Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
7. Knock Knock
Coming of Age Story: 7. Knock Knock - 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
Score!, February 28, 2010
A knock cuts through the quiet—not loud, but persistent. Probably Drew wanting to drag me back downstairs into the chaos of the celebration. I smile, hauling myself off the edge of the bed. The plush carpet muffles my steps as I cross to the door.
It isn’t Drew.
Donna Summerville leans against my doorframe. A little black dress clings to every impossible curve, less clothing and more declaration. Her smile curves with pure, knowing amusement—a silent Do you really think you can hide? Her scent hits me, something expensive, clean, and dangerous, and my nostrils flare before I can stop them.
“Celebrating solo, Gold Medalist Stewart?” Her voice is husky, effortless.
Before I can formulate a response—something witty, dismissive, anything—she presses a cold Diet Coke into my hand. Her fingers brush mine, not an accident, a deliberate invitation that lingers just a fraction too long. “Thought you might need refreshment.” Her smirk deepens. “Or maybe just better company.” Her gaze holds mine, direct, challenging, an offer wrapped in silk. “Mind if I come in?”
That simple touch, the press of the cold can, her presence filling the doorway—the low, simmering hunger I’ve been ignoring flares hot and sudden, a current jolting through my system. She reads my reaction and sashays into the room. Two sharp pffts break the silence as she opens both Cokes at the wet bar. Her gaze sweeps the space—the rumpled bed, the discarded Team Canada jacket—and lands on the medal.
“Wow,” she breathes, genuine awe softening her usual playful edge. She turns, holding out the can. “Can I?”
“Yeah. Sure.” My voice sounds rough. She lifts the gold medal, its weight substantial in her slender hands. Her thumb traces the intricate etching, the Olympic rings. Not gushing—just appreciating. Then she looks at me, that familiar spark returning.
“Put it on,” she commands, a slow smile spreading. Before I can react, her fingers find my robe’s belt and with a sharp tug, the knot gives way. Cool air hits my bare chest as the robe falls off my shoulders, leaving me in just my boxers.
The medal settles against my skin, cool at first, then warming quickly. She steps closer, impossibly close, her perfume washing over me. One arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against her. The other hand holds her phone, preparing to take a selfie. “Smile, champ,” she commands, her breath warm against my neck.
The phone flashes. On the screen, I see myself—the medal gleaming on my bare chest, Donna beside me, radiating triumph. She smiles like the cat that ate the canary, utterly pleased with herself.
Before I can process it, before I can even lower my gaze from the phone screen, she turns fully toward me. Her free hand tangles lightly in the short hair at my nape, tilting my head down. Blue eyes lock on mine—daring, challenging, irresistible. Then her lips meet mine. Soundly. Deeply. A kiss that is less a request and more a claiming. Her mouth tastes sweet, sharp from the Diet Coke, and utterly devastating in its sudden, confident intensity.
A choked gasp escapes me as she slides downward, pulling my boxers with her. Before I can respond to the kiss, she takes me nearly to the root. Her eyes, locked on mine, are luminous pools, her lipstick already smudged.
Her throat works me, a desperate little convulsion I feel along my entire length. The sight, the tight wet pressure, the sheer audacity of this woman on her knees here, now—it shatters the last vestiges of my control. My fingers tangle in her hair, not pushing, just holding on as she pulls back slowly, then surges forward again. Her gag is soft, muffled, swallowed as she forces herself deeper. The world narrows to slick sounds, the ache in my thighs, the image of her supplicant. I can’t hold back. A groan rips from my throat, raw and involuntary, as release slams into me hard.
She holds my spend, opens her mouth to show me, swallows, then leans back slowly, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. A satisfied, almost feline smile plays across her face. Her eyes, though slightly watery, hold a fierce, triumphant gleam.
Then, without a word, she stands and turns. The elegant line of her back is bisected by the zipper of her dress. Her fingers find the metal pull. She glances over her shoulder, the challenge back in her gaze, and draws it down. Slowly. The rasp of zipper teeth is obscenely loud in the charged silence.
A shrug and fabric pools at her feet. She steps out and turns fully toward me. Only a scrap of lace remains, stark against her pale skin. Perfection sculpted. Demanding. She does not speak, just extends her hand. I take it, her fingers cool against my burning palm, and let her lead me to the bed.
We sink onto the duvet. Her mouth finds mine instantly, hungry. Then I start to move, my mouth trailing downward, between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach, taut muscles fluttering under my lips. I hook my fingers into the sides of the lace and pull it down her legs. She gasps, arching off the bed.
