Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
6. Ripples of Gold
Coming of Age Story: 6. 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 AI Generated
The Invitation, February 2010
When the phone buzzes, I almost ignore it. I’m craving silence more than anything else right now, but it’s Molly, so I answer.
“Molly. It’s late there.”
“It is.” Her voice comes through soft, but it’s the kind of soft that carries worry underneath. “I thought you should hear this from me directly. Elizabeth called.”
The name lands sharp in my chest. I feel it like a blade slipping between ribs.
“Elizabeth,” I repeat. My voice comes out flat, deliberately controlled. “What did she want?”
“We briefly chatted about you, and then she requested a favor.” Molly pauses, and I can picture her choosing her words carefully. “She, Willow, and Asuka will be in London for Willow’s concert. They’d like to stay at your Buckingham Gate Townhouse while you’re playing in the Olympics.”
The request hits me harder than most checks on the ice. That hollow boom you feel when someone catches you looking the wrong way, that bone-deep vibration that rattles through your whole frame. The feeling of loss is still raw, still sitting right there under the surface where I’ve been trying to bury it.
My townhouse. My space. The home the Crown gifted me, and I’ve hardly even had a chance to use it myself. And they didn’t ask me directly. Instead, they send Molly to make the request, like I’m some obstacle to be navigated around rather than a person they used to share a bed with.
I stare at my hands, jaw tight. The silence stretches between us across the Atlantic.
“Sure,” I finally say. “If they need a roof, let them stay.” I pause, swallowing down the bitterness that wants to creep into my voice. “But I wish they’d ask me themselves.”
There’s a pause on her end. I can hear Molly drawing in a breath, steadying herself the way she does when she’s about to say something she knows I don’t want to hear.
“They still care, Michael. They just don’t know how to face you right now.”
My chest constricts at that. Don’t know how, or don’t want to? The question burns, but I don’t ask it. What’s the point? I already know the answer won’t make me feel any better.
Out loud, I force calm into my tone. Years of locker room discipline, of keeping your face neutral when the coach scratches you from the lineup, of not showing weakness when some goon is trying to get under your skin. It all kicks in automatically.
“That makes two of us.”
The words hang there, heavier than I intended. I need to change the subject before this conversation drags me somewhere I don’t want to go. Not tonight. Not when I’m supposed to be focused on the biggest tournament of my life.
“Molly, I’ll work on my schedule to find time for us to meet soon.” I mean it. I need something real, something uncomplicated. “I promise.”
Molly brightens immediately, and I can hear the smile in her voice. We chat about inconsequential things after that—her latest shoot, the weather in London, some ridiculous story about a designer who threw a fit over the wrong shade of cream. Normal stuff. Easy stuff. The kind of conversation that doesn’t require me to excavate my feelings and lay them out for examination.
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call.
I collapse backward onto the bed, my eyes tracing the ceiling while images come unbidden. Cruel in their vividness, like my brain is deliberately torturing me.
Elizabeth puttering in my kitchen, reaching for the coffee mugs I picked out myself. Willow curled up on my sofa, small and safe, her dirty blonde hair spilling across the cushions. Asuka walking barefoot across my floorboards, her steps as precise and silent as ever, that fluid water-like movement she has even when she’s just crossing a room.
They’ll laugh together. They’ll chat and cook and wear my clothes. They’ll leave their shadows on my walls, their scent in my sheets, their presence soaked into every corner of that townhouse. And me? I’ll be in Vancouver, skating my heart out for a gold medal, reduced to a ghost haunting every room of a home I’m not even in.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
I ask aloud, voice flat in the empty room: “Why am I waiting?”
Molly wants me. Kristen wants me. Donna and Emma, they all want me. And they’re even coming to my game, flying across the continent to watch me play. Meanwhile, the three women who were supposed to be my partners can’t even pick up the phone to ask me for a favor themselves.
I run my hands through my hair, staring at the ceiling.
