Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
15. The Crown Before the Gavel
Coming of Age Story: 15. 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
(Mid-June 2010)
Wolverine Royalty
Coach Benson called the seven-a.m. skate after seeing the social-media pictures of me playing at the Cube. He could sense the tension in my posture and decided we needed a lift—me most of all. The NCAA hearing had everyone walking on eggshells, his solution: an unofficial scrimmage.
He phoned Angie Dawson that night to provide a “Heads up.” At first, she hesitated—provoking the NCAA this close to Michael’s hearing made any ice time risky—but Benson promised it would be voluntary and unofficial. No compliance issues, no roster violation—just a little morning morale booster, he told her. The next thing Angie did was schedule a photographer and posted the hashtag #VoluntaryScrimmage, to remind the world that “unofficial” still made for great press.
Seven-a.m., and nobody is happy, I can tell by the way the guys drag their sticks and grunt instead of speak. Coach stands at center ice already wearing a grin that means he’s got something evil planned. Two piles of jerseys—Blue and Maize—wait beside him.
“Listen up,” he says. “This isn’t a normal skate; we are playing a wake-up game, Blue versus Maize. Three periods, full contact, losers wear tiaras all day, that includes players, coaches, and trainers and I mean everywhere: Campus, class, grocery store—doesn’t matter.”
Groans and snickers ripple through the rink, 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 room cracks up. Laughter cuts through the fatigue breaking any lingering tension. Nobody wants to be caught wearing a tiara, especially on campus and yet, Coach can see we all need the distraction, but no one wants to be the punchline.
He tosses the jerseys. “Nash, you’ve got Blue, Stewart, you’re Maize. Let’s move.”
Angie arrives just as we are taping sticks, “remember,” she warns playfully, “it’s voluntary this morning.” She posts the caption before the puck even drops.
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 Nash, he grins, “Hope you’ve been practicing your princess wave.”
“Keep talking and I’ll make you curtsy.”
The puck drops.
Blue scores first on a rebound, their bench hammers the boards like they just won the Frozen Four. Two shifts later, I thread a pass-through traffic that Carter redirects between pads. One–one.
“That’s one for the crown fund, Stewart!” Benson yells. Laughter breaks out, tension fades. We start to move the way we used to—fast, fearless, enjoying the game.
Second Period
The freshmen finally wake up and start throwing checks like it’s March playoffs. Two collide in the neutral zone and nearly fight until upperclassmen pull them apart, laughing.
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.
Blue breaks the tie with a clean rush, we even it next shift when Carter tips another one in. Two–two. Nobody remembers this was supposed to be practice, benches trade taunts, Angie’s camera flashes after every goal.
For the first time in weeks, the fog hanging over the team burns off, I’m not alone; we’re a team.
Third Period
Legs pump, voices loud, Benson calls lines like it’s championship weekend.
Final minute—tie game, I intercept a pass and try to clear, but it clips a freshman’s stick and drops right onto Carter’s tape. Wrist shot, under the crossbar, three–two Blue.
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 Nash’s side. The equipment manager rolls out a box of tiaras—glitter everywhere. Nash 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.
By noon, the photos are everywhere.
Michigan Hockey – Official Page: Early-morning voluntary scrimmage = new team tradition. Losers wear the crowns. #GoBlue #TeamSpirit
Campus reacts 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 tiara wearing players. Even Blue-team winners borrow crowns to join the fun.
The joke flips, embarrassment becomes pride and for once, the whole campus laughs with us.
Angie captions her next post: Royalty everywhere 👑 Maize and Blue United. Voluntary scrimmage, voluntary smiles.
Coach Benson spots me walking between buildings on campus. “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 Delicatessen — the Brisky Business for me and the Reuben for Hanna. We try to eat healthy, but sometimes you just need the fix. Between bites, Hanna scrolls through the day’s posts and waves for my attention.
“You’ve gone viral,” she says. “Facebook famous before breakfast. 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, half the team is still posing for pictures—crowns catching the streetlight.
NCAA Hearing — Call to Order
The hearing room is smaller than Rourke 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. He has argued before state judges, corporate boards, even a Senate subcommittee or two, but this feels stranger. 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 and ready to take notes.
At the defense table: Thomas Rourke, Bill Dixon, and Michael Stewart, who sits silent but alert, hands folded neatly on the tabletop.
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.
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. Rourke clocks the hesitation—half a second, just long enough to smell doubt.
He 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, even Michael’s shoulders ease. 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.
Rourke files the exchange away. They don’t buy it. Good. He keeps his face blank.
Marston resumes: “Mr. Rourke, your client will have an opportunity to make a statement after the committee’s preliminary review.”
“Understood,” he 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. Rourke listens, eyes half-lidded, noting the phrasing. Every sentence matches an unsigned talking points 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 Michael 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, already knowing the first question. It’s always the same: motive, influence, money. They’ll circle those three words until lunch. He glances sideways at Michael Stewart. The kid’s posture is soldier-straight, face unreadable, but his hand rests flat on the table—steady. That’s good. 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 (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 Michael. “See? We just made them wonder why they’re here.”
Michael nods 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
Dr. Marston’s opening statement hangs in the air like stale smoke—procedure disguised as fairness. Rourke keeps his expression neutral, hands folded, eyes half-lowered in the way that unnerves opposing counsel. When the committee chair nods for his response, he rises slowly, unbuttoning his jacket.
“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, 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.
“Let’s begin with the matter that brought us here—modeling income. 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. “The committee notes that the NCAA was not informed directly.”
“The university was,” Rourke replies. “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. 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. Rourke 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.
Rourke 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. “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. “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. “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. “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.”