Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
16. Clearance & Repercussion
Coming of Age Story: 16. Clearance & Repercussion - 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
Late June 2010
Public Reaction and Internal Fallout
The next morning, the NCAA release goes out just after sunrise — three short sentences of bureaucratic calm: “The Committee has concluded its review of Mr. Michael Stewart. No violations were found under NCAA Bylaw 12-B.”
By eight o’clock, the reaction begins. Student boards, booster blogs, and early-morning talk shows replay the same headline, each adding its own spin. Old runway photos and Calvin Klein shots circulate again, a few anonymous accounts insist the hearing was fixed, that strings were pulled. The organized smear is gone, but the echo moves on its own.
At Michael’s condo, Hanna scrolls through the feeds. “Seventy-five mentions a minute,” she says. “Nothing viral yet, but one booster site’s stirring the pot.”
Melissa leans over her shoulder; phone pressed to one ear. “Keep flagging anything that tags AEGIS or mentions the Olympic team. Everything else — bury it under new posts.” She ends the call and exhales once. “Draft the statement, exactly as written, but hold for approval.”
Hanna nods and opens the file, the text is plain, factual: The NCAA has completed its review and confirmed that Michael Stewart remains in full standing. I thank the NCAA for its review and the University for its support. Now back to class and the ice—no spin, no emphasis — just clarity. Hanna saves the draft but leaves it unpublished.
Across campus, the Athletic Department issues its own release — two polite paragraphs folded between recruiting notes. Athletic Director Langley reads it once. “We should’ve coordinated timing,” he mutters.
Angie looks up from her monitor, “the NCAA notice’s been public for hours. We look late to our own story.”
Langley exhales. “We’re supposed to lead, not echo.”
Angie keeps her voice even. “Then we tighten our timing next round. Travers hasn’t released anything yet on Michael’s side — they’re waiting for the right moment. Once they move, we’ll need to stay aligned.”
The compliance fight is over, but control has moved somewhere he can’t reach
By mid-morning, Coach Benson calls. “You’re cleared, kid. Officially, great work! Take the day, get some rest — we’ll see you back at practice tomorrow.”
An hour later, Captains Ryan Nash and Drew Carter call next. “Back on the ice, Mikey,” Ryan says. “About damn time.”
Michael thanks them quietly, relief settles in — not triumph, just stillness. For the first time in weeks, there’s nothing left to defend.
At the Chicago office, Bill forwards the official NCAA memorandum to Rourke, Melissa, Kiyomi, and Hanna. One line is highlighted in yellow: No violation found under NCAA Bylaw 12-B; independent professional activities affirmed.
Rourke replies with a single line: Hold Michael’s personal statement until tomorrow. Let the silence work.
He wants the NCAA’s words to stand alone for a full news cycle — a clean win without commentary.
By late the next morning, Melissa and Hanna are ready for that next step. Kiyomi joins by conference call, her voice calm and precise. “One press statement only,” she says. “Then nothing.”
“Understood,” Melissa answers. “Statement you reviewed yesterday is ready for release.”
Kiyomi pauses. “very good.”
Hanna waits until noon and then posts.
The NCAA has completed its review and confirmed that Michael Stewart remains in full standing. I thank the NCAA for its review and the University for its support. Now back to class and the ice.
The post gains quiet traction — shared for its restraint rather than defense. Within hours, rumor threads collapse under their own weight.
By evening, analytics show mentions falling fast. Melissa texts Bill: Noise level down forty percent. Containment holding.
Across the state in Dearborn, Harold Whitcombe sets his phone on the desk, screen light pale against the wood. The newest headline reads: Stewart Cleared — Questions Remain Over Anonymous Complaint. He studies the line for a long moment before reaching for the scotch. The story isn’t finished yet, and he knows precisely who will call next.
Exposure and Alignment
The local evening news hums in the background, low and repetitive. Charles Ford watches until Michael’s name appears again.
“Cleared,” the anchor says. “No violation found.”
He turns off the television and thinks it must have been a slow news day.
The phone rings. Harold Whitcombe.
Charles answers on the second ring. “Go ahead.”
“Charles, we have a problem,” Whitcombe begins. His voice is tight, clipped, and frustrated. “Rourke named me during the hearing and tied the complaint straight to the Automotive Advancement Council—my Council. The briefing language matched our own summaries and it’s in the transcript now. People inside the industry are already talking.”
Charles exhales, steady and unimpressed. “So, they finally noticed who was really behind the curtain, let them.”
