Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
16. The Crown Before the Gavel
Coming of Age Story: 16. The Crown Before the Gavel - 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 AI Generated
Wolverine Royalty, Mid-June 2010
Monday night and Coach Benson is bored. He misses his players during the break. Then he sees my social-media pictures from the Cube and gets an idea—hold an impromptu fun skate for whoever’s on campus. Most of the team is home, so it’s going to be a mix of Varsity, Scout, Coaches, Administrators, Teachers, Rolf, and random students. Anyone who can skate and hold a stick. Coach senses the tension in my posture and decides we—collectively—need a lift. Me most of all. The NCAA hearing has everyone walking on eggshells. His solution: a charity scrimmage to sidestep any compliance issues. He laments the state of college hockey, that even a charity match needs approval from the University’s Compliance office before it can be played.
The next day he phones Angie Dawson to provide a heads-up. At first, she hesitates—provoking the NCAA this close to my hearing makes any ice time risky—but Benson promises it will be voluntary and completely unofficial since it’s open to players and non-players alike. No compliance issues, no roster violation—just a little morale booster, he tells her. The next thing Angie does is schedule a photographer and post the hashtag #VoluntaryScrimmage on Friday, to remind the world that “unofficial” still makes for great press.
It’s Friday, and everyone is excited. We have a hilarious collection of players including Coach, AD Langley, kids from school I’ve never seen, and Rolf wearing a school uniform that predates my birth.
Hanna is here to document the “Event” for my social media. She has a feral grin, knowing this is going to be something good.
“Listen up,” Coach says, his voice carrying across the ice. “This is for charity. We’re playing for fun and to help others. Three periods, light contact, and losers wear tiaras all day. That includes players, coaches, administrators, teachers and trainers. I mean everywhere: campus, class, grocery store—doesn’t matter.”
Groans and snickers ripple through the motley crew. Someone swears under his breath. One of the trainers asks if he’s serious.
Benson lifts a glittering plastic crown from a paper bag. “Oh, I’m serious. You’ll sparkle all over Ann Arbor.”
The rink cracks up, even the people in the stands. Laughter bounces off the boards like a perfectly banked pass, lighting up every corner of the barn. Nobody wants to be caught wearing a tiara, especially on campus. And yet, Coach can see we all need the distraction. No one wants to be the punchline.
He tosses the jerseys. “Reilly, you’ve got Blue. Stewart, you’re Maize. Let’s move.”
Angie arrives with a photographer in tow just as we’re taping sticks. “Smile!” she yells, already framing the shot. She knows a charity skate is media gold.
First Period
Warm-ups blur by, then the first puck hits the ice, and the quiet morning erupts—sticks clapping, blades carving fresh lines into the rink. The sound alone could wake the dead.
I line up across from Reilly. He grins. “Hope you’ve been practicing your princess wave.”
“Keep talking and I’ll make you curtsy.”
The puck drops.
The teams are a patchwork of chaos—varsity players skating alongside coaches, administrators wobbling on rental skates, a couple of professors who haven’t touched a puck since intramurals, and random students who feel like they won a lottery to fill out the rosters. Rolf even suited up, his Zamboni-driver frame surprisingly steady on the ice.
Blue scores first on a rebound, their bench hammering the boards like they just won the Frozen Four. The crowd—maybe two hundred people scattered through the old wooden bleachers—erupts like it’s ten times that number. Two shifts later, I thread a pass through traffic that a junior from the business school redirects between the pads. One–one.
“That’s one for the crown fund, Stewart!” Coach yells. The stands stomp their feet, rattling the old boards in agreement. Laughter breaks out, tension fades. We start to move the way we used to—fast, fearless, enjoying the game.
Hanna’s phone is out, thumbs flying. She catches my eye and flashes a grin before going back to her screen. Students who wandered in for the spectacle pass buckets through the bleachers, collecting donations. A couple of reporters who heard about the charity match snap photos from the glass. Families of administrators clap enthusiastically. The whole thing feels loose, unscripted, the way hockey is supposed to feel before the weight of expectations crushes it.
Second Period
The freshmen finally wake up and start throwing checks like it’s March playoffs. Noley and a grad student from the engineering department collide in the neutral zone and nearly fight until upperclassmen pull them apart, laughing. The crowd loves it—someone starts a chant of “Let them go!” that dissolves into good-natured booing when we separate them.
