Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)

The apartment building rises before her too quickly, its glass facade reflecting clouds that promise snow. She takes the elevator in silence, rehearsing the mask she must wear, feeling the weight of it settle across her features like something physical.

Sammi is sprawled across the sectional when Stephanie enters, phone held aloft, her long blonde hair fanned against the cream leather. She barely glances up, though her posture shifts almost imperceptibly, a predator noting movement at the edge of her territory.

“Well?” The word drops into the space between them, casual and cutting. “Did you see him?”

Stephanie sets her bag down slowly, deliberately, buying herself the seconds she needs to steady her voice. “I saw him.”

She moves toward the kitchen, filling a glass with water she doesn’t need, using the mundane action to anchor herself. When she turns back, Sammi has finally lowered her phone, those blue-green eyes fixed on her with an expression that borders on hunger.

“He was guarded,” Stephanie continues, letting her shoulders curve inward, making herself smaller the way Sammi has always preferred. “But I think he’s lonely. I think I can get in.”

The lie tastes like ash on her tongue, but she delivers it with the practiced ease. She describes the meeting in careful detail. Michael’s initial coldness, the way his expression had softened when she mentioned missing their study sessions, the grudging agreement to stay in touch tempered by warnings about his schedule being insane.

Sammi listens with the rapt attention, her manicured nails tapping an irregular rhythm against her phone case.

“There’s something else,” Stephanie adds, allowing a note of calculated hesitation to enter her voice. “He mentioned a gala he will attend in Tokyo on December twenty-sixth.”

The tapping stops.

“Tokyo?” Sammi sits up straighter, and Stephanie can almost see the calculations running behind her eyes, the prestige of an international event, the access it might provide, the leverage it could create.

“Some technology industry thing. He seemed excited about it, which is unusual for him.” Stephanie shrugs, the gesture carefully calibrated to appear dismissive while ensuring the information arrives with maximum impact. “Said the opportunities and coverage in Japan is incredible.”

A smile spreads across Sammi’s face, slow and satisfied, the expression of someone watching pieces fall into place on a board only she can see. “Good. Claudia will be pleased.” She’s already reaching for her phone, thumbs moving across the screen with practiced speed. “Keep pushing him. We’re going to own him, Steph.”

The words hang in the air, ugly and proprietary, and Stephanie feels something cold settle in her chest, not fear, something harder. A determination that has been building for months, maybe years, crystallizing in this moment into a resolve she barely recognizes as her own.

She nods, keeping her hands clasped behind her back where Sammi cannot see them shaking. The tremor isn’t weakness anymore; it’s the excess energy of a decision finally made, a path chosen.

For the first time in her life, Stephanie sees an escape. Not just from Sammi’s thrall, but toward the person she was supposed to become before Sammi’s influence.

She won’t fail Michael again.

The thought settles her as Sammi’s attention returns to her phone, as the text flies across invisible networks toward Claudia and whatever dark machinery awaits on the other end. Stephanie watches her sister’s satisfied expression and feels, for the first time, like she’s the one holding the strings.

The Golden Gophers

First Period - Friday Night Pace

The Friday night crowd at Yost is a living thing, a single organism breathing down our necks. It’s a pressure cooker and this is our house, The Old Barn, and tonight, Minnesota is trying to burn it down.

They play like the ice is tilted downhill, a relentless flood of gold jerseys pouring into our zone. Their speed is their entire strategy, designed to force a choice: chase or stay disciplined. Chasing is a fool’s game. It’s how a defenseman ends up on a highlight reel for all the wrong reasons, ankles broken, watching a number skate away from him. It’s how you get embarrassed. Coach Benson’s voice is a permanent fixture in my head: Safe Is Death, but stupid is a funeral. Their high-velocity offense is a swarm of small, agile forwards, all jittery energy and East-West movement, and they dare you to make one undisciplined move, to take one bad angle.

“Stew! Noley! You’re up!”

