Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
29. Saturday in Maize
Coming of Age Story: 29. Saturday in Maize - 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
The Invitation
Locker Room Momentum, September 14, 2010
The locker room after practice is a pressurized cabin of humid, stinky air, thick with the scent of damp gear and the lingering, sour bite of sweat from a heavy skate. The concrete floor is slick with melted ice and sweat, and the air hums with the low groan of the ventilation system. Around me, guys are methodically stripping off layers of equipment, the rhythmic sound of Velcro straps tearing open punctuated by the heavy clatter of skates dropped on the rubber mats.
Shawn and John, my fellow Wolverine captains, are already moving through the stalls, not with instructions, but with an assumption that carries more weight than any direct order. They talk about the upcoming football game against UMass as if it’s a gravity well we are all inevitably sliding into, the next logical step in our week. There’s no sales pitch, no attempt to justify why we should all be there, bundled in Maize and Blue. They just treat our collective attendance as something obvious, a foundational requirement of being part of this place. It’s about showing up, for the team, for the school.
From his stall across the aisle, Jake looks over with entirely too much glee lighting up his face. He’s still flushed from the ice, his reddish-blonde hair plastered to his forehead, but the exhaustion doesn’t touch the glint in his eye.
“You’re coming Saturday, Michael,” he says, his voice a perfect imitation of casual conversation that isn’t casual at all. “You know Jaime’s boyfriend is on the football team. She’s mentioned you to him.”
He lets that hang in the air, the little shit, knowing full well she’s planning to find me and sit with us during the game.
For a second, the information computes—Jaime, a boyfriend, a football player. Then, just as quickly, I find myself not caring in the slightest. In fact, a genuine sense of amusement washes over me. The whole situation, the high school-level drama Jake is trying to stir up, it feels distant and harmless. I’m having fun, surrounded by the easy camaraderie of the room.
We start the season with a sweep, moving to 2-0-0. It’s the dominant start we wanted, and the room is locked in. The work continues. And right now, I register how fundamentally great it feels to simply have friends and opportunities to enjoy myself without a secondary agenda, without some complex variable to solve. It’s just a game, just a Saturday, just a chance to be a regular college kid.
“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta make sure you rookies don’t get lost on your way to the stadium,” I shoot back.
Jake just laughs.
A consensus forms around us in seconds. We agree to hit the tailgating first, a non-negotiable part of the Michigan football experience. We’ll meet at the Blue Lot, find a sea of familiar faces, and just be part of the roaring current of it all.
Tailgate Gravity, September 18, 2010
Nine AM and the morning air carries a distinct, sharp edge—the kind that smells of freshly mown grass and the low-hanging, savory haze of a hundred propane grills firing up in unison. It’s the palpable feeling of syllabus week’s gentle momentum curdling into pure, unadulterated sports worship. The entire city feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the afternoon kickoff against UMass. Everything has been painted maize and blue. Flags hang from every porch railing, students pour from dorms already clad in their Saturday armor, and even the squirrels seem to move with a more urgent, game-day cadence. Today I’m on my own—Asuka says I’ll be fine at a football game, and I suspect she just doesn’t want to watch football.
We start our pilgrimage in the Blue Lot, the inner sanctum of the faithful, where tailgating resembles a high-end social function more than a party. This is the domain of alumni with deep pockets and unwavering loyalty to Michigan, right near Michigan Stadium. Here, the air smells like money—the rich, buttery scent of aged leather from brand-new SUVs with immaculate interiors, the acrid bite of heavy cigars being clipped and lit with ceremonial precision, and the sweet, oaky perfume of top-shelf bourbon that should never touch a plastic cup. The background hum resonates with a civilized murmur of stock tips and nostalgic tales from the Bo Schembechler era, punctuated by the rhythmic, satisfyingly wooden thud of cornhole bags hitting their marks. Men in crisp, collared Michigan polos and women in tailored blue dresses nod at us with a knowing, proprietary air, almost as if we’re a stock they’ve invested in. One of them, a man with silver hair and a Rose Bowl championship ring glinting on his finger, stops me with a firm handshake. “Stewart,” he says, his voice a low gravel. “Captain over at Yost.”
I’m a little stunned he recognized me. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He gestures to an immaculate cooler built into his Escalade. “Get these men a round. We’re all watching you boys this year.”
As he turns back to his group, Cason and Noley clap me on the back, a silent, appreciative thank-you. My face had just scored the team their first round. I will of course search out a Diet Coke.