Benson leans on the boards. “That’s the energy I wanted!”
A Blue winger slashes my stick after the whistle. I tap his shin pad twice—just enough to make a point. He grins back. Rivalry without animus—it feels good.
One of the administrators—some dean from the business school—tries to receive a pass and whiffs completely, sending himself sprawling across the ice. His teammates haul him up while both benches howl. The crowd gives him a standing ovation. A professor from the kinesiology department skates backward into the boards, arms pinwheeling. Nobody cares. Everyone’s laughing too hard—players, fans, the whole barn united in the beautiful absurdity of it all.
Blue breaks the tie with a clean rush. We even it next shift when a sophomore TA tips another one in. Two–two. Nobody remembers this was supposed to be practice. Benches trade taunts. Angie’s camera flashes after every goal.
Rolf gets a shift on my line. He’s slow but steady, positioning himself near the crease like he’s done this before. A loose puck bounces off three sticks and lands on his blade. He doesn’t hesitate—just shovels it toward the net. The puck wobbles, knuckleballs past the goalie’s pad, and trickles over the line.
The bench erupts. The crowd goes absolutely berserk—you’d think we just won the national championship. Rolf raises his stick like he just scored in overtime of the Frozen Four. I skate over and tap his helmet. “Beauty of a goal, Rolf.”
He grins—actually grins, which might be a first. “Zamboni driver, one. Fancy college boys, zero.”
The buckets make another pass through the crowd, and people are actually fighting to throw money in. Someone from the Athletic Department announces the running total over the PA system—more than anyone expected for a Friday morning scrimmage. A kid in a Wolverines jersey waves a hand-drawn sign that reads “GO BLUE ROYALTY.” Hanna captures it for the feed, her phone practically glued to her hand as she fires off another update.
Third Period
Legs pump, voices loud. Benson calls lines like it’s championship weekend. Midway through, he enters—first ice time I’ve seen him take all season. The crowd goes silent for a heartbeat, then someone yells “COACH!” and the whole place starts chanting his name.
He’s lost a step, sure, but the hands are still there. He receives a pass in the slot, dekes once, and snaps a wrister top shelf. The mesh bulges with a satisfying thwack.
Both benches go quiet for a second, then erupt. The stands absolutely lose their minds—people are hugging strangers, throwing popcorn in the air, acting like they just witnessed hockey history. Reilly whistles. “Still got it, Coach.”
Benson skates back to the bench, breathing hard but grinning. “That’s why I coach now instead of play. One shift and I’m gassed.”
Final minute—tie game. I intercept a pass and try to clear, but it clips a freshman’s stick and drops right onto a Blue forward’s tape. Wrist shot, under the crossbar. Three–two Blue.
The Blue bench celebrates while our side groans theatrically. Nobody’s actually upset. The crowd cheers for both teams equally—they don’t care who won. They came for chaos and charity, and they got both in spades.
Benson lets the clock run out, then blows the whistle once. “That’s it. Fetch your crowns, gentlemen.”
Groans from our bench and wild cheers from Reilly’s side. The equipment manager rolls out a box of tiaras—glitter everywhere. Reilly bows toward me. “Your Majesty.”
“Keep talking and I’ll crown you.”
Benson slips one on himself. “Accountability starts at the top,” he says. “Smile for the camera.”
We cluster at center ice, crowns tilted, half laughing, half resigned. Angie positions the photographer. “Hold still—hashtag Wolverine Royalty.” The flash pops twice. Even wearing tiaras, everyone is smiling. The crowd gives us one final standing ovation, and I swear the old barn has never sounded happier.
By noon, the photos are everywhere.
Michigan Hockey – Official Page: Early-morning charity scrimmage = new team tradition. Losers wear the crowns. #GoBlue #TeamSpirit
Hanna’s been fielding responses all day. She shows me her phone—Facebook comments rolling in faster than she can read them. “People are losing their minds,” she says. “In the best way.”
Anyone still on campus react fast. Students post sightings of tiara-wearing players—library steps, cafeterias, the Diag. A sorority starts a “Tiara Hunt” challenge. Coeds compete to collect the most photos with crowned players. Even Blue-team winners borrow tiaras to join the fun.
The joke flips. Embarrassment becomes pride. The skeleton crew left on campus laughs with us.