I hit the ice with Noley, hurdling the boards as the gate bangs shut behind me. The transition from the stillness of the pine to the kinetic chaos of the game is an adrenaline dump, a cold rush in my gut that sharpens every sound. The scrape of my blades sounds like a thunderclap. The Gophers fly through the neutral zone in a wave, testing our gap control on every single shift. My eyes stay locked on the chest of the puck carrier, never the rubber. That’s the first mistake a young D-man makes. You follow the puck, they pull it on a string, and suddenly you’re facing your own goalie as they celebrate. I refuse to reach. Reaching is a confession of failure, an admission that your feet have been beaten. It’s how you get walked, and I will not give them that confidence.

Their top center cuts across the blue line, his feet a blur of crossovers. He’s trying to sell a move, a quick head-fake to get me to commit my weight. I feel the violent torque on my ankles as I pivot, transitioning from forward to backward skating in one fluid motion, maintaining that perfect stick-length of separation. The world narrows. The roar of the Children of Yost, that wall of Maize and Blue leaning over the glass, fades to a muffled hum. It’s just the geometry of the ice, the angle he’s taking, and the space I have to deny him. He tries to dangle, a quick toe drag to pull the puck through my skates. But I’m already there. My stick extends in a clean poke check, the muted click of blade on puck echoing in the sudden quiet of my focus. The puck deflects harmlessly into the corner.

Noley is a perfect partner for this kind of game. He brings an energy that’s useful, not chaotic. While I’m focused on the surgical disruption, he’s the hammer. He finishes the check on their winger, a hollow boom as the player eats the boards. The plexiglass shudders. “Wheels, Stew! Wheels!” he barks, his voice cutting through the din. The bench erupts in a rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a gate-bang, acknowledging the hit.

“Right here, Noley! Up the wall!” I call out, my voice raspy.

He digs the puck free and fires a hard pass up the boards. “Your feet, not mine, Pretty Boy!” he grunts back, a physical reminder that we won’t be bullied by their speed. That matters when a game threatens to blur into track meet nonsense.

The puck is on my stick, and I’m moving, feeling the wind in my face as I carry it out of our zone. Three explosive strides, that feeling of running on ice, my blades digging deep ruts into the surface. Head on a swivel, I scan for an outlet pass, looking for the crisp tape-to-tape that will trigger our breakout. I see Valens cutting through the middle and send a firm pass that lands perfectly on his blade. The whole game is a frantic back-and-forth, forty-second shifts of all-out sprints. The horn sounds to end the period just as I dump the puck deep into their end.

It’s 0-0, but I’m breathing hard as I glide to the bench, my chest heaving, my breath fogging in the cold air. This is going to be a long, grinding night. I can see the frustration on the Minnesota bench—a stick slammed against the boards, a helmet ripped off in disgust.

Down the tunnel, the rubber floor softly thrum with the click-clack of skate. In the locker room, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and exertion. Guys peel off soaked jerseys with a squelch, the room a controlled chaos of movement until the door opens and Coach Benson walks in. Silence falls instantly.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have to. He just stands there for a moment, his steel-blue eyes scanning the room. “They think they can skate us into the ground,” he says, his voice low but carrying to every corner. “They want to play East-West. They want to make it pretty.”

He grabs a marker and draws a straight, aggressive line from our goal line to theirs on the whiteboard. “We play North-South. Get it deep. Finish every hit. Make them pay a price for all that fancy skating.” He turns to the forwards. “Cason, I want pucks on net. No more cute passes in the slot. Greasy goals win these games.”

Shawn, our senior captain, just nods, his jaw set. “Got it, Coach.”

“And Stewart,” Benson says, his eyes finding mine. “You and Noley are setting the tone. No space. Not an inch. Make their top line wish they stayed on the bus.” He looks at me, a silent question.

“Yes, Coach,” I say, the words firm. “We’re on it.”

That simmering anger on the Minnesota bench tells me everything I need to know. We are doing our job. We are turning their speed into our structure, and they absolutely hate it. Now we just have to do it for forty more minutes.

---

Second Period - The Assist

The second period is a stamina war, a forty-five-second shift at a time. Every puck dumped into a corner becomes a referendum on will. It’s a relentless cycle of skating into a violent collision, digging for rubber against the grating scrape of nylon on plexiglass, and then getting back to the front of our net to clear the crease. My legs, however, feel like coiled springs. The ghost of last week’s bag skate, that piercing shriek of Coach Benson’s whistle followed by the rhythmic scraping of two dozen sets of blades and that raw heat scorching the back of my throat, is paying dividends now. I feel the fatigue, that sensation of moving through sand, but my mind overrides it. This is where games are won, in the dirty minutes.

