Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
5. Ripples of Gold
Coming of Age Story: 5. Ripples of Gold - 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
Late February ~ March 2010
The Invitation
When the phone buzzes, I almost ignore it, craving silence more than anything else, but it’s Molly, so I answer: “Molly, It’s late there.”
“It is.” Her voice soft, but the kind of soft that carries worry. “I thought you should hear this from me directly. Elizabeth called.”
The name feels sharp in my chest. “Elizabeth,” I repeat, flat. “We briefly chatted about you and then she requested a favor. She, Willow, and Asuka will be in London for Willow’s concert and would like to stay in your Buckingham Gate Townhouse while you are playing in the Olympics.”
The request lands heavier than most hits on the ice, the feeling of loss still raw. My townhouse, my space, the home I was gifted and hardly even have a chance to use myself. They didn’t ask me, instead they send Molly to make the request. I stare at my hands, jaw tight. “Sure, if they need a roof, let them stay, but I wish they’d ask me themselves.” There is a pause. I can hear Molly drawing in a breath, steadying herself. “They still care, Michael, they just don’t know how to face you right now.” My chest constricts, don’t know how or don’t want to? Out loud, I force calm into my tone. “That makes two of us.” I abruptly change the subject, “Molly, I will work on my schedule to find time for us to meet soon, I promise.” Molly brightens; we chat about inconsequential things and then say our goodbyes.
I collapse backward onto the bed, eyes tracing the ceiling while images come unbidden, cruel in their vividness: Elizabeth puttering in my kitchen, Willow curled up on my sofa, small and safe and Asuka walking barefoot across my floorboards, her steps as precise and silent as ever. They’ll laugh, chat, wear my clothes and leave their shadows on my walls. And me? I’ll be in Vancouver, reduced to a ghost haunting every room. I ask aloud, “Why am I waiting?” Molly, Kristen, Donna and Emma, all want me, and they are even coming to my game.
Micheal’s Buckingham Gate, London Townhouse – Willow and Asuka
The townhouse feels haunted, the walls carry Michael’s scent, cedar and cologne woven into the grain of the wood. Stepping inside is a reminder that Micheal isn’t here. Later, the Olympic Final is playing, the glow paints the room in flickering light, as though the house itself it trying to keep Micheal alive within its walls.
I sit curled on the sofa, knees tucked against my chest wearing Michael’s hoody; the sleeves swallowing my hands, neither Asuka nor I have said a word for the past half an hour. My thoughts spin in circles, he looks so alive out there. Every stride powerful and so much passion. That is Michael — ours once, maybe still somewhere deep down, but he shines brightest now when we are farthest from him. Did we trade love for hollow freedom? I wish Elizabeth was here with us, but her dad forced her to attend that damn dinner party.
Asuka is pacing, bare feet whispering against the rug, her arms crossed, jaw set, eyes locked on the screen as if willing herself not to blink. Every step a battle against the storm inside. He is victorious. But victory alone is not happiness. What honor is there in leaving him to bear the storm alone?
On the screen, Michael raises his stick in triumph, the medal ceremony plays in perfect clarity. The crowd roars and the Canadian anthem soars to the heavens, tears streaking Micheal’s face. My voice cracks as I whisper, “He looks happy.” Asuka’s eyes narrow, her tone flat. “He looks victorious. That’s different from happy.” I spin on her, eyes blazing. “Why do you always twist it like that? Why can’t you admit it hurts to see him without us?”
Glaring at Willow, my mouth opens, then closes, chest tight, shame coiling in my gut. Because it hurts, every second of the ceremony makes me feel the weight of my mistake. I admit to myself that maybe I was wrong to abandon Micheal without even talking to him. Out loud, I only manage to say, “We all thought it was the right thing to leave him.”
My eyes glisten. “And where has that choice left us? Sitting in his house, pretending it’s ours, watching him from a couch like strangers.”
Watching Asuka, the silence between us deepens and I can tell she feels the same ache and guilt that I do, but neither of us can act without opening wounds too raw to touch. I love him, I think, biting my lip until it almost bleeds. I never stopped, but to say it aloud is to admit my mistake, and the truth burns more than silence.
Simultaneously, Asuka thinks, I told myself honor mattered more than love, but what is honor when it leaves me exiled, watching him triumph without me? Love is the wound that never heals, and I carved it myself.
The television rolls into highlights again and the crowd’s roar fill the room. Neither of us move. But when the lights dim and the replay ended, out hands find each other. Fingers interlace by instinct, lips brushing with the tenderness of memory. We are lovers, clinging to the only warmth left in Michael’s absence. Yet beneath the closeness I sense we are fracturing. Elizabeth is pulling away, her mother and father exerting influence, drawing her back into their orbit, and away from us. Subtle at first but gaining momentum daily.