As we cross the street and move toward the sprawling fields around Pioneer High School, the atmosphere shifts instantly from curated elegance to glorious chaos. The polite murmur is swallowed by chaos—competing stereos blasting everything from AC/DC to Journey, the roar of generators, and the collective, joyous shout of thousands of people letting loose. A mechanical, grinding roar cuts through the tinny classic rock bleeding from portable speakers. I spot the source immediately: Margarita Don, a local legend, standing triumphant on the flatbed of a pickup truck, revving a gas-powered blender like he’s about to fell a redwood. He’s a spectacle in and of himself—a middle-aged guy with a magnificent, flowing beard, wearing a construction helmet fitted with two drink holders and straws. The machine lets out a roar as its blades shatter a bag of ice into slush in seconds. He pours in tequila from a jug the size of a fire hydrant, followed by a torrent of lime-green mixer, and the crowd around him chants his name. The sensory overload is immediate and total—the sharp, clean smell of salt and lime clashing violently with the heavy, greasy metallic tang of the grill vents blowing hot air onto the sidewalk. It’s intoxicating and overwhelming, a pure distillation of Saturday morning mayhem.
Every few steps, someone in the sea of maize and blue spots the block ‘M’ on our team-issued jerseys and our progress grinds to a halt. We’re engulfed by strangers and pulled into pop-up tents.
“You boys look like you need some fuel!” a woman with a beaming, motherly smile exclaims, pressing a cold cup firmly into my hand. “For good luck.”
Shawn, our senior captain, mumbles with a conspiratorial wink, “Dry campus rules don’t apply out here, boys.”
I take a cautious sip—it’s a potent, amateur concoction, some heavy-proof spirit whose alcoholic burn is barely masked by a sugar-rush of ginger ale. It tastes like high-octane rocket fuel. As I subtly look for a place to ditch it, a formidable-looking man with ‘M GO BLUE’ tattooed on his forearm watches me expectantly.
“Drink up, son! That’s Wolverine courage right there!”
I manage a weak smile and palm it off to Bobby.
“Thanks, buddy,” he grins, downing it without a second thought and immediately holding out his cup for a refill. His eyes are already gleaming. I go on a mission to find a Diet Coke, navigating through a gauntlet of Jell-O shots and beer funnels. The rest of the guys aren’t nearly as shy, enthusiastically “getting their drink on” as they work the crowd, posing for pictures and signing scraps of paper. It’s a strange duality, being both the honored guests and the main attraction.
We finally reach the Blue Loonies hub—a decommissioned ambulance, lovingly repainted in Michigan colors, parked precariously near the edge of the lot. A massive Canadian flag, customized with a maize and blue maple leaf, snaps proudly in the breeze from a towering flagpole. They’re a crew from Windsor, and their familiar, cross-border accents are a welcome sound. These are my people. The air here smells different—less of burgers and more of peameal bacon sizzling on a flat-top grill. The Tragically Hip is blasting from the ambulance’s speakers.
A burly guy with a Wolverines toque shucks an oyster with a flick of his wrist and holds it out to me. “For good luck, kid,” he shouts over the din. “Can’t beat UMass without the sea’s blessing.”
An idea sparks. “Shawn, buddy, grab my phone,” I say, handing it over. “Gotta get this.” I position myself in front of the custom flag, holding the oyster shell like a trophy. “Get the maple leaf in the shot.”
I tip my head back, slurping the oyster down just as Shawn snaps the picture. The shock of cold brine and grit is a jolt, a flinty slap to the senses. It’s salty, metallic, and tastes faintly of the ocean. I take my phone back and quickly send the photo to Molly, Hanna, and my aunt and uncle.
Almost before I can pocket the phone, it buzzes. Hanna has already reposted it to my Facebook page. A second later, messages flood in.
Molly: OMG where are you?! That looks amazing!
Aunt Nancy: Michael Stewart, are you in Windsor? We would have come over!
Then a message from my cousins, Mary and Ellen, using their mother’s phone: Uncle Mikey! Save some for us! Don’t forget you have to be home for Canadian Thanksgiving!
A smile spreads across my face. Then I remember we have a game on Canadian Thanksgiving so I will have to ask Aunt Nancy if she minds postponing a week. This is real. This matters.
The UMTailgate.com house is our next obligatory stop, a bizarre fusion of themes where a Hawaiian Luau collides with a German beer garden. The juxtaposition is jarring—alumni in floral shirts and plastic grass skirts are serving up thick, sizzling bratwurst nestled in pretzel buns and handing out Washtenaw Dairy “Go Blue” donuts. The sugary glaze on the donuts is so thick it flakes off onto your fingers, leaving a sticky, sweet residue. I grab one, the pure sugar a welcome counterpoint to the oyster. My vision starts to swim with purple ghosts, the bright morning sunlight glinting off a thousand chrome bumpers, polished coolers, and the sequins on a woman’s custom Michigan jacket, blurring the edges of the world into a shimmering, over-saturated haze. It feels like walking through a dream.
