Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
33. Strategic Breach
Coming of Age Story: 33. Strategic Breach - 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
Option Space, October 15, 2010
While Michael is organizing his delayed Thanksgiving, Elizabeth settles into the understated conference room at Whitcombe Strategies, the muted carpet and neutral walls doing nothing to calm the restless energy coiling in her chest. Harris stands near the window, his massive frame blocking what little view exists of the neighboring office buildings. Harold occupies his usual position behind the polished desk, fingers steepled, watching her with those sharp gray eyes.
“We need to recalibrate,” Harold says, his voice quiet and precise. “The institutional channels have been compromised. Any further pressure through legal or regulatory means risks exposure.”
Elizabeth crosses her legs, smoothing her skirt. “Then we stop playing by their rules.”
“I would caution against escalation through proximity or direct confrontation.” Harold’s tone remains measured, almost pedantic. “Michael Stewart has demonstrated an unexpected resilience, and his support network—”
“His support network,” Elizabeth interrupts, the words tasting bitter, “is exactly why we’re sitting here having this conversation instead of celebrating his complete humiliation.”
Harris shifts his weight, the movement drawing attention to just how much space he occupies in the room. “The time for words and indirect pressure is over, Mr. Whitcombe.” His Belfast accent roughens the consonants. “We’ve tried subtlety, anonymous complaints and regulatory harassment, even the Serbia incident.” He shakes his head slowly. “The boy keeps standing back up.”
“What we need,” Harris continues, “is better intelligence. A way inside his defenses. Someone who can get close without triggering his guard.”
Elizabeth feels a smile forming, the first genuine one she’s worn in weeks. “I have someone in mind.”
Both men turn their attention to her fully now.
“Samantha Merks.” Elizabeth lets the name hang in the air for a moment. “She’s a rising model in New York. Young, ambitious, and absolutely furious with Michael Stewart.”
Harris’s eyebrows rise slightly. “The connection?”
“Michael rejected her. Rather publicly, from what I understand.” Elizabeth uncrosses her legs and leans forward. “But that’s not the interesting part. Samantha has complete psychological control over her older sister, Stephanie. And Stephanie?” She pauses, savoring the revelation. “Stephanie was Michael’s personal assistant. His ‘study buddy.’ One of his girls.”
The temperature in the room seems to shift.
“Michael will have a soft spot for Stephanie,” Elizabeth continues. “He always does, for the ones who served him faithfully. He’ll want to help her, protect her. And Samantha can exploit that weakness. She can get Stephanie close to him again, feed us information, create opportunities.”
Harris’s expression transforms from skeptical to calculating. “The sister as the asset, controlled by someone with a grudge.” He nods slowly. “It’s viable. How do you want to proceed?”
Elizabeth turns to face him directly. “I want you to make the approach to Samantha. She’ll respond better to someone who can offer her something tangible—resources, connections, a chance to hurt the man who humiliated her.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She won’t.” Elizabeth’s voice carries absolute certainty. “I’ve done my research. Samantha Merks doesn’t accept being denied anything. Ever.”
Harris glances toward Whitcombe, who gives an almost imperceptible nod.
“The funding will need restructuring,” Whitcombe says, already reaching for a folder on his desk. “Orion will handle disbursements, provided we use new routing methods to your financial institutions. Decreases the chance of discoverable connections.”
“How much latitude are we discussing?” Harris asks.
Elizabeth meets his gaze without flinching. “Whatever you need. Full execution authority. I want results, not reports.”
Whitcombe slides a document across the desk toward Harris. “The initial allocation is detailed here. Additional resources can be mobilized as the operation develops.”
Harris takes the folder, tucking it inside his jacket without examining the contents. His attention remains fixed on Elizabeth. “You understand what you’re authorizing.”
It isn’t a question.
“I understand perfectly.” Elizabeth rises from her chair, smoothing her blouse with practiced elegance. “Michael Stewart took something from me. He made me look foolish in front of my family, in front of everyone who matters. I don’t want him contained anymore, Harris.”
She pauses at the door, turning back to face both men.
“I want him broken.”