Whitcombe’s tone hardens. “You don’t understand, I was supposed to stay invisible — the Council was a cover, not a millstone. Rourke put my name on it in the hearing, and now it’s hanging around my neck ... and yours will be next.”
Whitcombe exhales and says, “I’m closing the Council’s public operations tonight before the press digs any deeper.”
Charles allows a thin, dismissive smile. “Do what you must, just remember—fear draws attention faster than guilt.”
Charles turns his chair toward the window. “You’re running scared, Harold.”
“I’m being practical,” Whitcombe says. “The smear did its job—pressure, distraction, leverage. Now it’s an anchor. Keep pushing, and the story becomes why we pushed at all.”
Charles’s voice hardens, deliberate and cold. “You think I’ll walk away after what he did to Elizabeth, my family? That boy embarrassed my daughter, dismissed my wife’s goodwill, and turned our generosity into a spectacle. He refused every offer I made — the introductions, the counsel, the protection — and walked off with the very people who could have advanced this company for a decade.
AEGIS should have been Ford’s bridge to the future. Instead, it’s the competitive edge that leaves us on the outside looking in. Through it, he’s gained access to leaders in Washington, D.C., London, Tokyo, and Madrid who could have been our partners. Now those opportunities belong to him. I don’t lose, Harold, not to a boy who mistook defiance for independence — and not to anyone who thinks they can close a door in my face.”
Whitcombe rubs his temple, weary. “Charles, listen to yourself. You’re talking about revenge, not strategy. The hearing’s over, the Council’s dead, and the more you fight, the closer this lands to you. There’s nothing left to win.”
Charles’s reply is soft but certain. “You always did measure victory in profit, Harold. Some of us still believe in principle.”
“Principle doesn’t cover legal fees.”
“I’ll handle my own cleanup.”
Silence stretches, the kind that weighs more than words.
Whitcombe lowers his voice. “Then we’re finished. I’m out. You should be, too.”
Charles’s tone doesn’t change. “You can’t be out, Harold. Your name’s on Orion Holdings, not mine. You signed the incorporation papers, opened the accounts, and built the bridges. You walk away, and every trail leads back to you.”
Whitcombe exhales sharply. “You’re threatening me.”
“I’m reminding you,” Charles replies evenly. “We’ve both profited from that structure — and both know what’s buried inside it. Keep Orion going, stay the course, and this remains manageable.
Whitcombe pauses, voice tightening. “You’re using Orion to trap me.”
“I’m keeping you invested,” Charles says, pouring a drink. “There’s a difference.”
A long silence follows, then Whitcombe’s voice lowers to a rasp. “Good luck, Charles. You’ll need it.”
The line goes dead.
Charles sets the receiver down and watches the city lights flicker against the glass. His reflection looks back — calm, patient, and already charting the next move.
Elizabeth waits outside her father’s office. When the door opens, Charles steps out, jacket off, tie still tight.
“Harold called,” she says.
“I spoke with him,” Charles answers. “He’s wavering, I’m not.”
She follows him into the study, blueprints and letters bearing the Ford Strategies seal cover the desk.
“Father,” she begins carefully, “the Council’s trail isn’t buried anymore, Rourke’s team will keep digging, they’ll unearth our connection.”
Charles sets his glass down, voice calm. “Then they’ll find the same thing they always do—competition, lobbying, influence. Standard business.”
“This isn’t competition,” Elizabeth says. “It’s personal now, when they connect us to the complaint, it undermines everything we have built.”
He looks at her levelly. “You think I care what they think? That boy rejected our help, spat on our alliances, and denied us access to AEGIS. He walked away from his betters and believes he was right to do it.”
Elizabeth meets his eyes, but there’s no fear there now — only calculation. “Then what’s the next play?” she asks. “If we’re going to hit back, it must count. He’s insulated by Matsuda and royal favor; a direct strike must succeed, or it only makes him look stronger.”
Charles studies her for a moment, something like approval flickering beneath the ice. “You’ve learned,” he says quietly. “Perception matters more than proof. We don’t destroy him — we erode him. Let his allies start doubting what they’re defending.”
Elizabeth nods slowly. “Then we start at the edges — his funding channels, his contracts, anything that looks too clean. If AEGIS is his armor, we make people wonder who forged it.”
A faint smile ghosts across Charles’s mouth. “Now you’re thinking like a Ford.”
She hesitates only a second before answering. “Legacy first, Father. Whatever it takes.”
Charles picks up the phone and begins dictating a message to his secretary — precise instructions for a meeting with an automotive consortium in Brussels.
