Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
5. Canada vs. Russia – Olympic
Coming of Age Story: 5. Canada vs. Russia – Olympic - 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
Prologue, February 2010
The bus rumbles beneath me, the air thick with the banter of teammates riding out another road game. I sit midway back, earbuds in, notebook open on my lap, trying to sketch algorithms, but the lines blur into nonsense. Hockey has always been my release from code, but tonight I can’t focus on either.
A shadow falls across my page, and I look up to see Coach Benson bracing himself on the seatback, his steel-blue eyes carrying something I can’t quite read.
“Stewart. Up front, someone wants a word with you.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Now?”
He nods, though there’s something softer in his expression, almost pride. “Now.”
Sliding out of my seat, I feel the curious eyes of teammates follow me as I walk up the narrow aisle. My phone buzzes in my hand and I press it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Michael Stewart?” The voice is crisp, familiar—Steve Yzerman, General Manager of Team Canada.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve heard the news about Pronger? His concussion takes him out of our lineup, and we’ve met as a staff.” A pause, weighted with everything that comes next. “Pack your gear. You’re playing for Canada.”
The words hit harder than any bodycheck, and my hand grips the armrest just to steady myself. “I—are you sure?”
Yzerman chuckles on the other end of the line. “You’ve earned it. Coach Babcock will call you tonight with details. Congratulations, son. You’re wearing the Maple Leaf.”
The line goes dead. I lower the phone slowly, staring at nothing until Coach Benson prods my shoulder.
“Well?”
For a moment I pause, the words strange in my mouth even as I say them. “Team Canada. I made it.”
The bus erupts—teammates cheer, laugh, slap the seats and whistle, voices ringing with disbelief and excitement. “Holy hell, our boy’s going to the Olympics!” one shouts. Another adds, “Better start practicing that anthem, rookie!”
I sink into the front seat, dazed, forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the blur of headlights streak by like tracer fire in the dark. I dreamed of this moment skating on the rink my father built behind our house in Dryden, shooting pucks under a yard lamp while frost hung in the air and my breath came out in silver clouds. Now it’s real. I close the notebook in my lap, no longer able to focus, my fingers clutching my stick across my knees, knuckles white as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
First Period – Gold Medal Game
The puck clangs against the boards like a gunshot and Russia comes out flying, skating not as men but as a wolf pack. Ovechkin barrels across the blue line, lowers his shoulder and plows into Duncan Keith with a thud that shakes the glass. Keith crumples but scrambles back up, jaw set, eyes sharp. The puck skips loose onto Malkin’s stick and Brodeur has to sprawl across his crease to smother it.
The crowd roars with a mix of awe and terror. Canada hasn’t touched the puck. On the bench, I lean forward, jaw clenched, because everyone feels it—the gap where Chris Pronger should be. Chris would be out there punishing Ovechkin, clearing the slot, setting the tone. His absence presses down like a weight and our blueline wavers.
“Stay tight, stay tight,” Weber barks, skating hard, trying to cover two men at once, but Russia strikes first. Ovechkin loops behind the net and flicks a pass to Krutov on the wall. Krutov lowers his shoulder, grinding Seabrook just enough, and lasers a cross-ice feed. Kovalchuk traps it clean, rips glove-side. Brodeur catches a piece, but the puck flutters in, kissing mesh.
One-nothing Russia.
The bench goes quiet. Nobody says a word but I feel the tension ripple through every guy sitting beside me. Fogging breath hangs in the cold arena air as we watch the Russians celebrate, their bench erupting in that rhythmic thump-thump-thump of sticks against the boards.
When my shift comes, I hurdle the boards and my legs churn before my blades even bite the ice. My lungs burn but adrenaline pushes me forward. Ovechkin comes down my side again and every instinct screams at me to force him wide. I keep my eyes locked on his chest, never the puck, and lower my shoulder to meet his hit. The boards rattle with that resonant boom followed by the clatter of flexing stanchions. Pain flares through my ribs but I stay upright and chip the puck past him, snapping a tape-to-tape pass up the ice.
The crowd surges as we break out. Crosby digs one out of the corner with that familiar shattering echo of rubber hitting end-boards. Richards jams the crease and I hammer a slapshot from the point, the shaft bowing like a hunting bow as I let it rip. The gunshot crack echoes off the glass. The puck clanks off the post with that high-pitched ring—hammer on anvil—and ricochets back out.
Too close. My ribs protest with every pivot but I don’t give an inch. Not here, not tonight.
Later, Coach takes me out during a line change. I scramble back to the pine, chest heaving, and seconds later Ovechkin unleashes a one-timer. That violent percussive clack echoes through the arena as pure fury rockets past Brodeur’s blocker.
Two-nothing Russia.
Our fans groan and fall into a stunned silence while the Russian side cheers wildly, tricolor flags waving. Ovechkin bangs the glass, howling at the crowd like a conquering gladiator fresh from battle.
The cameras cut to Section 102. I catch it on the jumbotron—Aunt Nancy and Uncle Aaron hugging the girls, Kristen with her hands in her hair, Emma clutching our flag, Donna and Trish shouting encouragement and Barb screaming my name. The broadcasters pounce: “That’s Michael Stewart’s section—Hollywood, the runway, family. All eyes on Canada’s rookie tonight.”