Recruitment Vector, October 16, 2010
Donovan’s Pub stood at the corner of 58th and Roosevelt, a sprawling two-story landmark of timbered stucco and Tudor-style gables that had served as a significant fundraising site for the cause. During the Troubles, this stretch of Woodside had been ground zero for the Northern Irish Aid Committee—NORAID—where Irish Americans gathered in the dim light of the back rooms to funnel money toward the IRA. Cash changed hands in the shadows and questions died on the tongue before they could be asked. Doyle had chosen it deliberately. A man with his Belfast accent and his history would find no curious eyes among the regulars here. It was a place built on old habits, old loyalties, and old fears.
Claudia arrived ten minutes late, her heels clicking against the worn floorboards as she scanned the dim interior. Doyle watched her from a corner booth, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted toward the exits. She didn’t know him, but she’d responded to the code phrases readily enough. Desperation and the offer of money had a way of making people agreeable.
He raised two fingers, and she approached.
“Harris,” he said, not rising. “Sit.”
She slid into the booth across from him, her professional composure barely masking the fear beneath. Since the raid on her family’s operation, she’d been adrift—no income, no marketable skills beyond the ones that had landed her in this mess. The government had wrung her dry and left her with nothing but a target on her back. Every day she woke wondering if someone from the old network had figured out who’d talked. Who’d sung like a canary to the British Consulate. The names, the safe houses, the accounts—all of it traced back to her now.
Doyle ordered a pint and waited until the bartender retreated before speaking.
“I need you to make contact with a girl named Samantha Merks.” He slid a photograph and dossier across the table. “Young. Ambitious. Resentful. The kind you know how to handle.”
Claudia studied the image, her expression shifting as she processed the assignment. This was her territory—identifying insecurity, exploiting dependency. But her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the photograph. If Doyle—or whoever he worked for—ever discovered what she’d done, there would be no trial, no negotiation. Just a quiet disappearance. The kind her family had specialized in.
“Her sister, Stephanie, used to work for a man named Michael Stewart,” Doyle continued.
Claudia’s eyes flickered with recognition. “Michael Stewart? The same Michael Stewart who was responsible for busting my family’s business?”
Doyle studied her reaction, weighing the edge in her voice. It could be useful—personal grievance often made for reliable motivation. But it could just as easily make her sloppy, or worse, unpredictable. He filed the information away without letting his expression shift. What she didn’t know—what she couldn’t know—was that he already had the full picture. The consulate’s records had made their way to the right people. Her betrayal was documented, catalogued, and waiting. She was a tool with an expiration date, nothing more.
“I need Samantha turned. Managed. Used to get Stephanie close to him again. No connection back to us.”
Doyle dictated terms, a price was set. Claudia’s voice remained steady, but her pulse was visible in her throat, a rapid flutter beneath the skin. She kept glancing toward the door, as if expecting someone else to walk through it. Someone who knew what she’d done.
Doyle made the consequences of failure abundantly clear with nothing more than a long, steady look. He let the silence stretch, watching her shrink almost imperceptibly into the booth. Good. Fear kept people compliant.
He pushed a thick envelope of cash across the table, followed by a burner phone. “Contact me when you’ve made progress.”
Claudia pocketed both and left without another word, her heels clicking faster than they had when she’d arrived.
Doyle finished his pint slowly, watching her go. She thought she was buying herself a future. She thought this was her way back in, a chance to rebuild something from the ashes of her family’s ruin. She had no idea she was already dead—just waiting for him to decide when to close the account. She’d serve her purpose well enough. And when she’d outlived her usefulness, he’d close this chapter permanently.
Controlled Access, October 17 ~ 20, 2010
Claudia studied the Facebook profile one final time before composing the message. The approach required precision—a shared grievance wrapped in professional opportunity. She crafted a note mentioning a mutual acquaintance in the modeling world who had suggested Samantha might appreciate meeting someone with “inside knowledge” about certain industry power players who weren’t what they seemed. The bait dangled perfectly: validation, secrets, and the promise of leverage.
Samantha responded within hours.