Elizabeth watches for a moment longer, then turns for the door. His voice lingers behind her, soft but resolute. “He may have won this round. Let’s make sure it’s his last.”
The door closes, the sound barely audible over the slow clink of melting ice. Whatever doubts I had before, they’re gone now. This is our path — and we will win.
Strategic Response
Morning light filters across the Matsuda compound. Kiyomi sits at the head of the table, notes aligned with deliberate precision. Bill Dixon’s voice carries from Chicago; Melissa and Rourke join the call.
Melissa reports, “Media traffic’s down. Hanna’s flagged only minor chatter — nothing new.”
Rourke leans forward. “Then we move to postmortem. The complaint came through Whitcombe’s Council, but funding still looks layered. Any movement on the shell companies?”
Bill replies, “Preliminary tracing points offshore. Kiyomi’s partners in Tokyo and the Duke’s auditors in Madrid are running cross-checks now.”
Kiyomi nods once. “Good. When their data arrives, we’ll know who really paid for this stunt. Until then, silence holds.”
Rourke’s tone softens, “and Michael?”
“Training,” Kiyomi says. “He asked for no calls until after his training ends today.”
“Then let him train,” Rourke answers. “We’ll finish the cleanup.”
Melissa closes her notebook. “I’ll keep our monitoring grid live until Tokyo reports.”
“Perfect,” Kiyomi says.”
The connections drop one by one until only the quiet remains. Kiyomi rises and steps onto the veranda. Beyond the pond, sunlight glints on still water. The next move will come soon — from across an ocean.
Fracture in Dearborn
Harold Whitcombe steps through the entrance of the Ford estate, shoulders hunched from the flight and tighter still from what he knows is waiting inside. He would have postponed this visit if he could — walking back in so soon after Charles’s threats feels like returning to the blast zone — but his firm’s future still runs through this house. The study door stands open.
Charles sits behind the desk, reading glasses low on his nose. Elizabeth stands nearby, tablet in hand, marking the distance between power and pretense.
Whitcombe sets a slim folder on the desk. “Cayman National Bank sent a notice this afternoon. Two separate information requests mentioned Orion Holdings by name — one routed through a European correspondent, the other traced to an Asian clearinghouse. Both inquiries were routine in tone but close enough to our accounts to raise a flag.”
Charles looks up. “From whom?”
“They didn’t specify, the requesting authority was masked,” Whitcombe says. “Likely private auditors working on behalf of someone with reach. The Cayman office called it a courtesy advisory — nothing formal, but they wanted me aware.”
Elizabeth studies him. “So, someone’s probing the shell.”
Whitcombe nods. “A feather touch—but it means the name’s circulating. The more they look, the closer they’ll get to us.”
Charles leans back, unbothered. “Then we stay predictable, no transfers, no new filings. Quiet entities attract little curiosity.”
Elizabeth moves closer, “or we shape the story before they find it. If Orion appears, it should look like a dormant investment arm — clean paperwork, familiar partners.”
Whitcombe exhales. “You’re assuming curiosity ends there.”
“I’m assuming we give it nothing new to find,” Charles replies.
Whitcombe opens a narrow folder and lays out plain business cards from firms in Luxembourg and Belfast. “Consultants,” he says. “They reached out through my office this morning — discreet inquiries, nothing formal. Word is they have connections inside Cayman National Bank...”
Charles studies the cards, expression unreadable. “And you think they knew to come to you because...?”
“Someone in their network must have caught wind of movement,” Whitcombe replies carefully. “A rumor, a confidence gap — whatever it was, they followed the scent.”
Charles leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Men like that always surface when there’s blood in the water. They sell discretion at a premium, and sometimes discretion buys time.”
Elizabeth glances between them. “You think they can be useful?”
Charles swirls his glass slowly and deliberately. “If they’re scavengers, we feed them scraps and move on. If they’re competent, they’ll prove it quietly. Either way, we dictate the terms.”
He looks to Whitcombe. “Proceed with the meeting—No trace leading back here. Engage only if they offer demonstrable outcomes. Understood?”
Whitcombe exhales, tension barely hidden. “Understood. I’ll run it clean — no fingerprints.”
Charles lifts his glass, tone even. “Good. If they’re knives, our hand will guide the strike while leaving no fingerprints.”
Elizabeth watches her Father, a faint, steady confidence settling in. Whatever doubts lingered before, they’re gone. This is the path now.
Whitcombe walks the long corridor toward the front doors, footsteps echoing against marble. Portraits of Ford patriarchs line the walls; their painted eyes fixed on futures they once thought they could command. He wonders how many of them mistook control for permanence—and how many burned everything trying to prove they were right.
