Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
31. Containment Theory
Coming of Age Story: 31. Containment Theory - 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
Stable Surface
No Residuals, October 8–9, 2010
The arena is dark except for the ice. Yost’s overhead lights are still off, but Rolf has the rink surface glowing under the emergency floods, and that’s enough. My breath fogs in front of me as I glide through the horseshoe, warming up my edges, feeling the familiar shaving sound of steel on fresh ice.
It’s not even five-thirty and somewhere in the rafters, pigeons are cooing. This is my church, my confessional. The place where I work out whatever’s rattling around in my skull before the world wakes up.
I grab a bucket of pucks from behind the net and dump them at the top of the circles. Then I see him.
Martin.
Rolf has outdone himself this time. The new cutout stands in the crease like a sentinel, and I stop skating just to appreciate the craftsmanship. Where Patrick wore the red and blue of Montreal, Martin is dressed in the red and black with white trim of New Jersey—the unmistakable likeness of Martin Brodeur staring back at me with that calm, almost bored expression he wears when he’s about to rob you blind.
“You like him?” Rolf’s voice echoes from somewhere near the Zamboni bay.
“He’s beautiful.” I circle the net, running my glove along the frame. The construction is heavier than Patrick ever was—steel reinforcements visible along the edges, the plywood front protected by a steel plate that’s been painted to match Brodeur’s pads. The five slots are narrower too. Four corners and a vertical five-hole that looks barely wide enough to fit a puck through sideways.
“Built him extra tough,” Rolf says, emerging from the shadows with a coffee cup in his hand. “Figured you’d destroy the last one eventually.”
“Patrick lasted longer than Simon.”
“Patrick wasn’t facing a kid who shoots like he’s angry at the net.” Rolf settles onto the bench, steam rising from his cup. “Go on. See what you can do.”
I grab a puck and settle it on my blade. The weight feels right. I take a breath, let my eyes find the top corner—glove side, high—and snap my wrists.
The puck zips off my stick with that familiar zip, catches the edge of the slot, clangs against the steel, and spins back toward me across the ice.
I stop it with my blade, staring at Martin’s painted face. This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Because Martin Brodeur—even in plywood form—is going to be a hell of a lot harder to beat than Patrick ever was.
From the bench, Rolf watches looking pleased.
“Steel plate,” Rolf says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Told you. Extra tough.”
I grin and grab another puck. “Best two out of three?”
For the next forty minutes, I work through the bucket. Wrist shots, slap shots, one-timers off the boards. I set up the plastic benches Rolf provided to simulate screened shots, firing through the gaps, adjusting my release point, finding new angles. Martin takes everything I throw at him and gives nothing back. The steel plate rings like a bell when I miss the slots, and the sound becomes a metronome—snap, ping, snap, thud, snap, pop.
By the time the overhead lights flicker on, I’m sweating through my base layer and my lungs are burning in that good way.
I lean on my stick for a moment, catching my breath. Four games in, 4-0-0, and we’re sitting in the top ten nationally. The sweep of Alaska-Fairbanks felt like a statement—chemistry clicking on the blue line, the “Yost Growl” louder than I’ve heard it in years. Clean sheet heading into conference play. All the momentum we could ask for.
One shift at a time, I remind myself. But damn if it doesn’t feel good to be rolling.
“Stew!” Shawn’s voice bounces off the boards as the first wave of players spills out of the tunnel. “What the hell is that thing?”
“Martin,” I say. “Rolf built him.”
The team crowds around the net like kids at a zoo exhibit. Bobby drops to his knees to examine the steel reinforcements. John runs his stick along the narrow five-hole slot and whistles.
“That’s tight,” he says. “That’s real tight.”
“Brodeur’s got the most wins in history,” I tell them. “Most shutouts. The man is a wall. Figured we should practice against a wall.”
“Let me try.” Victor grabs a puck and sets up at the hash marks. He winds up for a slapper, and the crack of his stick echoes through Yost.
Ping.
The puck ricochets off the steel plate and skitters into the corner. Victor stares at the cutout like it personally insulted him.
“Again,” he says.
One by one, the boys take their shots. Sergio finds the top corner on his third attempt and throws his arms up like he’s just won the Cup. Alex threads one through the five-hole and gets a round of stick-taps from the guys waiting in line. Even the rookies get their turns—Jake putting two clean shots through the glove-side slot with a release that makes me raise my eyebrows.
