The Defenceman (Dman4)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
Canada vs. Russia – Olympic
Coming of Age Story: Canada vs. Russia – Olympic - Building on Cold Creek's Dman3, Michael Steward rises from Olympic triumph into a world of honor, ambition, and peril. Between hockey, modeling, and his AI venture, he is drawn into battles across London, Japan, and Spain. Surrounded by allies, haunted by rivals, and entangled in the drama of women who shape his path, Michael’s journey is one of resilience, loyalty, and unexpected love.
Caution: This Coming of Age Story contains strong sexual content, including Romantic Celebrity Sports Interracial White Female Oriental Female White Couple Royalty
Prologue – The Call
The bus rumbled, the air thick with the banter of teammates on their way to another road game. Michael sat midway back, earbuds in, notebook open on his lap, though the algorithms he had been sketching blurred into nonsense. Hockey had always been his release from code, but tonight he couldn’t concentrate on either.
A shadow fell across him. Coach Fred Benson stood in the aisle, hand braced on the seatback.
“Stewart. Up front. Someone wants a word with you.”
Michael blinked. “Now?”
“Now,” Benson said firmly, though his eyes held something softer — a trace of pride.
Michael slid out of his seat, the curious eyes of teammates following him as he walked up the narrow aisle. Answering his phone, he pressed the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Michael Stewart?” The voice on the line was crisp, familiar even through the static. Steve Yzerman, General Manager of Team Canada.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve heard the news about Pronger. The concussion takes him out of the Olympic lineup. We’ve met as a staff, and we’ve made our choice. Pack your gear. You’re on the roster. You’re playing for Canada.”
The words hit harder than any bodycheck. Michael gripped the armrest to steady himself. “I—are you sure?”
Yzerman chuckled. “You’ve earned it. Coach Babcock will call you tonight with the details. Congratulations, son. You’re wearing the Maple Leaf.”
The line went dead. Michael lowered the phone, staring at nothing.
Benson’s voice broke through. “Well?”
Michael swallowed. “Team Canada. I ... I made it.”
The bus erupted. Some teammates cheered, others laughed and slapped the seatbacks, a few just whistled low in amazement. “Holy hell, our boy’s going to the Olympics!” one shouted. Another chimed in, “Better start practicing that anthem, rookie!”
Michael could only sink into the front seat, dazed, the echoes of their voices ringing around him. He pressed his forehead to the window, watching the blur of passing headlights. He’d dreamed of this moment skating on the rink his father built behind their house in Northern Ontario, shooting pucks under a single yard lamp. But to hear it confirmed, to know he was taking Chris Pronger’s spot in Vancouver — it felt unreal.
He closed the notebook he’d carried, no longer able to focus. For the rest of the ride he just held his stick across his knees, knuckles white, as if clutching the only thing keeping him grounded.
Part 2 – First Period
The puck clanged against the boards like a gunshot. Russia came out flying, skating not as men but as wolves in a pack. Ovechkin barreled across the blue line, lowered his shoulder, and plowed into Duncan Keith with a thud that shook the glass. Keith crumpled, scrambled up, jaw clenched.
The puck skipped loose onto Malkin’s stick. Brodeur had to sprawl across his crease to smother it.
The crowd roared — awe and terror braided together. Canada hadn’t touched the puck.
On the bench, Michael leaned forward, jaw tight. Everyone felt the gap. Chris Pronger should have been out there, punishing Ovechkin, clearing the slot. Instead, his absence pressed down like a weight, and Canada’s blueline wavered.
“Stay tight, stay tight,” Weber barked, skating hard to cover two men at once.
But Russia struck first. Ovechkin looped behind the net, flicked a pass to Krutov on the wall. Krutov lowered a shoulder, ground Seabrook just enough, and lasered a cross-ice feed. Kovalchuk caught it clean, ripped glove-side. Brodeur caught a piece, but the puck fluttered in, kissing mesh.
1–0 Russia.
The arena groaned, a nation’s breath caught in its throat. Russian fans — loud, tricolor flags waving — erupted. Ovechkin banged the glass, howling at the crowd like a gladiator.
Seconds later, another strike. Ovechkin unleashed a one-timer, pure fury, past Brodeur’s blocker.
2–0 Russia.
The building fell into stunned silence — except for the Russians, cheering like conquerors.
The cameras cut to Section 102. Kristen with her hands in her hair. Emma clutching her flag. Donna and Trish shouting encouragement. Barb screaming Michael’s name though he hadn’t touched the ice. The broadcasters pounced: “That’s Michael Stewart’s section — Hollywood, the runway, family. All eyes on Canada’s rookie tonight.”
Michael gripped his stick until the wood creaked. He tried to block out the flashes, the whispers, the expectations. But the hole Pronger left seemed to settle squarely on his shoulders.
Coach Babcock snapped: “Stewart. Up. Now.”
Michael vaulted the boards, lungs burning, legs trembling. The puck rimmed around to his side. Fate carried it straight at him: Krutov.
The Russian winger bore down, eyes like ice. Michael lowered himself, braced.
They collided with a crack that shook the rafters. Sticks flew. Both men crashed to the ice.
The crowd erupted, the arena shaking as if the roof might lift off.
Michael scrambled up first, chest heaving, shoulder throbbing. Krutov stayed down longer, then rose, glaring, rubbing his ribs. Their eyes locked. The message was carved into both: this isn’t over.
The horn blared to end the first. Canada trailed, battered but not broken.
Part 3 – Second Period