Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
38. The Transpacific Shift
Coming of Age Story: 38. The Transpacific Shift - 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 Final Preparation
The Last Hard Week, December 10, 2010
The week feels less like a stretch of days than a checkpoint, a final waystation before the pause. We’re heading into the winter break sitting at 18-3-2 after a split series against Miami of Ohio, maintaining a tenuous hold on second place in the CCHA. I’m leading the conference in plus-minus, but the physical toll of twenty-three games is etched into every bruise I’m taking to Japan. Everyone on the roster is counting down to break, but the record says we earned it. The team is stable for now, but the second half of the season will decide if this record is a foundation or a ceiling.
The winter air in Ann Arbor has turned jagged, a biting cold that seeps through the brickwork of Yost and settles into the marrow. I can feel it in my bones during morning skates, the kind of deep freeze that makes the ice harder, faster, more unforgiving. The old barn groans under the weight of December, its steel trusses contracting in the cold, and the familiar smell of ozone and fresh shavings mixes with the damp scent of hockey equipment that never quite dries.
I stand in the crease during a penalty kill drill, my vision tracking the puck through a forest of legs. The clatter of sticks and the shuffling of skates are the only sounds in the echoing rink, punctuated by the occasional sharp crack of a one-timer that I deflect with my shin guard. The rubber-on-plastic clatter reverberates through my bones as I absorb the impact, keeping my stick flat on the ice, my body positioned between the shooter and Josh Hayes in the blue paint behind me.
“Head on a swivel, Stew!” Coach Turnbull barks from the bench.
I pivot, opening my hips to track the late man, and feel the violent torque in my ankles as I reverse direction. The drill runs again. And again. The whistle’s piercing shriek sends us back to the line, and I feel the deep, structural fatigue of a season played at a high-velocity pace. My core muscles scream for a reprieve that I refuse to grant them until the final horn sounds. There’s a slow-crawl of acid building in my quads, that fiber-deep fatigue that settles in during December when the schedule compresses and the body starts keeping score.
Noley catches the stiffness in my movements during a post-practice stretch and gives me a padded thud of a glove-tap on my shoulder pad. December grinds on everyone. You manage the load, you keep skating, you don’t miss a game. That’s the code.
The final game of the semester is a 3-1 win over Western Michigan. I log twenty-two minutes of ice time, anchor the penalty kill through a five-minute major in the second period, and put a shot on net that rattles the crossbar with that satisfying ping that echoes like a hammer on an anvil. Close, but no cigar. The goal horn stays silent on my account, but we get the two points, and that’s what matters. We close the semester at 19-3-2.
Coach Benson pulls me aside after the final buzzer, his steel-blue eyes lingering on my tape-job as I peel off my gloves. The locker room buzzes with the usual post-win energy behind us—the squelch of sweat-soaked gear being stripped, the clatter of sticks being racked, the low murmur of guys already making plans for break.
“Good week, Stewart,” he says, his voice carrying that direct, authoritative tone that doesn’t waste syllables. “Team’s in a good place for the break.”
I nod, feeling the weight of those words. Coming from Benson, that’s practically a standing ovation. He’s not one for speeches or excessive praise. A quiet leader who expects the same from his captain.
“Get some rest,” he adds, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve earned it. But don’t come back soft.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He holds my gaze a second longer, then claps a hand on my shoulder. Then he’s gone, moving down the corridor toward his office with its view of the ice, leaving me alone in the equipment room.
I pack my gear bag slowly, methodically. The thwip of waxed laces through metal eyelets as I secure my skates. The sticky drag of tape being wound around my stick blades for storage. The ritual feels different tonight, weighted with the knowledge that I’m transitioning from one arena to another. From the old barn to the international stage.
The scent of wintergreen liniment and stale wax fades as I shoulder my bag and head for the exit. Outside, the December air hits my face like a slap, sharp and clean after the humid warmth of the locker room. My breath plumes white in the darkness as I walk toward my truck, the crunch of salt and ice beneath my boots the only sound in the empty parking lot.
Break is close enough to taste. But first, there’s work to be done.