Angie captions her next post: Royalty everywhere 👑 Maize and Blue United. Charity scrimmage, voluntary smiles.
Coach spots me walking between buildings. “Congratulations,” he says. “That’s more goodwill than our last three press campaigns combined.”
“Guess being a princess has its perks.”
He grins. “Keep that attitude in Chicago. You’ll be fine.”
Evening
Back at the condo, we’re eating the sandwiches I picked up from Zingerman’s—the Brisky Business for me and the Reuben for Hanna. We try to eat healthy, but sometimes you just need the fix. Between bites, she scrolls through the day’s posts and waves for my attention.
“You’ve gone viral,” she says. “Facebook famous. Want to hear the highlights?”
I sink into the chair. “Why not.”
She reads, fighting a grin. “‘Stewart pulls off the tiara better than any Disney prince.’”
I groan. “Please tell me that isn’t from someone on the team.”
“Nope—random stranger. Here’s another: ‘Would totally attend a royal skate lesson.’”
“At least they’re creative.”
She scrolls again. “Rourke wrote, ‘If the NCAA sees this, they’ll fine him for excessive confidence.’ Figures. Oh—Mitsy commented: ‘Finally, the boys learn how to accessorize.’ And Molly added, ‘Discipline and humor with abs of steel, oh my... ‘“
I laugh. “Only Molly would skip the philosophy and go straight for the abs. Tell her I’m ready to be her prince if she’ll be my princess.”
Hanna looks over the laptop. “You know Molly will jump at that—and you’re going to break a lot of hearts when she does.”
I give her a look that says whatever.
She grins. “All right, back to the comments ... someone captioned Benson’s picture ‘Coach wears it best.’”
That one breaks me. I laugh until my ribs hurt.
She closes the laptop. “You needed that.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s been pressure nonstop. Nice to remember what fun feels like.”
She leans back. “Tomorrow’s the hearing. Nervous?”
“A little. But after today? Not so much.”
The tiara sits on the coffee table, one jewel missing. Hanna picks it up and settles it on my head. “Now you’re ready for the throne room.”
I take it off and rest it beside me. “More like ready for the lion’s den.”
She smiles. “You’ll do fine.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I will.”
The laughter lingers even after the lights dim. Outside, campus glows in soft gold, and somewhere out there, the players who stuck around for summer are still posing for pictures—crowns catching the streetlight.
NCAA Hearing — Call to Order
The hearing room is smaller than I expected—twelve chairs, one microphone per seat, and the NCAA seal etched into the glass behind the dais. No audience, no press, just a clock that refuses to stop ticking. I’ve sat through media scrums, Olympic pressers, and boardroom negotiations that felt less strange than this. Too quiet, too polite.
At the center of the dais sits Dr. Evelyn Marston, Chair of the NCAA Compliance Committee—an immaculate stack of papers before her, posture ramrod-straight. To her right, Greg Talbot, Deputy Chair for Legal Affairs, adjusts his glasses and nods without looking up. Beside him, Angela Ruiz, committee counsel, flips through a folder already marked with color tabs. On the far left sits Dean Hollander, the senior academic representative whose reputation for measured dissent has earned him wary respect from both sides. Along the back wall, unnamed NCAA staff occupy two narrow rows behind their patrons—quiet, watchful, ready to take notes.
At the defense table: Thomas Rourke, Bill Dixon, and me. I keep my hands folded neatly on the tabletop, silent but alert.
A low hum on the side speaker signals the teleconference line. Congressman Peter Sanders has joined as an observer—a courtesy that Marston neither requested nor could refuse. I don’t look at the speaker, but I feel the weight of it. Peter didn’t have to do this. He did it anyway.
Dr. Marston straightens her papers. “This committee will come to order.” Her voice is clipped, the cadence of someone who enjoys hearing her own efficiency. The staff around her nod automatically, pens poised, none quite meeting her eyes. I clock the hesitation—half a second, just long enough to smell doubt.
Rourke folds his hands on the table, expression neutral. “Thomas Rourke, counsel for Mr. Michael Stewart.” The accent flattens vowels into a quick, hard New York beat. “We’re ready when you are, Doctor.”
Marston glances up, perhaps expecting deference. “We’ll begin with introductions for the record.”
“Already on record,” Rourke says lightly. “But by all means—let’s repeat ourselves, it’s tradition in some faiths.”