Coach Benson appears at the boards, arms crossed, watching without comment. He’s got that look on his face—the one that says he’s cataloging everything, filing it away for later. But there’s something else there too. An edge. We all feel it. Michigan State week is coming soon. The Spartans. Our most hated rivals.
After a few minutes, he checks his watch and blows his whistle.
“Alright, boys. Enough target practice. Horseshoe drill, let’s go. Move your feet!”
Practice is crisp—crisper than usual. The flow drills are rhythmic—clack-clack of tape-to-tape passes, the shaving sound of edges on the turns. Coach Turnbull runs us through defensive gap control until my legs are screaming, and then Coach Samuelson sets up a three-on-two rush drill that has the forwards flying. Everyone knows what’s coming. State games are grinding, physical, system-heavy affairs. The kind of losses that linger because they feel preventable.
“Head up, Stew!” Coach Benson calls when I get caught puck-watching during a transition. “Head on a swivel! State will bury you for that!”
I nod and reset. The next rush comes at me, and I read the play before it develops—eyes on the center’s chest, not the puck—and I step up to close the gap, forcing a bad pass that Noley intercepts cleanly.
“Better!” Coach yells. “Again! Back to the line!”
By the time I’m showered and changed, my phone is buzzing with a text from David Keane.
Tommy Hilfiger’s team loved the shoot. Feedback from NY is glowing. I can keep you busy for a long time. Hunting additional jobs as we speak. Call me when you have a moment.
I read it twice, then pocket my phone. The Tommy Hilfiger shoot in New York feels like it happened weeks ago, but it was only days. The industry moves fast. Keane moves faster.
The media coverage from the shoot has been quiet—no scandals, no awkward angles, no tabloid speculation about anything other than the obvious. And the obvious is Molly.
She texts me that afternoon, and I can practically hear her laughing through the screen.
Emma and Beatrice won’t stop asking if we’re officially going out. I told them yes. Hope that’s okay.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Then I type back: More than okay.
Her response is immediate: Good. Because I’m delighted. And I think you are too.
She’s not wrong. The thought of Molly—her red hair catching the light, her freckles, the way she looks at me like she’s seeing something no one else can—it feels great.
But it’s not just Molly.
I’m sitting in my condo that evening, laptop open but untouched, thinking about my life. Molly in London. Asuka and Willow here in Ann Arbor, hitting a shared stride that makes everything coming next seem not just possible, but inevitable. The four of us have stopped wondering and started executing.
Three women. Three relationships. Three sets of expectations I haven’t articulated clearly enough.
I’ve been operating on instinct, letting things develop organically, trusting that everyone understands the unspoken rules. But that’s not fair to any of them. It’s not fair to me.
I need to communicate better. I need to make clear what I want, what I expect, what I’m offering—so they can do the same. No more assumptions. No more hoping everyone’s on the same page when we’ve never actually read it aloud.
The thought is uncomfortable. Vulnerability always is. But I’ve learned enough about myself to know that avoiding hard conversations doesn’t make them go away. It just lets them fester until they explode.
Tomorrow, I decide. Tomorrow I start having those conversations.
Tonight, I close my laptop and stare out the window at Ann Arbor’s lights, feeling the anticipation of everything I’ve built and everything I’m still building. The hockey. The business. The relationships. The life.
So I’ll do the work.
That’s what I do.
Too Much Food, October 8, 2010
The review happens before dinner, though calling it a review feels generous. Kiyomi had asked Hanna and me to join the family at the restaurant for what she termed a family celebration, with a quick business check-in beforehand. Nothing heavy, she’d promised. She gathers everyone around the long table in what she frames as a post-Q3 review, but the mood never quite shifts into anything resembling formality.
Jack opens with the simplest possible summary. “No new threats,” he says. “Ford’s people are still watching, but nothing’s escalated. MI6 went quiet after the last contact.” He glances at Rika, who gives a small nod of confirmation. That’s about the extent of it. Asuka agree that nothing in the security posture has changed.
Mitsy adds that Northern Edge continues to sell well without requiring intervention. “The numbers speak for themselves,” she says, shrugging like the success is almost boring at this point. “No fires to put out.”
David notes that interest remains strong on the modeling side, with several bookings already locked and more inbound than we can comfortably schedule. “Good problems,” he says. “The kind I prefer.”