I bury my face between her thighs, and her taste explodes on my tongue—musky, sweet, uniquely her. Donna’s gasps sharpen into a cry, her hands fisting the sheets, then clutching my hair, pulling, urging. My tongue seeks her sensitive bud, circling, flicking, tasting her wetness. Her hips buck against me, low moans building into sharp, breathless cries. Her thighs clamp around my head. She is humid heat, trembling muscle, a rising tide of sensation. I chase her clit relentlessly, listening to her breath hitch, her moans break into desperate, fragmented pleas. Her back arches high, a keening cry rips from her throat, tremors wrack her body, legs quaking around my ears, her core pulsing against my mouth.
Then she convulses and collapses back onto the sheets, utterly spent—a writhing, sweaty mess, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick. Her hand finds my hair again, not pulling, just resting, trembling softly. She is utterly still save for the frantic rise and fall of her chest, the air thick with the scent of her release. Donna lies sprawled across the moist sheets, every perfect muscle loose.
She looks utterly relaxed. A strange, fierce pride wars with the lingering buzz under my skin. I trace a fingertip down the valley between her shoulder blades, feeling the slight tremor still running through her. She stirs, turning her head on the pillow. Those impossibly blue eyes, still hazy but sharpening, lock onto mine. A slow, lazy smile spreads across her face, transforming exhaustion into something predatory, playful.
“Not done with me yet, Gold Medalist?” Her voice is husky, scraped raw.
I just watch her. She pushes herself up onto one elbow, revealing the smooth, sweat-slicked plane of her stomach. Her gaze travels down my body, lingering deliberately. A spark ignites in those blue depths. “I’m ready,” she declares, the playful edge hardening into certainty. Her eyes never leave mine. “Ready for your slap shot.”
Before the words fully register, she is moving. Fluid, deliberately obscene, she rolls onto her hands and knees and arches her back, presenting the perfect, sculpted curve of her ass. She gives it a slow, deliberate wiggle, a silent, provocative challenge.
“Well?” Her voice drips with anticipation.
Animalistic lust erupts in me, immediate and fierce. I slide off the bed and stand there for a heartbeat, just looking—admiring the sheer audacity of her pose. My hands drift outward, skimming the smooth curves. She shivers, pressing back fractionally against my palm.
A groan escapes me, primal and raw. I position myself behind her, my hands finding the flare of her hips, fingers finding purchase. I nudge against her sex—she is slick, hot, wet and ready. I push, slowly, feeling the tight resistance, the incredible, yielding pressure as I breach her. A gasp tears from her lips, and I thrust deeper, inch by deliberate inch, until I am fully seated.
So tight. Unbelievably tight. I pause, shuddering, letting the sensation wash over me, letting her adjust. “Michael...” she breathes, a ragged whisper. Then, with a sudden, fierce buck of her hips she forces me deeper still: “Don’t you fucking stop!”
Control snaps. My hands tighten on her hips, anchoring her as I pull back and slam forward. Hard. Her cry is strangled, half-swallowed by the pillow. I do it again and again—a brutal, driving rhythm. The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room, sharp and relentless. Sweat stings my eyes as I lean forward, bracing one hand on the bed, the other grabbing her hair.
“That’s it,” I growl, my voice rough, the words tumbling out thick and hot, fueled by the pounding rhythm. “Take it. Feel it. Fucking perfect.” Praise wrapped in roughness.
She screams into the pillow, a high, choked sound that vibrates through me. Her body clenches around me, a vice tightening with each thrust. She meets me, push for push, hips pistoning back, driving me deeper.
My own breaths turn into guttural grunts—the sounds of exertion I know from the ice, from the final sprint toward an open net. Sprinting. Straining. Every muscle corded.
The pressure builds, coiled low and explosive. I feel her inner muscles flutter, clench desperately. Her screams dissolve into frantic, incoherent cries against the linen. I drive into her harder, faster, chasing that peak, the frantic rhythm intensifying.
The tension snaps. Release tears through me, blinding, all-consuming, roaring out in a final, harsh groan ripped from my chest as I bury myself deep, pulsing. She convulses beneath me, shuddering, her cry muffled but violent against the pillow.
Silence crashes down, heavy and thick, punctuated only by our ragged gasps. Sweat drips from my chin onto her back. I slump forward, my forehead resting between her shoulder blades, my hands still locked on her hips, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath the skin.
We stay like this, wrecked and spent, exhausted but utterly, deeply satiated.
I slump forward, my weight settling gently on Donna’s back, cheek pressed against the damp heat between her shoulder blades. Her skin is slick, the scent of exertion and musk thick in the air. But beneath it, radiating through the sweat, is warmth.
Her body yields slightly under mine, a solid, breathing anchor for my arms, still trembling faintly, draped loosely around her waist. This simple weight, this shared heat—it’s a kind of intimacy I miss.
I force my muscles to unlock, rolling off her onto my back. The ceiling swims for a second before settling into focus.
“Quite the warm-down,” Donna whispers, her voice carrying that satisfied, lazy quality that tells me she’s feeling exactly what I’m feeling.
