Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
18. Reunion
Coming of Age Story: 18. Reunion - 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
The Invitation Realized (June 30th – July 2nd)
I stay up late again over the next few nights, letting myself fall into everyday routines—training, errands, answering emails, and helping Hanna around the house. Whenever the condo settles into its quiet rhythm, I end up back at the laptop. Serbia fills my screen with maps, attractions, photos of the Petrovaradin Fortress, and EXIT lineup schedules, half research and half distraction.
I’m not trying to find meaning in any of it; I just want a sense of where I’m going. Mostly, I’m looking forward to seeing Willow and Asuka again and spending a few days where Michigan isn’t my whole world. The NCAA clearance took a weight off my shoulders, but the pressure left something behind—a kind of mental static I haven’t shaken yet. Serbia won’t erase it, but it will give me room to breathe without waiting for the next headline to land.
The fortress looks incredible, with stone terraces overlooking the river, vast courtyards, and tunnels that feel older than anything in Ann Arbor.
EXIT is massive from what I can tell—more than twenty stages spread across the old fortress, over six hundred performers rotating through four nights, and crowds pushing past two hundred thousand people. The main stage alone lists Placebo, Missy Elliott, Faith No More, and The Chemical Brothers. Down in the Dance Arena, the lineup reads like a Europe-wide roll call: David Guetta, Tiësto, Carl Cox, and half the DJ world stacked into one stone moat. It’s loud and chaotic in a way that might help right now.
I close the laptop and stretch. The condo is quiet, and Hanna’s asleep. With only a few days away, this is a reunion I should’ve made happen sooner and a chance to reset; that’s enough to make the trip feel right.
Belgrade Airport (July 3rd)
The air inside the jet bridge is warm and stale after the long flight. Rika walks ahead of me, backpack slung over one shoulder, posture steady. She looks the same as she did ten hours ago at the gate—sharp, focused, and showing no fatigue at all. A uniformed airport liaison approaches quickly.
“Mr. Stewart? Miss Sato? Your escort is waiting.”
Escort?
Rika doesn’t move. She shifts one step in front of me, blocking my path with a posture that looks casual only if you don’t know her. Her hand slips toward her phone, already dialing before the liaison can speak again.
“Name of the escort,” she says, flat and direct.
“Dušan Radanović,” he replies.
She finishes the call in Japanese—short, efficient, her voice low enough that only I catch the tone—a simple confirmation request to our team in Japan. Thirty seconds later, she receives the reply, glances at the screen, then gives the liaison a curt nod. Only then does she allow us to be led down the quiet corridor away from the crowd. A tall man waits at the end, broad-shouldered and composed like he’s lived a lifetime in uniform.
“Dušan Radanović,” he says, shaking my hand with firm, controlled pressure. “Security Intelligence Agency. Welcome to Serbia.”
His English is clean and confident.
“We’ll bypass the main arrivals area,” he says. “Your entry was arranged through diplomatic channels.”
London and the Queen’s Private Secretary had moved pieces I didn’t even know were on the board. We pass through controlled-access doors without stopping. No passport lines, no airport chaos; within minutes, we’re outside. The heat hits immediately—thirty-seven degrees centigrade, heavy and unfamiliar after Canadian and Michigan summers. A black sedan with diplomatic plates waits, the trunk already open, with another security officer as the driver.
“Your accommodations are prepared in Novi Sad,” Dušan says. “Hotel Leopold I, inside the Petrovaradin Fortress and in the heart of the EXIT festivities. Hard to secure during EXIT, but manageable.”
Rika studies him openly now, reassessing with the information she verified. She gives the faintest nod. I climb into the car, thinking that whatever this trip becomes, it’s already unfolding with more structure than I expected.
The drive north is calm. Long stretches of pristine highway pass by, with farm fields to the left and right and massive warehouses dotting the landscape. Something about the simplicity settles my nerves. Dušan keeps the drive practical, outlining the basics—where festival traffic bottlenecks, which entrances get crowded, and which routes stay open for emergencies. He explains it calmly, the way someone does when they’re used to coordinating teams, but he directs the real tactical details to Rika. She listens without interrupting, filing it away. I get the simplified version—enough to understand, not enough to step in the way.
“You will find Serbians direct,” he says. “We don’t waste words.”
Rika glances at me. “You’ll appreciate that.”
Probably.
When we cross the bridge into Novi Sad, the fortress appears above the river—layered stone, sweeping walls, and a structure that looks carved into the hillside. It feels steady just looking at it. Hotel Leopold I sits near the top, tucked inside the inner walls. From the balcony of my suite, I can see the Danube drifting past and the EXIT stages taking shape below. Workers move like a coordinated team, testing lights and adjusting platforms.