Bill, Melissa, and Hanna confirm there are no legal or media issues worth discussing.
The staff announces dinner is ready, and the “review” dissolves on the spot like it was never meant to be anything more than a box to check.
What follows is something else entirely.
Ryuichi immediately treats the gathering as a personal challenge to the kitchen, sending out dish after dish while insisting each one is essential, regardless of whether anyone has finished the last. Plates overlap. Bowls appear without explanation. Someone gives up trying to remember what they’ve already eaten. I lose track after the third wave of sashimi, and by the time a tray of tempura materializes, I’ve stopped pretending I have any control over the situation.
“You’re clearly starving,” Hiroto declares, waving off my attempt to protest as another plate lands in front of me.
“I’m really not—”
“Starving,” he repeats, louder this time, and that settles it. More dishes arrive.
Mitsy revels in the atmosphere, leaning into the noise and energy with the kind of enthusiasm that makes everyone around her feel lighter. She accepts exaggerated praise, mock complaints, and an intentionally overlong toast from Hiroto that earns groans, applause, and shouted interruptions in equal measure. The toast goes on so long that someone throws a napkin at him, which only encourages him to keep going.
Then Mitsy turns her attention to me, her grin sharpening into something deliberately mischievous. “So,” she says, loud enough to cut through the ambient chaos, “are we going to talk about the fact that our dear Michael is officially off the market?”
I feel the heat rise to my face before I can stop it. “Mitsy—”
“Because I’ve seen the photos,” she continues, undeterred. “You and Molly. Very sweet. Very public.”
Hanna leans in from across the table, phone already in hand. “Speaking of which, ever since the dinner and photos with Molly, your Facebook page has been getting absolutely hammered. Questions everywhere. People want details.”
“We could use this,” Melissa says thoughtfully, her PR instincts kicking in. “If we craft the right narrative—”
Nobody acknowledges her. The conversation has already moved on.
I catch Asuka watching me from down the table, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. The look is unmistakable: Are you going to acknowledge us, or not?
I take a breath. This is the moment. No point in half-measures.
“Since we’re apparently doing this,” I say, and the table quiets just enough to hear me, “yes, I’m dating Molly. And—” I meet Asuka’s eyes, “—I’m also hoping Asuka and Willow will have me back in their lives. If they’ll have me.”
Asuka’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind her eyes. “Willow and I talked after you spoke to me on the flight back from New York,” she says simply. “That’s acceptable.”
Shocked looks ripple around the table, followed by a beat of silence, then a wave of congratulations and raised glasses. Mitsy looks absolutely delighted. Hiroto claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Across the table, I catch Melissa’s expression—pleased but already calculating. I can practically see her mentally drafting press releases, preparing for the inevitable moment when this becomes public knowledge.
When, not if.
Conversation jumps freely between classes, work, travel, and gossip, overlapping so completely that no single thread survives intact. I catch fragments—something about a professor Mitsy can’t stand, a debate about the best ramen in Tokyo, Kiyomi’s dry observation about a client who apparently cannot read a calendar. Laughter breaks out at half-heard jokes. Someone argues passionately about sauce. Takeshi watches the chaos with quiet amusement, occasionally offering a single word that somehow redirects the entire table’s attention before fading back into observation.
I find myself laughing more than I have in weeks. The food keeps coming. The noise keeps rising. Nobody is keeping score.
Just as the energy settles into a steady roar, David clears his throat with suspicious ceremony. Before I can react, Kiyomi dims the lights slightly and wheels out a small display board, flipping it around to reveal a series of framed photos from the Monica Bellucci campaign.
The first few images draw appreciative murmurs—clean, composed, unmistakably high-end. I recognize them from the final selects, the ones David was so pleased about. Professional. Polished. The kind of work that makes everyone involved look competent.
Then the next set appears, and the room erupts.
Candid shots. Outtakes. Me mid-blink. Me laughing at the wrong moment. Me caught off-balance between poses, looking like I’ve forgotten how faces work. One photo is so perfectly unflattering—mouth half-open, eyes somewhere between confused and alarmed—that Mitsy immediately declares it her favorite.
“This one,” she announces, pointing with absolute conviction. “This one needs a permanent home. I’m thinking the main hallway.”
“Please don’t.”
“Maybe the lobby,” Hiroto suggests. “For guests.”
“I will pay you not to.”
“The bathroom,” Asuka offers, and the table loses it.