A faint smile ghosts across Bill Dixon’s face. I feel my shoulders ease, just slightly. Around the table, pens hover. The match has begun.
The nearest staffer coughs to hide a smile. Marston’s expression does not move. “The purpose of this session,” she continues, “is to examine potential violations of NCAA Bylaw 12-B concerning benefits derived from athletic reputation—specifically, modeling-related income and any commercial activities associated with the entity known as AEGIS Edge Holdings Inc.”
Rourke lifts a brow. “So, we’re doubling up—runway work and code repositories in one sitting. Efficient.” Then, more evenly, “For the record, the University of Michigan’s compliance office and Dr. Morrison, Dean of Engineering, have already confirmed that AEGIS was not conceived, funded, or supervised under any university program. Aegis is not university-derived intellectual property.”
He opens his binder to the first tab. “Exhibit A, Doctor—Articles of Incorporation, filed in Toronto last month, shortly after the Northern Edge release and following full review by the university’s compliance office. Independent venture, foreign jurisdiction, private capital.”
Marston taps her pen. “Counsel will present evidence when recognized.”
“Of course.” He closes the binder again with the same deliberate action. “Just keeping the timeline honest.”
One of the panel members—Compliance Operations, by his badge—leans toward his microphone. “Forgive me, Dr. Marston, but why is this before us? On its face, this reads as a student technology project, not an eligibility concern.”
Marston’s pen stills. “Because reputation, not funding source, determines the benefit, Mr. Wallace. The committee must confirm that Mr. Stewart’s public profile did not influence commercial gain.”
Another staffer murmurs, “We’ve never tested that interpretation.” Her voice is low, uncertain.
I file the exchange away. They don’t buy it. Good. I keep my face blank.
Marston resumes: “Mr. Rourke, your client will have an opportunity to make a statement after the committee’s preliminary review.”
“Understood,” Rourke says. “He’ll refrain from speaking unless addressed. We’re fond of rules here, Doctor.”
Marston blinks once, uncertain whether she’s been insulted. “Then let us proceed with the briefing.”
The recorder starts typing, keys soft and steady. Marston recites the summary of allegations, each line precise and bureaucratic. I listen, eyes half-lidded, noting the phrasing. Every sentence matches an unsigned talking points memo that had circulated among a few Michigan hockey boosters last month—a draft quietly forwarded to Bill Dixon by a fellow alumnus who disliked smear campaigns and thought I deserved a fair defense: same clauses, same innuendo, even the same order of complaint.
Thumbs on the scale.
When she finishes, the Compliance Operations staffer clears his throat. “With respect, Doctor, this seems unusually narrow for committee time. We have active eligibility disputes awaiting docket—scholarship audits, recruiting violations—”
Marston cuts him off. “Those matters are delegated. This one is not.”
Rourke leans forward just enough to be heard. “So, this is a personal docket then? That’s impressive access for a student athlete.”
“Counsel,” she warns.
“Merely admiring efficiency.”
Silence stretches. The staffer lowers his pen, realizing the trap: if he speaks again, he challenges her authority; if he stays quiet, he agrees with Rourke. Either way, she loses a little ground.
Marston shuffles her notes, searching for momentum. “Very well, the committee acknowledges receipt of Exhibits A through H submitted by the respondent’s counsel. These will be reviewed in order. Dr. Kent, please confirm authentication.”
Dr. Kent, the legal advisor, adjusts his glasses. “Confirmed. All documents arrived via courier, chain of custody intact.” His tone carries no enthusiasm—just duty.
Rourke nods slightly. “For the record, Exhibits A through H cover both matters before this panel—Modeling and AEGIS Edge Holdings—including incorporation filings, compliance clearances, tax receipts, and attestation letters from the Matsuda Industrial Group, Yamamoto Digital Network, Keane Artistic Agency, and the Duke of Castile’s Royal Technologies Trust.”
Marston nods curtly. “Then we proceed to preliminary questions.”
Rourke uncaps his pen. I know the first question before she asks it. It’s always the same: motive, influence, money. They’ll circle those three words until lunch. Rourke glances sideways at me. I keep my posture soldier-straight, face unreadable, hand flat on the table—steady. Stay silent, stay calm.
Marston begins, “Counsel, can you confirm whether your client’s relationship with the Matsuda Industrial Group constitutes a sponsorship arrangement?”