The Trainer’s Line, December 13, 2010
The trainer doesn’t ask how I’m feeling the way most people do—that polite, throwaway question you answer with “fine” regardless of truth. He asks like he’s collecting data points, like my answer will determine what happens next.
“Let’s take a look,” he says, and I lift my shirt without being asked.
His fingers probe the rib area with clinical precision, pressing in spots that make me wince despite my best efforts to stay neutral. The bruising has faded from that angry purple to a sickly yellow-green, which apparently counts as progress in the medical world.
“Improved,” he says, stepping back. “But still vulnerable. You understand the difference between healed and ready?”
I nod, but he explains anyway. Healed means the tissue has knit back together, the inflammation has subsided, the body has done its repair work. Ready means you can take a hit without undoing all of that. Ready means you can finish a check in the corner without spending the next three days breathing like you’ve got a knife between your ribs.
“So I’m healed but not ready,” I say.
“Getting there.” He pulls out a modified pad, something with extra protection along the floating ribs. “We’re going to adjust your equipment. This should help absorb some of the impact, but it’s not a license to be stupid.”
We go through the practice restrictions together. No board work in the corners. No post-to-post crease clearing drills where guys are throwing elbows to move me out of the blue paint. I can skate the Horseshoe, run through the D-to-D hinge work, take shots from the point. But if someone’s coming in hot for a rub-off, I’m supposed to give ground instead of bracing for contact.
It’s not a negotiation. He’s not asking my opinion or waiting for me to argue. He’s telling me what the parameters are, and honestly, that clarity makes it easier to accept. There’s no gray area to push against, no room for me to convince myself I’m tougher than the injury.
“Questions?” he asks.
“How long until I’m cleared for full contact?”
“Depends on how smart you are between now and then.” He gives me a look that says he’s seen plenty of guys extend their recovery by weeks because they couldn’t resist proving something. “Follow the protocol, and we reassess after the weekend.”
The sharp medicinal tang follows me into the hallway. The restrictions are clear. I’ll follow them, heal faster, and be full-contact before January.
Smart beats stubborn. I learned that the hard way.
Benson’s Winter Standard, December 14, 2010
Benson catches me after practice when the rink is clearing out. He doesn’t pull me into an office or make a moment out of it. Just stops me near the bench, arms crossed, that steel-blue stare cutting through the cold air like he’s reading my conditioning numbers off my face.
“Stewart. Word.”
I stop, stick still in my hand. “Coach.”
“You’re heading out for break.” It’s not a question. He knows the schedule better than I do.
“Yes, sir.”
He shifts his weight, glances at the ice like he’s checking for imperfections only he can see. “Come back in shape. Come back rested and ready. I don’t want to see you skating like you spent two weeks on a couch eating your aunt’s cooking.”
“Understood.”
“The season doesn’t restart gently.” He turns back to me, and there’s no warmth in it, just the flat certainty of a man who’s seen too many players coast through December and pay for it in February. “Neither will I. You’re carrying minutes. You’re carrying expectations. That doesn’t pause because the calendar says it’s a holiday.”
“I know, Coach.”
“Do you?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because I’ve watched guys with half your talent burn out because they thought the work stopped when the games did. I’ve watched guys with twice your talent never get where they should’ve been because they confused time off with time wasted.”
I nod. “The break isn’t time off. It’s time to keep the foundation solid.”
His jaw loosens a fraction. His chin dips, barely visible.
“Good.” He uncrosses his arms. “Then we don’t have a problem.”
“No, sir. We don’t.”
He nods once, sharp and final, then turns and walks toward the tunnel without another word. The conversation is over. That’s his style. No handshakes, no pep talks, no lingering sentiment. Just the expectation laid out clean and the understanding that I’ll meet it or I won’t.
I watch him disappear into the corridor. The Zamboni hums behind me, already smoothing out the scars we left on the ice. I grab my bag and head for the door.
Packing and Goodbyes
The Apartment Floor, December 15, 2010
The last few weeks have been a blur of friction. That Monday night in Madison back in November was a grind—a 1-1 tie against Wisconsin where the only souvenir I kept was a slash that turned my swollen knuckle into a purple, throbbing mess. The boxer’s fracture from the Bowling Green game had barely started to heal when some Badger defenseman caught my hand wrong during a scrum along the boards. The bone-deep vibration traveled up my arm, and I knew before I even looked that the knuckle was done for the night. I played through it, obviously—playing hurt is just what you do—but the burn and dull throb made every stick check feel like I was gripping a live wire.