One shift at a time, I tell myself. That’s all I can do. Focus on what’s in front of me. The Olympics. The ice. The gold medal everyone expects me to help deliver.
Everything else can wait.
Haunted
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 Michael isn’t here. Later, the Olympic Final plays on the television, the glow painting the room in flickering light, as though the house itself is trying to keep Michael alive within its walls.
Willow sits curled on the sofa, knees tucked against her chest, wearing Michael’s hoodie with the sleeves swallowing her hands. Neither she nor Asuka has said a word for the past half hour. Her 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 they are farthest from him. Did they trade love for hollow freedom? She wishes Elizabeth was here with them, but her dad forced her to attend that damn dinner party.
Asuka paces, 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 is 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 Michael’s face. Willow’s voice cracks as she whispers, “He looks happy.”
Asuka’s eyes narrow, her tone flat. “He looks victorious. That’s different from happy.”
Willow spins on her, eyes blazing. “Why do you always twist it like that? Why can’t you admit it hurts to see him without us?”
Asuka’s mouth opens, then closes, chest tight, shame coiling in her gut. Because it hurts. Every second of the ceremony makes her feel the weight of her mistake. Maybe she was wrong to abandon Michael without even talking to him. Out loud, she only manages to say, “We all thought it was the right thing to leave him.”
Willow’s eyes glisten. “And where has that choice left us? Sitting in his house, pretending it’s ours, watching him from a couch like strangers.”
The silence between them deepens. Willow watches Asuka and can tell she feels the same ache and guilt, but neither of them can act without opening wounds too raw to touch. She loves him. She bites her lip until it almost bleeds. She never stopped, but to say it aloud is to admit her mistake, and the truth burns more than silence.
Asuka stares at the screen, her reflection ghosting across Michael’s image. She told herself honor mattered more than love, but what is honor when it leaves her exiled, watching him triumph without her? Love is the wound that never heals, and she carved it herself.
The television rolls into highlights again and the crowd’s roar fills the room. Neither of them moves. But when the lights dim and the replay ends, their hands find each other. Fingers interlace by instinct, lips brushing with the tenderness of memory. They are lovers, clinging to the only warmth left in Michael’s absence.
Willow pulls back slightly, searching Asuka’s face. “Something’s wrong. With Elizabeth, I mean. She’s been different lately.”
Asuka’s jaw tightens. “Her parents are exerting influence. Drawing her back into their orbit.”
“You’ve noticed it too.” Willow’s voice drops. “It started subtle, but it’s gaining momentum. Every day she pulls a little further away.”
“The Fords do not relinquish what they consider theirs.” Asuka’s words are measured, formal. “Elizabeth may not realize how deep the current runs.”
Willow shakes her head slowly. “She’s caught between us and them. And I don’t think she knows how to choose.”
“Perhaps she already has.” The flatness in Asuka’s tone carries more grief than accusation. “We are losing her the same way we lost him. Through silence. Through distance.”
Willow presses her 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. She doesn’t speak.
Outside, the rain strikes the windows, relentless and cold, mirroring their mood perfectly. Inside, they hold each other beneath blankets that still carry his scent, trying to bridge a silence they have created with their own choices. The house settles around them, creaking softly, as if mourning alongside them for everything that has slipped away.
Ford Dinner Party
The chandeliers in the Belgravia townhouse throw 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’ve 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’m not playing,” I reply, a little too sharply. “I still care for Michael, 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’s 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 Michael’s virtues. I touch an elbow here, a wrist there, each gesture a promise that I’ve heard and will remember. This is my role now, another link in the family chain, protector of our realm.
When I drift away from the guests, my father leans in, his voice barely air. “Meet me in the library. We have much to discuss.” My lashes lower in acknowledgment.
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 me there: 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. “Michael already carries too 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. Michael will be extraordinary,” I say, holding Lady Hartwell’s hand with sisterly warmth.
The evening deepens and I watch my father 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 rising 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.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.