“No, Doctor,” Rourke replies. “It constitutes friendship, mentorship, and the occasional rescue from uni.” He pauses, lets the word land. “Sea urchin roe—specifically the reproductive organs that many Japanese prize and foreigners generally avoid. None of which appears in your bylaws.”
A ripple of restrained laughter moves through the panel. Marston’s jaw tightens.
“Let me rephrase,” she says. “Has any member of that group provided material compensation to Mr. Stewart?”
“If you mean salary—no. If you mean guidance—daily. I’ll submit the bill later.”
Even Dr. Kent looks down to hide a grin. The recorder keeps typing, pretending not to notice.
Marston exhales through her nose. “This hearing will maintain decorum.”
“I’m trying,” Rourke says softly. “It keeps escaping.”
She ignores him and turns to the panel. “We’ll pause for five minutes while counsel distributes the supporting exhibits for record entry.”
The phrasing saves face—not a real recess, just a procedural pause to let everyone breathe and skim the packet they’ve already been handed. Still, the relief around the table is visible: shoulders loosen, pens pause, someone exhales too loudly.
Rourke closes his binder, satisfied with the first exchange. The committee doesn’t want this case, and now they know he knows it.
He leans toward me. “See? We just made them wonder why they’re here.”
I nod once, silent, eyes steady on the table. The short pause buzzer sounds, and Rourke sits back, a faint smile ghosting across his face.
Round one to the defense.
Rourke’s Defense
The committee room feels like a courtroom dressed up as a conference—wood paneling, water pitchers, and a long table where people who’ve never laced up skates get to decide my future. Dr. Marston’s opening statement hangs in the air like stale smoke, procedure disguised as fairness. I keep my hands still on my thighs, watching Rourke from the corner of my eye. He’s got that neutral expression locked in, hands folded, eyes half-lowered in the way that unnerves opposing counsel.
When the committee chair nods for his response, Rourke rises slowly, unbuttoning his jacket. I’ve seen him work before, but there’s something different today—a sharpness that tells me he’s not here to negotiate. He’s here to win.
“Madam Chair, members of the committee,” he begins, voice measured but unmistakably sharp, “my client, Mr. Michael Stewart, has not profited from his athletic status. He has profited from his own mind and from lawful employment abroad. That distinction, I trust, is still legal in this country.”
A ripple travels through the room. Some of the younger staffers shift in their chairs, clearly unprepared for Rourke’s opening salvo. He lets the silence stretch before opening a folder of contracts, press clippings, and certified tax letters from Calvin Klein’s finance team. I recognize some of those documents—the ones Keane’s office spent weeks compiling, every receipt and disclosure catalogued like evidence in a murder trial.
“Let’s begin with the matter that brought us here—modeling income,” Rourke continues. “Every appearance in question took place outside U.S. jurisdiction: Quebec City, London, and the Caribbean. All compensation was paid through foreign agencies, taxed abroad, and disclosed to the university compliance office more than a year ago. The single domestic show—New York Fashion Week—generated no personal gain; he donated the entire fee to charity. Those receipts are in your packets.”
Marston frowns, her pen hovering. “The committee notes that the NCAA was not informed directly.”
“The university was,” Rourke replies without missing a beat. “They investigated, issued clearance, and archived the case. Your own procedures require that all initial notifications be routed through the institution, rather than being sent directly to you. It is the university’s compliance staff who are obligated to contact your offices if they have questions or concerns—and they didn’t.” He pauses, letting that land. “If you now reopen it, you’ll need to explain why a compliant disclosure was ignored for twelve months. Selective enforcement is not regulation—it’s theater.”
A low murmur ripples across the dais. I keep my expression neutral, but something loosens in my chest. Rourke’s not just defending me—he’s putting them on trial.
He continues before they recover. “Since that time, Mr. Stewart has signed with David Keane, principal of the Keane Artistic Agency in New York. No U.S. campaigns have yet been executed, but future assignments will require lawful employment authorization. We are already preparing an O-1 Visa petition—’extraordinary ability’ classification—structured under AEGIS Edge LLC so that any domestic earnings, whether from modeling or technology contracts, are federally sanctioned, transparently reported, and fully taxable.”
