteboard, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes locked on a string of equations.
Within half an hour, the notifications began to climb: likes, comments, and messages from former teammates and fans who thought he’d gone quiet for good.
When Michael emerged from his study—barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower between coding sessions—she turned the tablet toward him.
“Look.”
He frowned, read, then blinked at the flood of comments. “You did this?”
She nodded. “Melissa thought it was time.”
He scrolled, a reluctant smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “They actually missed me.”
“Of course they did,” she said. “You just forgot how to let them see you.”
He handed the tablet back with a quiet laugh. “Keep it going. Just ... don’t make me a brand.”
“I promise.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, still smiling to himself, and the condo felt lighter—no longer weighed by silence but alive again, the hum of the outside world finding its way back in.
By the end of the afternoon, Hanna had organized his folders, scheduled posts through the week, and linked his revived profile to Northern Edge’s media page—quiet, deliberate work that made Michael visible again without turning him into a brand.