The restaurant choice made Claudia smile as she walked through the doors of Michael’s on West 55th Street. A power-lunch institution built on discretion and private conversation—named after the very man she intended to help destroy. The irony tasted sweet.
She spotted Samantha immediately. Tall, blonde, radiating confidence that came from knowing the world bent to accommodate beautiful people. Claudia rose to greet her, gesturing toward a corner table where the ambient noise would swallow their words.
“Thank you for meeting me, Samantha,” Claudia began, her voice pitched low and conspiratorial.
“Sammi,” the blonde interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “Call me Sammi.”
Claudia inclined her head. “Sammi. I know this seems unusual, but when I heard about what happened with Michael Stewart, I felt you deserved to know you weren’t alone.”
Sammi’s eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”
Claudia leaned forward, allowing vulnerability to soften her features. “He wronged me too. Used his charm, his connections, made promises—then discarded me when I became inconvenient.” She watched the recognition flicker across Sammi’s face, the way her jaw tightened at the name.
“He rejected me,” Sammi said, the words carrying compressed fury. “Made me feel like nothing. Like I wasn’t worth his time.”
Claudia nodded slowly, amplifying the wound. “That’s what he does. He collects people, uses them, then moves on. Leaves wreckage behind while the world celebrates him.” She paused, letting the poison settle. “Don’t you think someone should finally hold him accountable?”
The shift in Sammi’s posture was immediate—shoulders squaring, chin lifting. This wasn’t about healing. This was about power reclaimed.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I need proximity,” Claudia said carefully. “Someone who can get close to him again. Someone he wouldn’t suspect.” She kept her expression neutral, betraying no knowledge of the history she already possessed. “Is there anyone in your circle who might have that kind of access?”
Sammi’s smile turned predatory. “My sister. Stephanie. She was ... involved with him before.” The words carried the weight of someone accustomed to deploying her sister like a chess piece. “Getting him to trust her again would take work—the way things ended wasn’t exactly clean. But she can get close enough.”
“Would she be willing to help with something like this?”
“She’ll do what I tell her.” Sammi was already reaching for her phone, fingers moving with the practiced confidence of someone who had never been denied. “She always does.”
“Wait.” Claudia held up a hand, keeping her voice measured. “Before you contact her, we should discuss the approach. If this is going to work, it needs to be surgical.”
Sammi paused, phone hovering mid-gesture. The flicker of annoyance was brief but visible—she wasn’t accustomed to being told to wait. “What do you mean?”
“Michael isn’t stupid. If Stephanie suddenly reappears in his life without a credible reason, he’ll be suspicious.” Claudia leaned forward slightly, projecting the careful authority of someone who had spent years managing high-stakes logistics. “We need a pretext. Something that explains why she’s reaching out after all this time.”
“She could apologize,” Sammi said, the suggestion carrying the dismissive tone of someone who viewed apologies as tactical weapons. “Tell him she regrets how things ended. He’s the sentimental type—he’ll buy it.”
Claudia considered this, turning the angle over in her mind. “That’s a start. But the goal isn’t just to get her back into his orbit. We need her positioned where she can observe his movements, his schedule, who he meets with.” She kept her expression neutral, careful not to reveal too much of the operational framework. “Can she do that without raising flags?”
“Stephanie’s good at disappearing into the background when she needs to.” Sammi’s smile carried a sharp edge. “She’s managing my calendar, handling logistics. She knows how to be useful without being noticed.”
“Good. Then here’s what I need from you.” Claudia held Sammi’s gaze, ensuring each word landed with precision. “When you speak with her, keep it simple. She’s reconnecting with Michael. That’s all she needs to know initially. The less she understands about the larger picture, the more natural her approach will seem.”
“And how do we communicate? Once she’s in position?”
“Through you. Always through you.” Claudia’s tone left no room for negotiation. “Stephanie reports to you, you report to me. No direct contact between her and me—it protects everyone and keeps the chain clean.”
Sammi nodded slowly, the predatory satisfaction returning to her features. She was already calculating, Claudia could see—already imagining the moment when Michael Stewart would finally understand what it felt like to be discarded.