“Yeah,” I manage, my own voice rough, scraped raw. “Effective.”
A stupid thing to say, but my brain feels pleasantly numb. She props herself up on an elbow, tracing a light finger along a faint scar above my hip bone—a souvenir from a skate blade years back, the kind of thing you collect when you spend enough time on the ice. Her gaze is steady, thoughtful, not the usual playful spark or the intense heat of minutes ago.
“Michael?” Her tone softens, catching my attention. “This ... tonight ... I know it’s fast. Insane timing—me jet-lagged, you wired from ... everything.” She gestures vaguely, encompassing the Olympics, the city, the room. “But I don’t want this to be just a gold medal celebration fuck.”
My breath hitches. She sees the hesitation flicker, the instinctive retreat forming in my eyes. She holds my gaze, not backing down, not letting me slide away into some easy deflection.
“I know you’re guarded. I know we’re both leaving soon and our schedules are insane, but I’d like to try to stay connected. See where this can go—beyond the adrenaline and the hotel sheets.”
I let the words settle. Part of me wants to retreat into the familiar armor of noncommittal responses, the kind of thing that keeps everything simple and clean. But there’s something in the way she’s looking at me—open, vulnerable in a way that takes guts—that makes me want to meet her halfway.
“Okay,” I say, surprised at the lack of hesitation in my own voice. “Yeah. Okay. I can ... I’ll do better.” A promise, fragile but sincere. The words feel strange in my mouth, like I’m committing to something I don’t fully understand yet.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across her face, chasing away the last traces of tension. She leans down, her lips soft and warm against mine. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just nice. Solid. A seal on the agreement.
She pulls back, eyes holding mine for a long moment, and I can see something shift in her expression—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. Then she slips out of bed with a fluid grace that reminds me why she gets paid what she gets paid. The sight of her walking naked to the ensuite, the powerful lines of her back, her ass still flushed from everything we just did—it’s a punch to the gut.
Water hisses in the shower. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound and trying to process what just happened. Not the sex—that part’s simple enough. The conversation after. The agreement. The way I said yes without my usual mental gymnastics.
When she emerges minutes later, skin glowing, wrapped in one of the hotel’s white towels, she offers another small smile. She dresses swiftly in her black dress—a different kind of armor now, the kind that says she’s ready to face whatever’s waiting outside this room.
At the door, she pauses. Turns back. Her hand dips into her clutch, and she pulls out her thong—the black lace I peeled off her earlier—and presses it into my palm.
“A souvenir,” she says, her voice carrying that playful edge again.
Then she’s gone, slipping into the pre-dawn without grand pronouncements or dramatic farewells. Just a final, lingering look—a silent see you soon—and the soft click of the door closing behind her.
I lie there in the quiet, the thong still warm in my hand, the scent of her perfume mixing with the musk of what we did. The city hums somewhere below, indifferent to everything that just happened in this room.
I should sleep. I should get up and shower and start thinking about what comes next—the flight back to Ann Arbor, the stack of obligations waiting for me, the weight of everything I’ve been carrying since Vancouver.
Instead, I just breathe. Let the silence settle. Let the promise I made hang in the air like something real.
Hunted
I wake to the insistent buzz of my phone and fumble for it, the room still dark except for the thin blue light of dawn sneaking around the curtains. The caller ID glows: Aunt Nancy.
I clear my throat and answer. “Morning, Aunt Nancy.”
Her voice comes quick, amused, and just a little sharp. “Morning? Michael, are you dating Donna Summerville now?”
I blink and sit up against the headboard. “What? No—what makes you—”
“It’s all over the internet,” she interrupts, a chuckle threading through her words. “Front page everywhere. You and Donna, last night. Michael Stewart, gold medal hero and—” she pauses for effect “—supermodel’s new flame.”
I swing my legs out of bed, heart thudding against my ribs. My mind races through the night. We never left the suite. No one saw us together. The door stayed closed. Room service came and went without incident. How can anyone know she was here?
“Aunt Nancy, hold on a second.”
I reach for my macbook on the nightstand, flip it open, and pull up a browser. The headlines hit me like a check into the boards.
“DONNA DOES ROOMSERVICE!?”
“VICTORY NIGHT WITH DONNA SUMMERVILLE”
“FROM ICE TO EMBRACE: STEWART’S MIDNIGHT SCORE”
The words blur together, each one louder, crueler than the last. Some sites splash still frames of Donna entering the hotel lobby, her face half-turned toward the camera. Others feature grainy long-lens shots of a figure leaving the hotel many hours later, blonde hair catching the streetlight. The timestamps don’t lie. Someone was watching. Someone was waiting.
My stomach drops.
“Michael? You still there?”
I exhale slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Just—processing.”
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