“Tomorrow,” Dušan says, “you won’t hear anything but music.”
He’s not joking. The room is cool, the stone around the windows thick enough to swallow sound. After months of noise and pressure, the quiet feels like a reset button.
Evening Terrace Reunion
A soft knock hits the door. Rika moves instantly, answering it while keeping herself between me and the entry. I can’t see the hall from where I stand, only the subtle shift in her posture when she confirms it’s them. She steps aside, and Willow and Asuka walk in.
For a moment, none of us moves. Seven months of silence and distance compress into a few feet of open space, and the three of us look at one another. We’re not suspicious, just trying to make sense of who we’ve each become in the time apart, measuring posture and expression without meaning to. Caution and hope sit between us in a way no one voices.
Willow’s eyes find mine first. Fatigue lingers there, softened by something warmer that feels almost familiar. Asuka’s gaze is steadier and harder to read. Her shoulders carry the controlled tension she uses when emotion pushes at the edges. She hides it well, but I still catch her tells: the faint hitch in her breath, and the brief curl of her left hand before she relaxes it. She’s worried and trying not to show it. Rika remains near the door, silent, observing the room with the same precision she uses in a fight, giving us space without losing awareness of anything.
We meet in the middle of the room. Willow reaches me first.
“Hey,” she says, her voice soft but clear.
Hearing her again nearly pulls something loose inside me. She steps into a hug—familiar arms sliding around my back—and I hold her without making it complicated, just steady and present. Her warmth settles through me in a way I hadn’t expected, and I realize how much I missed the stability she brings.
Asuka approaches next, slower and more deliberate. She stops a step away, her posture immaculate, her emotions compressed into a mask she rarely lets slip.
“Asuka,” I say quietly.
She bows her head slightly. “Michael.”
Her voice stays even, yet her eyes give her away. Relief, frustration, and regret are layered so tightly they blur together. Seven months of silence echo in that tiny hesitation before she looks up again. We stand there a few seconds longer than anyone intends, and no one speaks first. The three of us are careful with each other now in a way we never had to be before.
Willow exhales and moves toward the terrace railing. “This view is insane,” she says. “You can see the river, the city, some of the stages.”
I take a breath. “There’s something I need to talk to you both about.”
They turn back toward me. The air tightens—not hostile, simply bracing. I explain everything Kiyomi and Bill have pieced together, focusing on the timing, the insider details, and the things only someone close could have shared.
“I don’t have proof,” I say, “but some of what was leaked ... someone close had to be involved. I think it was Elizabeth helping. She always wanted to prove herself to her father and her brothers. Some of the attacks were too personal; in hindsight, this feels exactly like something she would support quietly.”
Willow goes still. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t breathe, her hand lifting toward her mouth before falling again, fingers trembling once. Realization hits her in sharp waves, as if each part of the truth arrives too quickly to prepare for. Guilt shadows her expression before she speaks.
“Oh, Michael...”
It isn’t pity. It’s the shock of recognizing her own mistake—how easily she let Elizabeth set the tone, how quickly she turned away from me instead of questioning what didn’t feel right. She blinks hard, fighting the shame rather than tears.
Asuka’s reaction is different. Her jaw tightens, her shoulders lock, and her eyes shift as if she’s replaying every conversation we had before the breakup. She doesn’t speak at first. She breathes once, deep and controlled, the way she centers herself before stepping onto a mat.
“It fits her,” she finally says.
Her voice is low and flat, but what sits behind it is unmistakable: anger braided with regret. None of it is aimed at me. They’re both processing it—piecing together how much of the fracture between us didn’t come from our failures, but from Elizabeth’s manipulation. They see now how easily they let her steer their emotions, how quickly they followed her lead, and what that choice cost all of us. A quiet clarity settles over both of them; they want this back, even if neither says it. The silence that settles over us isn’t distance, it’s recognition and remorse.
Willow wipes an eye with her thumb, her breath unsteady for half a second. “I’m sorry for everything that happened. I should’ve seen it, should’ve asked more questions instead of letting her drive everything. I ... we didn’t think.”
Asuka nods once, jaw still set. “So am I. I should have trusted what I knew about you, not what she implied.”
I exhale slowly. “Same here. Pride kept me from reaching out, and we all lost too much because of it. I didn’t handle any of it well.”