The teasing becomes relentless and affectionate. Everyone has commentary. Melissa insists at least one photo must never be allowed near the internet under any circumstances. Hanna is already taking pictures of the display board with her phone, which I choose not to think about. Sensei Ogata studies one of the outtakes with the same intensity he brings to evaluating a kata, then nods slowly, as if confirming something important about my character.
I bury my face in my hands and surrender completely. The table enjoys itself thoroughly at my expense, and I can’t even pretend to mind.
Eventually the conversation drifts, as it always does, to Willow’s tour. Updates bounce around the table about her current stop in southern Europe—crowds larger than expected, venues upgrading mid-run, reviews that keep using words like “revelation” and “breakthrough.” Photos are passed from phone to phone. Arguments break out over which city suits her best.
“Prague,” Mitsy declares with absolute certainty. “She’s always belonged on stages that don’t bother asking permission.”
“Rome,” Kiyomi counters. “The architecture frames her properly.”
“You’re both wrong,” Asuka says. “It’s wherever she decides it is.”
I scroll through the photos on my phone, lingering on one Willow sent earlier today—her on stage, backlit, arms raised, the crowd a blur of motion and light beneath her. She looks like she was built for exactly this moment. Like she’s been waiting for it her whole life.
I miss her. The ache is familiar by now, a low hum beneath everything else. But it’s not sharp tonight. Not heavy. Just present, like background music I’ve learned to carry.
The conversation keeps moving. Someone refills my glass without asking. Takeru says something that makes Rika actually laugh, which is rare enough that everyone pauses to acknowledge it. She’s been in better spirits since the frame came off—just a sling now, and her PT is going well. By early December she’ll be fully healed.
The food is absurdly good. The company is better. The laughter keeps coming in waves, and nobody seems in any hurry to leave.
This is what family feels like, I think. Not the version I lost. Not the version I’ve been building. Just this—people who show up, who stay, who make space for joy without requiring anything in return.
I take another bite of something I can’t identify and decide not to worry about it.
Prestige Leads to Kisses
Campaign Ignition, October 10, 2010
The campaign drops in Europe first. Dolce & Gabbana calls it “Prestige.”
I find out the same way everyone else does—through the media coverage that starts trickling into my feeds. Alessandro Rizzi and his team have framed the whole thing as refinement rather than provocation. The creative brief centers on a single question: what is sexy for the mature woman, and how does she control the environment around her? Monica anchors every frame with that effortless Italian gravity she carries, and I’m positioned as the object of her attention rather than the other way around. It’s a deliberate inversion of the usual power dynamic, and watching the finished product, I have to admit they pulled it off.
The European release doesn’t hold back. Lots of nudity, sultry poses, heat that radiates off the page—but nothing vulgar, nothing cliched. Marco De Santis captured something that feels classical, almost painterly. Monica’s body language dominates every shot, and my role is to respond to her presence rather than compete with it. The whole campaign reads like a conversation between equals who happen to have very different kinds of power.
I scroll through some of the spreads on my laptop in the Beyster Building between classes. A few CS students walk past, and I minimize the browser out of habit more than embarrassment. The work speaks for itself. I’m proud of what we created in Sicily, proud of the professionalism Monica brought to every frame, proud that the final product matches the creative vision Alessandro described in those initial meetings.
After the internal review generates positive feedback across European markets, Rizzi makes the call to push an American release. This version gets toned down—no nudity, but plenty of sexy shots and lingering hands. The chemistry between Monica and me translates even without the explicit imagery. If anything, the restraint makes certain moments more charged. Suggestion carries its own weight.
Attention rises sharply across fashion and media channels. David tracks the coverage the way I watch any strategic asset—noting which outlets pick up the story, how they frame the narrative, what language they use to describe the pairing. The consensus seems to be that Dolce&Gabbana has achieved something unexpected: a campaign that feels both timeless and contemporary, that celebrates mature femininity without diminishing it, that positions me as something more than just another pretty face in expensive underwear.
The campus reaction starts within days of the American release.
I notice it first in the Diag while walking to Angell Hall. A group of students—three women, maybe sophomores—stop their conversation mid-sentence as I pass. One of them whispers something to her friend, and they both turn to watch me walk away. I keep my pace steady, don’t acknowledge the attention, but I catch the edge of their conversation: “That’s him, right? From the campaign?”