Claudia watched her leave, satisfaction settling into her bones. Sammi would handle Stephanie—that particular dynamic required no intervention. The older sister’s emotional dependency made her operationally compliant, a perfect instrument for proximity work.
Now Claudia simply needed to manage the timing. Control the messaging. Let the asset believe she was choosing vengeance while serving purposes she would never understand.
The Bulldogs
Bus Ride to Ferris State, October 22, 2010
The bus rumbles beneath me as we transition from the polished streets of Ann Arbor to the darkening stretches of West Michigan. I sit midway back, my MacBook casting a clinical blue-white glow over my lap while I trace logic paths through the Economic Simulation Layer of AEGIS. The real-time market model is blending sensor data with supply signals, and I’m stress-testing a cascade scenario — watching how a simulated disruption in one node ripples outward through the mesh — when the numbers start swimming together in a way that tells me my focus is splitting.
Outerwear and heavy book bags are stuffed into the overhead racks, while our gear is stowed in the dark belly of the bus below. The cabin is quiet, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of headphones bleeding bass into the aisle from both sides as guys lean against the windows. Somebody up front is asleep already, mouth open, chin tucked into the collar of his travel suit. Most of the team is hunched over textbooks or glowing screens, catching up on schoolwork before the “student” half of the title gives way to the athlete. We save the sticks and the tape for the arena; for now, the only ritual is the steady, meditative hum of the tires against the pavement.
“Close the lid, Stew.” John leans across the aisle, his face half-shadowed in the dim cabin light. His eyes catch the blue-white glow of my screen and narrow. “Save the math for Monday. We’re heading into a phone booth tonight.”
I nod because he’s not wrong. Stickhandling in a phone booth — that’s what it’s going to be. Small-area chaos, hands a blur, head up, bodies everywhere. The kind of game where the geometry of the ice shrinks until every lane is contested and every pass has to be tape-to-tape or it’s a turnover. I know the type. These are the games where you earn it in the circles and along the boards, not with clean breakouts and long-distance zip. The game plan is simple: get it deep, win the wall, pucks on net, short shifts. North-south. Straight and fast.
I glance at the window and catch my own reflection ghosting over a blur of passing headlights that streak by in the October dark. The countryside is flat and featureless out here, just the occasional farmhouse light punching through the black. My reflection stares back at me — tousled hair, the crease of focus still etched between my eyebrows from the simulation work. I look tired. I feel sharp. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.
Coach Benson stands at the front of the bus, one hand braced against the overhead luggage rail, scanning the rows. He doesn’t say anything. He’s reading the room the way he reads tape: looking for the guys who are locked in and the guys who are drifting. I straighten up a fraction when his eyes pass over me, not because I’m worried, but because that’s what you do. The quiet leader doesn’t need words. The posture is the message.
As we pull into the arena parking lot, the atmosphere in the cabin shifts. The casual murmurs die down and the headphones come off. I reach for my stick, which has been propped against the seat back for the final leg of the trip, and wrap my calloused hands around the shaft, feeling the sticky drag of fresh tape under my palms. The tape job is good — clean, tight, no bubbles. My thumbs find the seam where the tape overlaps, and I press it flat out of habit.
Reilly catches my eye from across the aisle and gives me the glove-tap — or the bus version of it, just a fist extended, the thud of knuckles against my shoulder. No words. That’s how it works.
We’re heading into a phone booth tonight.
I’m ready to clear the crease.
Locker Room / Warm Up
The locker room at Ewigleben Arena is a cramped, claustrophobic box. I pull on the Number 5 jersey, the Maize and Blue fabric heavy with the weight of our undefeated streak—a target stitched into my back that every Bulldog in this building intends to hit. The team sits shoulder-to-shoulder, our broad-shouldered frames filling the narrow stalls.
“Tight quarters,” Noley mutters, adjusting his pads.
“No kidding.” I finish inspecting the black friction tape for the third time, the sticky drag familiar under my fingers. “Feels like we’re suiting up in a closet.”