I strangle my stick until the wood creaks and try to block out the flashes, the shouts, the expectations. The weight of it all presses down on my shoulders like a physical thing. Every camera in this building seems pointed at me, waiting for the next mistake, the next moment of weakness.
Coach Babcock’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade: “Stewart, get your fresh legs over the boards.”
I vault over, lungs burning, legs pumping. The puck rims around to Krutov with that long-distance zip across the blue line. The Russian winger bears down, eyes like ice, and I brace myself for impact. My skates dig in, weight forward, gap closing.
We collide with a crack that shakes the rafters. Sticks fly and both of us crash to the ice. The crowd thunders wildly, that primal roar that fills every corner of the arena. I scramble up first, shoulder throbbing, the metallic tang of adrenaline sharp on my tongue. Krutov stays down longer, then rises, glaring at me while rubbing his ribs.
Our eyes lock. The message passes between us without a single word spoken—this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. The Russian skates backward toward his bench, still holding my gaze, and I feel something settle in my chest. Something cold and determined.
Two goals down. A whole game left to play. And I’m not going anywhere.
Second Period
From the opening draw we storm back with fury. Toews wins the faceoff and hammers the puck back to Weber, who unleashes a slap shot so violent it produces a gunshot crack that echoes through the arena before thumping into Varlamov’s breadbasket. The rebound skitters free, and Corey Perry hacks at it with the desperation of a man chopping kindling in a blizzard. Varlamov sprawls, his glove flaring outward in a desperate butterfly extension, and he manages to keep the puck from crossing the goal line. The Russians roar with relief while we remain focused, driving to the net with relentless pressure.
We press shift after shift. Crosby cuts across the middle and rips a high wrist shot that zips off his blade with that familiar snap of the wrists, but Varlamov kicks it away with his blocker. The puck rolls heel-to-toe with precise rotation, finding its mark but not the net. Nash digs into the corner, muscling past a Russian defender with the grating scrape of jerseys against the glass, his centering pass broken up at the last second by a desperate stick. Brodeur stands tall at the other end, swallowing two shots through traffic with the quiet confidence of a man who has done this a thousand times before. The muffled thud of rubber against his chest protector barely registers above the crowd noise.
The pace turns brutal. Hits shake the glass until the stanchions rattle, that hollow boom echoing through the arena with every collision. Gloves shred on faceoffs where sticks clash with metallic clicks and bodies collide in the confined space of the circle. I absorb the rhythm and stalk Krutov across the ice, tracking his movements with the patience of a hunter. Every collision feels like striking iron, my ribs bruised and shoulder aching from the accumulated punishment, but I never back down. The machine-gun rhythm of my blades biting into the ice becomes a metronome for my focus.
Midway through the period, the chance comes. I carry the puck along the blue line with Krutov closing fast, feel the weight of it on my blade as I fake a shot that freezes him for a half-second. His skates bite into the ice as he commits to the block, and I slide the puck to Niedermayer instead. His one-timer produces a percussive clack that echoes off the plexiglass, sending a stinging vibration through his gloves. Varlamov blocks it, but the rebound bounces straight to Crosby’s tape with a sharp, dry snap. His snapshot produces that muffled thwack as the mesh bulges and swallows the puck, the netting flickering before dropping still.
Two to one, Russia.
Our crowd explodes. Not just cheers but a roar of defiance that washes over the ice in waves of sound, pressing against my chest like a physical force. I barely make it to the bench before Weber crushes me in a bear hug, his breath hot against my ear.
“Kid, that screen was perfect. That goal is yours too.”
For a moment I let myself feel it. The outsider leaving his mark on the biggest stage imaginable. My lungs burn from the shift, that familiar ache spreading through my chest, but it’s the good kind of pain. The kind that means you left everything out there.
The rest of the period spirals into chaos as we trade penalties and tempers flare, though neither side scores another goal. Ovechkin hammers Keith into the boards with a hollow boom that flexes the stanchions, the whoosh of air forced from Keith’s lungs audible even from the bench. Perry slashes at Malkin’s legs in retaliation, both benches screaming at the referees while the crowd adds its voice to the cacophony. Sticks clash with that metallic click-clack that signals bad intentions, bodies pinned against the boards with the shhh-grind of nylon on plastic.
When the horn sounds we skate off trailing by one, but momentum has shifted. The Russians are no longer untouchable. I can feel it in the way they hesitate now, the way their eyes track our movements with something that wasn’t there before. Respect, maybe. Or fear.
I grab my water bottle and squirt a stream into my mouth, the cold liquid cutting through the metallic tang of exertion coating my tongue. Weber drops onto the bench beside me, his chest heaving.
“One more period,” he says. “One more period and we take this thing.”
I nod, watching the Zamboni roll out onto the ice with its low, rhythmic rumble. The smell of fresh water freezing reaches me even here, that clean scent cutting through the sweat and adrenaline lingering in the air. The crowd settles into a restless murmur, conversations buzzing through the stands like static electricity waiting to discharge.
One more period. Twenty minutes between us and everything we’ve worked for.
Third Period
The third period begins like a warzone. Bodies fly with every shift, sticks jam ribs, gloves catch helmets. Curses in English, French, and Russian cut through the crowd’s roar like shrapnel. I dig my blades into the ice during a line change, feeling that sharp, percussive scrape as I push off the boards and launch myself back into the chaos.
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