Willow steps into another hug, arms tight around me, pressing an apology into the space the separation carved out. It isn’t romantic or possessive—just honest, an effort to reclaim something we shouldn’t have lost. Asuka moves closer and places a hand on my shoulder. Not a hug, not yet, but a quiet, deliberate connection. For her, it means more than a full embrace. Rika watches from beside the door, unreadable but attentive. She understands precisely what’s shifting between us and doesn’t intrude.
Nothing about this moment is dramatic or perfect; it’s just real. Under the terrace lights, with the river below and the faint thrum of crews working late, the three of us stand together again—fragile and cautious, but finally aligned.
Reaction (July 4th)
Morning comes early, even though none of us slept much. The reunion last night eased something old and heavy, but it didn’t settle anything. I wake with the same mix of relief and unease twisting in my chest, knowing the truth we uncovered wasn’t the end of anything—just the first fracture finally named.
Rika is already up when I leave my room, standing by the window with her phone in hand. She doesn’t comment on how late I stayed awake or how restless the night was; she nods once, as if acknowledging that today will require more clarity than any of us had yesterday.
Willow texted before sunrise: Can we talk before rehearsal? I want Asuka there too.
The wording is careful, but there’s an urgency underneath it—the kind that comes after a long night of replaying mistakes. Asuka arrives at Willow’s suite a few seconds after we do, her expression composed but her eyes sharper than usual. Whatever she processed overnight hardened into focus. The three of us exchange a quiet greeting, no longer awkward, just weighted. Last night cracked open the truth, and today we dive deeper.
I set the folder Kiyomi sent on the small table, and the room shifts immediately. Willow moves closer, fingers grazing the edge of a chair as if she needs something solid under her hand. Asuka steps to my side, standing straight, tension held tight across her shoulders. Both are bracing for what comes next—angry at Elizabeth and at themselves, and ready to understand exactly how deep her involvement went.
Silence sharpens around us. They’re ready. I open the folder.
“This is the evidence Kiyomi, the Duke, and our friends in Japan collected. The evidence is not concrete, but it is very damning.” I slide one page to each of them. “Charles Ford funded Whitcombe Strategies, which contracted media firms that specialize in pressure narratives. Additionally, we traced the payments to Orion Holdings LLC, a convenient intermediary to keep their hands clean.”
Asuka’s eyes narrow slightly. “Offshore?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Looks legitimate on paper, but every payment lines up with a spike in the smear campaign. As I shared, some of the stories were too specific to be guesses or speculation.”
Willow hesitates. “Specific how?”
I take a slow breath. “Things we talked about privately, stuff only a few people knew. Like my scheduling in London or email phrasing that ended up in a headline. The timing and content of my old modeling work—stuff I only mentioned to a few people. None of that was public.”
Willow’s throat tightens, and she presses her hand over her mouth. “God.”
Asuka studies the page, her expression sharpening. “Someone with access.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I don’t have proof. But the pattern, the timing, the insider details ... it points in one direction.”
Neither of them says Elizabeth’s name; they don’t have to.
Willow’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I invited her here. I honestly thought ... We could fix things. The three of us.”
“You weren’t wrong to try,” I tell her. “Elizabeth knows how to make people think they’re acting on their own. She learned that from her father.”
Asuka’s jaw tightens just slightly. “She saw an opening and used it.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I should’ve done more, too. I should’ve reached out. Talked to both of you directly. I shut down instead.”
Willow doesn’t move for a moment. Then she pushes her chair back, steps around the table, and wraps her arms around me without waiting for permission.
“I missed you,” she says into my shoulder. “I hated all of this.”
I hold her gently, not possessively or like I’m reclaiming something lost, but just steady. Asuka watches us—not cold, not distant, just assessing. Willow reaches her free hand out to her without looking. Asuka hesitates only for a second before taking it and stepping in. She rests a hand lightly on my upper arm, not quite an embrace but close enough to say I’m here too. The three of us stand there, not trying to define anything.
Willow lifts her head first. “Whatever we end up being ... I don’t want to lose this again.”
Asuka nods once. “We rebuild slowly, one day at a time.”
I look at them, the tightness in my chest easing. “That works for me.”
A soft knock interrupts us. Dušan stands at the door with a tray of coffee, his expression calm, as if he didn’t just walk in on the end of the first real step forward we’ve taken since the breakup last November.
“Good morning,” he says. “Orientation begins soon.”
We separate, but not by much. Willow wipes her eyes, Asuka smooths her hair, and I close the folder carefully. Nothing is fixed or promised, but something is no longer broken.
Serbian Hospitality
Orientation runs longer than expected. Dušan moves through the fortress layout like he’s training a new unit—checkpoints, access lanes, emergency routes, and meeting points. By the time we finish, even Willow’s notes look exhausted.