Stepping onto the ice for warm-ups is like fighting in a phone booth. The boards are wood-backed and unforgiving, closing in until the rink feels like a hallway. My blades bite into the hard surface with a clean hiss, throwing up a fine mist of ice shavings that catches the yellowed glare of the arena lights. I test the lively kick-plate of the dashers with a quick dump, listening to the bone-dry crack of the puck against the wood-backed boards. Different sound than Yost. Sharper. Meaner.
Coach Benson prowls the bench without a clipboard, watching us with the quiet confidence of a man who knows that speed means nothing when there is nowhere to skate. His eyes track every stride, every pass, cataloging our movements against whatever tactical map he’s built in his head.
“Keep your heads up out there,” he calls, voice cutting through the din. “They’re gonna try to bait you into the corners.”
The Ferris State student section is a wall of people pressed against the glass, their shouts a visceral pressure, a hissing cauldron of noise designed to dismantle our focus. The stanchions seem to pulse with their movements, a shifting wall of bodies that makes the neutral zone feel even smaller than it already is.
I circle back toward our zone, testing my edges. The ice here is lively and brittle, sending a high-frequency shudder through my blades with every stride.
“Stew!” Reilly calls from the blue line, snapping a puck my way.
I receive it, the sharp dry snap of rubber on blade settling into my hands. The D-to-D hinge feels natural, clockwork timing as I open my hips and fire it back across the ice with a long-distance zip. We run through the pattern twice more, the rhythm building despite the hostile acoustics.
The photographers’ corner flashes, leaving spots dancing in my peripheral vision as I track the puck into the corner. I blink them away. Can’t afford tunnel vision. Not here. Not tonight.
Coach Benson’s voice carries over the crowd’s roar. “North-South game. Don’t get cute.”
I nod, skating past the bench. The boards show every black scuff and jagged scar from errant pucks, a history of violence written in rubber and wood.
The horn sounds for the end of warm-ups. I glide toward our bench, chest already tight with that familiar pre-game energy. The adrenaline dump hits and suddenly every skate-scrape sounds like a thunderclap. My hearing sharpens until I can pick out individual voices in the student section, individual insults hurled through cupped hands.
“Let’s go, boys,” Cason says, tapping his stick against the boards.
I settle onto the pine, fogging breath visible in the arena air.
The Bulldogs take their positions across from us. Their eyes are hungry. They smell blood—the chance to knock off an undefeated team in their own barn.
I pull my helmet tighter and wait for the opening faceoff.
First Period - Defensive Trap
The puck clangs against the boards like a gunshot and Ferris State comes out flying. They’re running a suffocating trap that clogs every lane, turning the neutral zone into a demolition derby. I haven’t seen pressure like this since last season.
I dig into a power-turn to break out, my edges carving into the ice with a growl, steel biting hard, spray trailing like a jet’s wake—but their winger is already closing. He times it perfectly, finishing the check with a resonant boom that shakes the glass and sends a shudder through the stanchions. My shoulder blade hits the dasher and I feel the impact radiate through my ribs, a deep vibration that hums in my teeth and mouthguard.
Every puck retrieval is a punishment. I get my stick on a loose dump in the corner and a massive Bulldog forward drives me into the boards before I can turn. The whoosh of air leaves my lungs in a single forced exhale, and for a half-second I’m pinned there, the shhh-grind of his jersey against my shoulder pads, the rattle-clack of the plexiglass flexing under our combined weight. I shove back, get my feet moving, chip it up the wall. Gone. Noley retrieves it behind the net.
We try to finesse the play through the neutral zone—tape-to-tape, quick feet, North-South. But their defensemen are heavy skaters who thump and shudder against the ice with every stride, and they love the trench work. Their wingers, however, are built differently—small, twitchy speedsters who buzz around our ankles. They’re harder to pin down than the behemoths; every time I try to line one up, they’ve already darted into a new seam, forcing us to lean on our reach to keep them outside. They clog the slot with a forest of sticks and limbs, cutting off every shooting lane, every passing seam. Cason tries to thread one through the five-hole of the coverage and it gets picked clean. Turnover. Here they come again.