The boys haven’t let me off the hook since. Noley taped the TMZ photos of me and Candice to my stall with “Zoolander” scrawled across them in black marker, a ruthless reminder that no matter where I fly or who I’m photographed with, I’m just a defenseman who needs to clear the crease. The chirping was relentless during practice—”Hey Pretty Boy, you gonna model your way through the neutral zone?” and “Captain Smooth-Balls, did Candice teach you that backcheck or what?”—but that’s the code. You take your lumps, you laugh it off, and you answer the bell when it’s time to play.
Suitcases turn the living room into a temporary staging area. It’s not glamorous, it’s just work, and that makes the trip feel more real than the idea of it. The condo smells faintly of the eggs and chives Willow made for breakfast, mixed with the noise of my laptop’s fan running hot from the AEGIS compile I left going overnight.
Willow keeps the mood light without forcing it. She asks what I want to bring and then quietly makes sure the practical things are covered—chargers, adapters, the extra compression sleeves for my knee that I always forget. Her voice has that soft, melodic quality it gets when she’s being observational rather than directive, like she’s reading the room and adjusting accordingly. “You think you’ll need the heavier jacket?” she asks, folding a sweater I didn’t even remember packing. “Berlin was cold, but Tokyo’s supposed to be milder this time of year.”
“Probably not,” I say, watching her work. “But bring it anyway. You never know.”
She smiles, that knowing smile that makes me feel like she can see right through whatever armor I’m wearing. “That’s what I figured.”
Asuka is methodical and direct, her movements precise and economical as she checks items off a mental list I’m certain she’s memorized. She talks about timing, connections, and what we do if luggage goes missing—which sounds like paranoia to most people but is just normal travel planning in her tone.
“Our ride to the airport is confirmed for four-thirty tomorrow morning. Kiyomi has arranged a private plane since our group is so large and we aren’t taking any chances,” she says, not looking up from the bag she’s organizing. “We have a forty-minute buffer before wheels-up. If we hit traffic on 94, we still make it with time to spare.”
Sadly, Molly has a photo shoot in London and won’t be able to join us in Japan. We promise to keep her apprised of what’s happening, and I can hear the tension in her voice during our Skype call—that particular edge she gets when she’s worried but trying not to show it.
“I hate this,” she says, her face filling the screen, the grey London rain visible through the window behind her. “I hate that you’re going somewhere dangerous and I’m stuck here shooting handbags.”
“It’s not dangerous,” I tell her, even though we both know that’s not entirely true. “Asuka’s got it locked down. The Roppongi residence is a fortress. We stay in the bubble, we do the work, we come home.”
“You better.” Her eyes narrow, that familiar look of protective irritation. “I’ve got alerts set up. If I see anything weird—”
“You’ll call Asuka directly. I know. Hanna said the same thing.”
Asuka leans into frame, her expression neutral but her voice carrying that quiet certainty that seems to calm everyone who hears it. “No harm will come to him, Molly. I give you my word.”
Molly exhales, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Fine. But I’m watching the feeds. And I want updates. Real ones, not the sanitized version you give the press.”
“You’ll get them,” I say.
When the call ends, I sit for a moment, listening to the sounds of packing—zippers closing, fabric rustling, Willow humming something under her breath that might be a new song or might just be her way of processing the moment. The condo feels different with the suitcases out, like we’re already halfway gone.
I realize I’m calmer than I expected. The calm isn’t confidence, exactly—it’s acceptance. This is part of my life now. The hockey, the modeling, the threats, the constant coordination between people who love me and people who want to hurt me. It’s all just one more thing to manage, one more shift to get through.
I flex my fingers experimentally, feel the dull pulse of protest from the knuckle, and decide it’s nothing that won’t heal by the time we land.
The Quiet Meal
The Matsuda Clan keeps dinner simple and familiar. They do not turn it into a speech or a ceremony, which is exactly why it’s perfect.