“Jeez,” Noley says as we drift toward the manicured greens of the U-M Golf Course, “the energy has reached a fever pitch.”
Shawn nods. “If the Blue Lot was the aristocracy and Pioneer was the party, this is the main event. The premier, high-octane spot.”
“The setups are simply unreal,” I add, gesturing to a customized trailer with four different pre-game shows running at once, the pundits’ voices blending into an indecipherable hum. “That one has a full-service bar staffed by people in referee uniforms.”
“Are those cocktails called ‘The Wolverine Claw’ and ‘Woodson’s Revenge’?” Cason squints.
Noley points. “Forget that, they’ve got a massive inflatable tunnel. An exact replica of the one at the Big House.”
The bass from a dozen sound systems makes the ground vibrate, a low, constant thrum that you can feel.
“In this moment,” I say quietly, “we aren’t just a separate, isolated unit training in the cold basement of Yost anymore. We’re an integral part of this massive, breathing, vibrating organism.”
“We are the reason for all of this,” Cason agrees, his voice low. “This incredible, insane, beautiful spectacle.”
“We’re soaking in the energy that will fuel us in just a few hours,” I say, feeling the collective hope and passion of a hundred thousand fans. “It’s a heavy burden.”
“And an incredible privilege,” Cason finishes.
We turn to head for the stadium, and I feel the buzz of it all settling deep in my chest. “A coiled spring,” I murmur, “ready to be released.”
Entering the Temple
The Gathering
My phone buzzes just as we’re about to head through the gates. I glance down—Mitsy’s name flashing on the screen as I answer her call.
“Where are you guys?” Her voice cuts through the ambient noise of the crowd.
“Just about to go in. You here?”
“Yeah, Hanna and I are by the east entrance. This place is insane.”
I scan the sea of maize and blue around me. “Alright, stay put. I’ll come find you.”
No sooner do I hang up than another call comes through—Jaime this time.
“Hey, Pretty Boy. You planning on leaving me stranded out here?”
I can’t help but grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Where are you?”
“Same spot as the other two, apparently. We ran into each other.”
“Perfect. Stay there. I’m coming to get all three of you.”
I catch Shawn’s eye and gesture toward the gates. “Gotta grab the girls. Save me a spot?”
“You got it.”
The crowd compresses around me as I push through, flowing like a slow, lighthouse-bound tide toward the entrance. The atmosphere buzzes with electric energy—a perfect day for football at a crisp sixty-five degrees under a cloudless sky. The mouthwatering scent of barbecue wafts over from the Pioneer High tailgate lots, mingling deliciously with the sweeter notes of kettle corn.
I spot them huddled together near a concrete pillar—Jaime’s reddish-blonde hair unmistakable even in this chaos, Mitsy talking a mile-a-minute, and Hanna sporting her new Michigan gear proudly.
“Ladies,” I announce, reaching them. “Your escort has arrived.”
“About time, Michael,” Jaime responds confidently.
“It’s amazing, right?” Mitsy chimes in, her excitement palpable. “Look at all these people! It feels like a freaking carnival.”
“More like a football festival.” I shoot her a grin, trying to channel the hype of the moment as I guide them through the packed concourse. The colossal stadium looms around us, a canyon of limestone and steel specifically crafted to amplify the noise of the throngs assembled to cheer for our team.
We weave through the crowd like seasoned sailors navigating a storm, the chaos not deterring us one bit.
When we finally settle into the lower bowl with the guys, Jaime wastes no time.
“So,” she smirks as she zeroes in on the group, “who wants to hear about the time Mikey tried to teach us a two-on-one and ended up on his ass?”
The guys erupt, laughter and cheers cascading through our section. Ron leans closer, intrigue written on his face. “Hold up! You’re telling me Pretty Boy got walked by a couple of girls?”
“Oh, it was glorious. And no one has been able to let him forget it ever since,” Jaime continues, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The floodgates open, and my teammates dive into their own animated “Michael Stories,” each tale inching farther from the truth with each embellishment. It’s an unforgiving roast, a free-for-all with me as the main course.
Suddenly, I reach into my pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. “You guys,” I say, waving my hand at Jake and another rookie, “there’s gotta be a strategy to stop this. Go get everyone food and drinks. My treat.” A tactical retreat sounds perfect right now. I send them off, hoping that a mission to gather snacks will buy me some time.
As they disappear into the white noise of the crowd, I catch the playful glances exchanged between Jaime, Hanna, and Mitsy. It’s clear they’re up to no good. Jaime meets my eye with a cheeky wink, that unmistakable older sister confidence radiating off her. Meanwhile, Hanna and Mitsy stifle laughter, clearly entertained by the shenanigans and how effortlessly Jaime has whipped up their already evident camaraderie into something unstoppable.
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