I pivot from forward to backward, eyes locked on the chest of their center, never the puck. Gap control. Keep the stick-length of separation. The rhythmic scrape-and-bite of my blades becomes a metronome for survival—smooth transition, hips open, weight low. Their left wing curls toward the crease and I box him out in the blue paint, driving my stick across his midsection while the ref’s head is turned the other way. Unseen cross-check. The muscular burn in my forearms screams as I shove two hundred pounds of forward away from Hayes’s sightline, the heavy grinding of our equipment marking every inch earned. He shoves back, tries to plant his feet in the paint. I don’t give an inch. My skate finds the post and I anchor there, a wall of weight between him and the net.
Hayes makes a blocker save—puck squirts wide. Whistle. Dead play.
I suck air through my teeth on the bench; my lungs are stinging. Coach Benson leans in from behind, voice cutting through the din.
“Get it deep and win the battles!”
I nod, spit, grab a water bottle. The transition from explosive sprints to the sudden heavy stillness of the pine is disorienting.
We go back out. Same thing. Dump and chase—the puck shatters against the end-boards and I hear the inevitable collision in the corner as Zonk hunts it down, his massive frame bulldozing their defenseman into the glass. But they recover. They always recover. Their system is airtight, every man in position, every lane accounted for.
At the twelve-minute mark, it happens.
A dump comes in along the boards, nothing dangerous, routine retrieval. But the puck catches the edge of a stanchion at a bad angle—a freak bounce—and instead of carrying around the boards, it caroms sharply off the corner, centering itself. It sits there between the hash marks like a gift. Their center doesn’t hesitate. He loads up a snap shot from the hash marks, and the carbon fiber twangs as the puck rockets off his blade. I see Hayes drop into his butterfly but the release is too quick, too clean. The puck finds the mesh with a muffled thud, the net bulging and dropping, and for a fraction of a second the arena holds its breath.
Then it combusts.
One-nothing Ferris State. Ewigleben erupts with a primal roar that I feel in my chest like a physical force. The staccato snap of sticks against the boards, the student section surging against the glass, the heavy yellowed glare of the lights catching the spray of celebration. The goal horn blares and doesn’t stop.
I skate to the bench with my head up, stick across my knees, jaw clenched. We haven’t trailed in a game in over a month. The silence on our bench is total—just the rasp of heavy breathing and the rhythmic scraping of skate blades against the rubber mat. Noley taps my shoulder pad with his glove. A padded thud. Says nothing. Doesn’t need to.
Coach Benson stands behind us, arms crossed, face unreadable. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t bark. He lets the silence do its work.
“One shift at a time,” he says quietly. “Clean it up.”
I pull my helmet down, spit again, and watch the Zamboni door. We’re not done. Not even close.
Second Period - Desperation
The second period is trench warfare. Every whistle dies into another scrum, another cluster of bodies grinding along the boards in that cramped, claustrophobic space where finesse goes to die. We trade unseen cross-checks in the corners—the metallic click of stick on stick, the shhh-grind of jerseys against the glass—but we can’t establish any flow. Their trap is suffocating. Every lane I see closes before I can exploit it, every attempt gets picked or deflected into the neutral zone where their forwards are already waiting, already turning, already coming back at us.
I take a shift where I pinch hard along the left wall, trying to trap their winger against the boards. I close the vice, get my shoulder into his chest, feel the grating scrape as I work the puck free. But his partner is there in a heartbeat, poking the puck off my blade with a surgical click before I can chip it to Cason. Turnover. I pivot, the violent torque snapping through my ankles as I transition backward, gap control, eyes on the chest, never the puck.
Then it gets ugly.
Their number twelve—a thick, heavy skater whose strides thump against the ice like a rhythmic drumbeat—takes a run at Trammel behind the net. It’s late. It’s predatory. Trammel doesn’t see him coming because he’s looking down at the puck, and the collision is a sickening, boom that flexes the stanchions and sends Trammel’s stick clattering across the ice in two pieces. The whistle shrieks. Trammel stays down for a beat, then pulls himself up using the net. He’s okay. Shaken, but okay.
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