He glances at the panel, then drives the point home. “Here’s the crux: your own bylaws contain precedent for compensated artistic activity under academic supervision—music, theater, and art students are permitted to perform for pay if their work predates athletic enrollment or is demonstrably separate from team representation. Mr. Stewart’s modeling fits both categories. If you decline to extend that same logic to him, you invite a discrimination challenge based on the field of study. Either create the exception or explain why the NCAA’s definition of art stops at the runway.”
A few of the panelists exchange uneasy looks. Marston’s pen hovers, then drops a deliberate note onto the page. I can almost hear the gears turning—they didn’t expect this. They expected a kid in over his head, maybe a half-prepared attorney making excuses. Instead they got Rourke dismantling their case brick by brick.
He softens his tone just enough to sound reasonable. “We’re not asking for favoritism, only consistency. Going forward, Mr. Stewart will operate under an O-1 Visa, university compliance review, and the same ethical standards the NCAA claims to uphold. That’s transparency, not exploitation.”
He allows the words to settle, then pivots. “Now, to the secondary concern—AEGIS.” He slides another document across the table. “Developed off campus, funded privately, incorporated in Canada. Not a single byte of university infrastructure was used. Unless the NCAA intends to claim jurisdiction over Canadian corporate charters, this matter is outside your jurisdiction.”
Marston’s pen halts mid-note. Rourke presses forward. “What you have isn’t a violation—it’s a precedent. A student-athlete building technology while meeting every academic obligation. If you penalize that, you criminalize ingenuity.”
One of the committee lawyers interjects, leaning forward slightly. “Mr. Rourke, the issue is public association—Mr. Stewart’s name appears in marketing material for a product that generates revenue.”
Rourke tilts his head slightly, and I recognize that look—it’s the same one I’ve seen on the ice when a forward thinks he’s got a clear lane and doesn’t realize the gap’s already closed. “The product uses his code, not his image. That’s authorship, not endorsement. If the NCAA wants to ban scholarship students from publishing, please draft that rule. Until then, we follow the one that exists.”
He paces once behind his chair, measured and deliberate. “In two weeks, Northern Edge was downloaded in over thirty countries. The only financial beneficiary is AEGIS Edge LLC, monitored by independent auditors. What you will not find is a paycheck to Michael Stewart.”
The silence stretches. I watch the committee members—some scribbling notes, others staring at their folders like they’re hoping the answers will materialize. Marston’s jaw is tight.
Rourke lets the silence build, then adds quietly, “Excellence is not a crime.”
Marston’s Counter
Dr. Evelyn Marston aligns her notes until the corners meet with mathematical precision. The silence after Rourke’s argument feels like pressure before a storm, and she refuses to be the first to move.
I watch her from my seat, keeping my expression neutral while my pulse ticks steady in my ears.
“Mr. Rourke,” she says at last, voice clipped but steady, “the committee appreciates your enthusiasm. However, this body operates under policy, not precedent. Our task is to ensure that athletic participation remains free from commercial entanglement.”
Rourke offers a polite nod. I catch the way Marston’s grip tightens on her pen—she senses the same thing I do. That calm of his isn’t weakness. It’s patience.
“You’ve made a compelling rhetorical case,” she continues, “but rhetoric is not regulation. If every athlete creates shell companies, signs foreign endorsements, and cites ‘intellectual property’ exemptions, the NCAA’s integrity collapses.”
One junior staffer hastens to agree. “Madam Chair is right—the optics would be disastrous.”
Another, Dean Hollander, murmurs, “Or maybe it’s the rulebook that’s obsolete.”
Marston ignores him. “Rules define trust. Without trust, enforcement means nothing.”
I keep my hands flat on the table, resisting the urge to lean forward. This is Rourke’s show now. My job is to sit here and look like a student-athlete who followed the rules—because I did.
Rourke rises, calm and deliberate. “Then let’s put that trust on the record.”
He opens a leather folio and produces four embossed envelopes. “Exhibits D through G—letters of attestation supporting Mr. Stewart’s O-1 visa application and commercial structure. From the Matsuda Industrial Group, Yamamoto Digital Network, the Keane Artistic Agency, and the Duke of Castile’s Royal Technologies Trust. Each confirms oversight, transparency, and lawful separation of income under AEGIS Edge LLC.”
He passes them to the clerk. “Their signatures verify that all compensation flows through a single audited entity—no side accounts, no hidden incentives.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.