The chirping starts to pick up. One of their wingers, a smaller guy with a cage who plays bigger than he is, keeps trying to get under Noley’s skin. After a whistle, he skates by our crease and gives Josh Hayes a little snow shower. Noley is on him in a second, a gloved hand in the guy’s facemask.

“You want to try that again, you little pylon?” Noley’s voice is a low growl.

The winger just smirks, his mouthguard a flash of color. “Give your balls a tug, you big oaf. Can’t catch me, can you?”

Before it can escalate into a full-on scrum, I get between them, putting a hand on Noley’s chest. “Not worth it, big guy. We’ll get him on the scoreboard.”

He shoves the kid one last time, sending him stumbling back. “Next time I’m putting you through the glass, you hear me?”

The ref skates over and barks at them to break it up, but the message is sent. We’re not just going to let them skate. We’re going to make every inch of ice a physical transaction. They want to play East-West? Fine. We’ll leave them black and blue North-South. A few shifts later, the same winger tries to cut to the middle and gets absolutely clustered by Ron. The hit produces a loud boom that echoes through Yost, a clean shoulder-to-chest collision that sends the Gopher flying. He lands in a tangle of limbs, gasping for air. As Zonk skates to the bench, he just taps his helmet. Message delivered.

Late in the period, their frustration boils over. Their top center, the one with the quick feet, takes a stupid slashing penalty, a two-handed chop to my gloves after I move the puck. A classic lumberjack move. The piercing shriek of the referee’s whistle cuts the play dead, his arm shooting straight up. He points aggressively to the sin bin. The Yost crowd roars its approval as the Gopher skates to the box, slamming the door in a fit of pique.

“Power play, let’s go!” Coach Huntley yells from the bench, his voice cutting through the noise. “Pucks on net! No cute stuff!”

The energy in The Old Barn shifts. The Children of Yost start their rhythmic stomping, and the old wooden bleachers begin to vibrate. This is our house. This is our moment. I collect the puck at the blue line, settling it on my blade as our power play unit sets up. I can feel the eyes of their penalty killer on me. He’s one of their fastest forwards, and he’s coming at me like a freight train, stick out, trying to force me into a mistake.

“Nowhere to go, Pretty Boy!” he chirps, his skates digging into the ice. “That Olympic medal can’t help you now!”

I don’t panic. I let him get closer, drawing him in, using his own aggression against him. In this moment, the roar of the crowd fades to a muffled hum. Tunnel vision kicks in. It’s just me, him, and the ice. I feel that extra half-second of perception, that quiet space that the pressure of the Olympic final burned into my brain. The place where the game slows down and the right play becomes obvious.

I raise my stick, my whole body coiling as if to unleash a slap shot. The defender bites hard, dropping to one knee to block a shot that isn’t coming, making himself into a pylon. I can see the whites of his eyes as he braces for an impact that never arrives. In that frozen moment, I slide a perfect, no-look pass across the royal blue paint of the circle. It’s a crisp, tape-to-tape dish right into Noley’s wheelhouse.

Noley doesn’t hesitate. He leans into the one-timer, his stick connecting with the puck in a blur. The gunshot crack echoes through the arena. The puck is a black streak heading for the net, but there’s a mess of bodies in front—a greasy play, just like Coach demanded. It deflects off the skate of a Gopher defenseman, a chaotic, beautiful change of direction that sends their goalie sprawling the wrong way. The puck finds the back of the net with a heavy, satisfying thwack.

1-0 Michigan.

The goal horn blasts, a sound like a freight train roaring through the arena. Yost absolutely erupts. I skate straight for Noley, who’s already got his arms in the air. I don’t just tap his shin pads; I slam into him, a helmet-to-helmet hug of pure exhilaration.

“That’s how you do it, Captain Smooth-Balls!” he roars over the din, pounding on my back with a heavy, padded thud.

“I just put it on a tee for you, big guy!” I yell back, laughing. “You did the hard part!”