I press my forehead against Asuka’s shoulder, whispering so softly it is almost a prayer. “He’s still ours, isn’t he?” Asuka’s eyes close, the answer caught between her heart and her pride and, she doesn’t speak. Outside, the rain strikes the windows relentless and cold mirroring our mood perfectly. Inside, we hold each other beneath blankets that still carry his scent, trying to bridge a silence we have created with our own choices.
Ford Dinner Party - Elizabeth
The chandeliers in the Belgravia townhouse, the Ford ancestorial home in London, throws gold across crystal and polished mahogany, a warm light designed to flatter guests and soften edges. My father sits at the head of the table, mother on his right and I’m on his left, posture perfect, a study in gracious restraint. Laughter moves up and down the linen like a tide, waiters refill glasses with the invisibility of ghosts.
“Such a triumph,” coos Lady Hartwell from my left. “Young Mr. Stewart—what a story. All of London is speaking of him.”
My smile comes easily just short of adoration and a half-degree past modesty. “He always works harder than anyone else and now people finally see what I always known.”
God, he is so powerful on the ice, I can’t help myself...
On the far side, a hedge fund magnate tips his glass. “Remarkable poise for a boy his age. And the company he keeps—actresses, models, royals—quite the orbit.”
“Orbit is a dangerous word,” I reply lightly, turning the stem of my flute between elegant fingers. Compliments float back to me as if I have spoken poetry. I accept each with a demure incline of my head, the picture of a young woman who wishes only the best for a former love but inside, I feel the familiar doubts. Servers bring a course of turbot over fennel, the table murmurs approval. The house pianist shifts to something bright and unthreatening.
When the last plates are lifted, the guests peel off into small constellations around the salon. I remain seated, the calm planet both receiving and reflecting light. Across the room, my father stands by the fireplace, a tumbler of scotch in one hand, speaking in a low voice to two men who traffic in information: not just the public kind, but the sort that wears silk gloves over iron fists.
He dismisses them with a nod and approaches me. “You play the ex-lover beautifully,” he murmurs, eyes soft with paternal pride and something colder. I reply, a little too sharply, “I am not playing, I still care for Micheal, but our paths have forked.”
My father’s gaze flicks to the guests and back. “Every ally he gains makes him more resilient. The Queen respects him, the Duke would have him marry Bianca if he was of noble blood, and his AI will create a competitive advantage for us.”
My smile doesn’t waver during my father speech, while inside I am thinking about actions and consequences.
A trio approaches: a gallery owner, a mid-tier royal cousin, and an actress whose star rises or falls depending on the wind. They speak to me of the Olympic footage, the ferocity of the Russian attack, the serenity of Michael’s posture on the blue line. I listen, attentive and effusively singing Micheal’s virtues. I touch an elbow here, a wrist there, each gesture a promise that I’ve hear and remember. This is my role now, another link in the family chain, protector of our realm
When I drift away the guests, my father leans in, his voice barely air. “Meet me in the library, we have much to discuss.” My lashes lower in acknowledgement.
The pianist shifts to a nocturne, guests begin to pair off—some to dance, some to whisper conspiracy or scandal. I rise and let the room discover me anew: I offer congratulations to a set designer on a new commission, tease a Viscount about his terrible backhand, charm a dour columnist into laughter. Every smile I give spins a strand of silk. Every strand links to another.
I stop before the tall windows that look across the park, where rain draws silver lines under streetlamps. My reflection meets hers: the perfect angle of chin, the unwavering mouth, the eyes that have learned to glitter without giving anything away. “Will you go to him?” asks a voice at my shoulder. It is Lady Hartwell again, sly and sympathetic. “Men in triumph need ballast.”
“Ballast is heavy,” I say, tone bright with self-mockery. “Micheal already carries to much weight on his shoulders.”
“Still,” Lady Hartwell presses, “you speak as though you know his deeper self.”
A laugh blooms and fades, “I know him well” I say. “How he tucks his thumb under the stick when he’s about to overreach. The way he glances left before he ghosts right. He hates praise in public—it makes him feel like he’s betraying the work.”
Lady Hartwell blinks, the intimacy of the detail startling her. “And you?”
“I believe this is just the beginning, Micheal will be extraordinary” I say, while holding Lady Hartwell’s hand with sisterly warmth.
The evening deepens and I watch dad withdraw to the library, a signal that the portion of the night dedicated to optics has ended. I follow, stepping through the hush of a corridor where Ford ancestral portraits pose in their gilded frames—men who have learned to win at any cost; women who have learned how to be the silent blade.
The library’s door clicks shut behind me, the scent of leather and old paper rises like a benediction. My father stands at the desk, sorting sealed envelopes into two stacks: those that will be answered tonight, and those that will be left to season.
This is the moment I have feared, mother and Father are enacting their strategy to acquire Aegis by any means necessary.
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