“Lunch,” he announces. “You need real food.”
He leads us down a narrow street to Restaurant Sokače, a place that looks modest until we step inside. The entire entry wall is covered with framed photos—tight rows that stretch from the floor almost to the ceiling. Former Yugoslav political figures, musicians, folk legends, sports stars, and a handful of international celebrities line the walls. Some photos are faded while others are sharp and new, but all of them feel like part of the place’s identity.
Willow stops to scan the collage. “This is amazing.”
“Everyone ends up here eventually,” Dušan says. “Some more quietly than others.”
Inside, the tavern is alive with high ceilings, wooden beams, and Yugoslav memorabilia everywhere. The smell of grilled meat drifts through the room like the finest carnivore’s perfume, and then the music begins. A group of musicians—two violins and an accordion—move between the tables, shifting through Serbian melodies effortlessly. They take requests, laugh with guests, and then drift into the next room; it feels personal, not performative.
Willow’s smile widens. “I love this.”
We sit near a window just as a server brings out a wide wooden platter that Dušan clearly preordered. The server sets the food in front of us, and even I recognize what it is from the photos I looked at before the trip. Ćevapi, small, skinless grilled sausages—the Balkan cousin to kebab—are arranged in neat rows across warm lepinja bread. The meat is a mix of beef and pork, seasoned simply, shaped by hand, and grilled until the outside picks up a smoky char.
Around the edges sit the essentials for eating it properly: kajmak, which is a thick, creamy dairy spread somewhere between clotted cream and soft cheese; ajvar, a smooth roasted red pepper relish with a sweet, smoky edge; raw white onions chopped cold and sharp to cut through the richness; and a dusting of bright paprika for heat and color.
“This,” Dušan says, tapping the platter, “is how it is meant to be eaten.”
He demonstrates without hesitation.
“Bread, meat, onion, and ajvar or kajmak, whichever your heart prefers. Paprika for courage.”
He’s not wrong. I follow his example—hot meat, soft bread, cold onion, a swipe of kajmak—and the flavor hits instantly. It is smoky, rich, sharp, and smooth all at once, and almost unfair how good it is.
Willow’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. This should come with a warning.”
Asuka tries hers with ajvar instead of kajmak and gives a single, approving nod. Rika doesn’t comment at all; she reaches for a second piece.
More dishes arrive without ceremony. Sarma comes next—cabbage leaves wrapped around minced meat and rice, slow-cooked until the cabbage turns tender and the filling softens into something that barely needs chewing. After that, a platter of grilled vegetables lands on the table, consisting of zucchini, peppers, and eggplant charred just enough to carry the flavor of the grill and finished with a light sheen of herb-infused oil. The food is simple, filling, and perfected in a way that only comes from generations of people making it the same way, and I understand why Dušan brought us here.
The musicians pass our table again, playing something fast and bright. Willow sways a little, Asuka taps her foot once before catching herself, and Rika listens without changing expression, though she doesn’t miss a beat. A small, unlabeled glass bottle arrives containing clear liquid and tiny glasses.
“This is šljivovica,” Dušan says. “Plum rakija, Serbia’s pride.”
He begins to pour, but Rika raises a hand. “I’m on duty.”
Dušan inclines his head respectfully. “Understood.”
He pours fresh glasses for the rest of us.
I hold mine carefully. “I don’t really drink. One is fine—out of respect.”
Dušan gives me a look—curious, borderline amused, but approving. “A man who knows his limit is a man who keeps his balance. Good.”
Asuka accepts her glass with a slight nod, while Willow takes hers with the curiosity of someone who wants the whole experience. Dušan raises his glass.
“Živeli!”
We echo it and drink. I take a small sip instead of knocking it back. The heat hits instantly—sharp, bright, and strong—but the flavor underneath is clean and warm. Willow coughs once, then laughs, while Asuka exhales softly, trying to hide that it burns harder than expected. Rika watches everything, perfectly alert.
Dušan notices my sip and gives a faint nod.
“I try,” I say.
He smiles—just barely. Lunch shifts into stories about how every Serbian family insists their rakija is the best, how refusing a drink is like refusing someone’s welcome, and how hospitality here is never halfway.
“You accept what is offered,” Dušan says. “That is how we show respect.”
It makes sense. By the time we leave, the musicians are starting another song near the front, and we step into the sunlight full, relaxed, and more connected than when we sat down. The walk back toward the fortress feels lighter, and not just because of the alcohol—though that helps. The space between us feels settled for the first time in months. Serbia didn’t demand we fix anything; it just gave us room to start.