At the door, Elizabeth catches up. “Thank you for coming,” she says quietly.
He stops, studies her face. “You can’t stop him,” he says. “No one can. When this turns—and it will—keep your distance.”
She meets his gaze without flinching. “I won’t. Someone must see it through.”
Whitcombe exhales, half admiration, half pity. “Then may God grant you better luck than the rest of us.”
He leaves before she can answer.
Outside, rain drifts down in thin, steady lines. Halfway to the city, he pulls off the road long enough to compose a short message on his phone:
Our firm is evaluating potential advisory relationships in Europe. Please confirm availability for a preliminary discussion.
He sends it to the Luxembourg and Belfast contacts listed on the cards. A reply arrives minutes later:
Acknowledged. Representatives will initiate contact within forty-eight hours.
Whitcombe reads it twice, then sets the phone face down on the seat.
He drives on, headlights carving through the rain. “Let the bastards bury themselves,” he mutters.
But as the interstate opens before him, the unease doesn’t fade. He knows Ford won’t stop—and whoever answered that message has already started the clock ticking.
Orion Unmasked
The message arrives before sunrise, the header carries three seals—MI6, Royal Desk, and Castile Logistics—routed through Yamamoto’s Tokyo office and verified by Kenji himself. Kiyomi opens it with hands that never tremble, even when the truth beneath them could shift alliances across three continents.
Orion Capital Holdings isn’t a sovereign fund; it’s a synthetic shell. Conceived by Whitcombe Strategies, financed through the Ford family trust, and routed across the Isle of Man and the Caymans, it supplied Calvin Klein with bridge financing when his liquidity collapsed. The money trail is irrefutable — Charles Ford paid for the bridge, and the same conduit bankrolled Whitcombe’s lobbying push. Ford funded the smear; Whitcombe owns the vehicle.
She closes her eyes for one breath, then another. “Every attack has a ledger,” she murmurs. “Now we hold it.”
She closes the file and sends an urgent meeting request to the inner circle: Council 7:30 AM – Secure Lines Only.
At 7:30 AM precisely, the compound’s central room bustles with activity. Around the table: Ryuichi, Hiroto, Takeshi Senior, Mitsy, Rika, Takeru, Melissa and Jack. On the speakerphone: Bill from Chicago, Kenji Yamamoto from Tokyo, Congressman Sanders from Washington, D.C., the Duke of Castile from Madrid, and the Queen’s Private Secretary joining from London.
Kiyomi opens the session without preamble. “We have confirmation, Orion Capital Holdings is Whitcombe’s construction, financed by Charles Ford.”
The statement lands with a physical weight, silence follows while everything digests the not so surprising revelation.
Kenji’s voice comes through the speaker, steady and precise. “Tokyo picked up the same pattern. A lobbyist tied to Whitcombe registered a shell company here using paperwork that matches the Orion filing almost line for line. That kind of duplication doesn’t appear overnight — it means the same architecture has been reused across continents for years. I’ve masked our information inquiries; if Whitcombe or Ford realizes we traced their older structures, they’ll bury Orion before we can map the rest of it.”
From Madrid, the Duke adds, calm and certain, “Europe shows the same footprint. One of the Cayman-bound inquiries routed through Luxembourg — that’s the European stop in the transaction chain — and my analysts flagged it last night. Same signature, same timing. Whatever Orion is, it predates this smear by years, and they’ve been running this structure quietly across Europe the entire time.”
A clipped British voice follows — the Queen’s Private Secretary, MI6 verification behind every word. “We can corroborate that. Our Financial Intelligence Unit (UKFIU) logged a parallel request through a London clearinghouse an hour before the Luxembourg transaction. The financial scaffolding is identical across every jurisdiction we’ve examined. This is a coordinated network of long-standing shells, not improvisation.”
Ryuichi’s expression hardens. “So, this wasn’t built for Michael. Ford’s been running this long before the smear — and he’s escalating it now.”
Kiyomi inclines her head. “Then we must decide how to respond, I see three possible paths.”
“First, containment—do nothing. We stay silent, listen, and watch for escalation. If they believe we remain unaware, they may overreach and expose themselves.”
“Second, exposure. We initiate regulatory review. It brings sunlight but risks warning them.”
“Third, controlled disclosure. We share our findings through trusted intermediaries—Castile’s legal office or Congressman Sanders’ oversight staff—so an inquiry begins without our fingerprints.”
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