Defenceman: Parallel Ice (Non-Canonical Saga)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
8. A Circle Reforged
Coming of Age Story: 8. A Circle Reforged - 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
April 2010
Sensei’s Concern
The Matsuda clan gathers in the quiet upper room of their Ann Arbor estate, shoji screens mute the sunlight, casting elongated shadows across the tatami mats. I sit at the table, still and composed, my eyes half-closed as though listening to currents beneath the silence. When I finally speak, my words carry the weight of stones dropped into still water. “Michael’s body trains, but his spirit is elsewhere, he moves as if haunted by absences and if this continues, he will break. We cannot let him drift, he needs a sparring partner who will not yield—one equal to Asuka, perhaps stronger. Someone who will push him beyond what sentiment allows.”
The clan exchanges glances, voices elevate in quiet but urgent concern, Mitsy speaks next, her tone precise and laced with worry. “I see it too, at dinner last week, he barely touched his food and only smiled when I pressed him, an empty gesture. People in his classes are whispering about him, I know it bothers him, but he hides behind politeness.” Her father adds, “I received a call from our condo manager that the paparazzi are hounding him at his home, and the other tenants are upset; distraction invites danger.”
Hiroto leans forward, his voice tight with frustration, “he carries too much, school, hockey, abandonment, no one so young should have to stand beneath such weight; he will collapse if we do nothing.” The conversation spirals until at last, Mr. Matsuda Sr. leans forward, his gaze steady as iron, “then let us not speak only of his burdens, let us speak of remedies. If Asuka cannot stand beside him, another must, bring Rika Sato from Japan; she has been tested in fire, demands excellence and is relentless. Rika will drive him further, where Asuka gave loyalty, Rika will give challenge. Michael needs challenge more than comfort right now.”
The room stills, Mitsy shifts uneasily, her lips pressing into a thin line, voice quiet, “Asuka is my oldest friend, to see her replaced, cuts deeper than I care to admit.” She draws in a breath, steadying herself, “but Michael’s path cannot bend to friendship alone, he needs someone who will sharpen him, if it is Rika, then let it be so.” No one challenges her, her reticence only underscores the weight of the decision. Misty ponders How do I tell Asuka that she has been replaced by Rika, her kōtekishu?
Kiyomi Matsuda, formerly Toyama now married to Hiroto, rises, her presence steady and unshakable, “enough” she says softly, the statement carries more weight than any argument. “Michael is not alone; we will help him shoulder his burdens, if he wavers, it is our duty to steady him, if he resists, it is our duty to remind him his path is not his own anymore, it belongs to all of us.” She turns to the Sensei and bows, “I will serve as his senpai in matters beyond the mat, but for the training itself ... let Rika Sato be brought. Only then will he be forged, not broken.”
Mr. Matsuda Sr.’s eyes open fully, clear and cutting, he holds Kiyomi’s gaze for a long moment before nodding once. “So be it but remember pride runs as deep in Micheal as pain, you must not allow him to refuse, he needs to learn that strength is not only his own—it is the circle forged around him.”
The dojo is quiet tonight, the thrum of my pulse feels louder than the padded slap of my feet on the mat. I bow in, although Sensei told me not to; still, I cannot begin without showing respect. His voice cuts through the stillness—one sharp command, “Begin.” My body obeys, moving through the forms, but my focus lags, every form and strike feels heavier than the last. Sweat runs in a sharp line down my temple, blurring the edges of the room, the burn in my arms should feel like discipline, but instead it feels like exhaustion.
“Michael.” Sensei Ogata’s voice snaps me back, calm, steady, but laced with weight, I freeze mid-stance, breath ragged, his eyes—ancient, unflinching—hold mine. “You are not here,” I want to protest, to say I am trying, but the truth weighs too heavily, I am here in body but not in spirit, I bow my head, “I know, Sensei.” He steps closer, hands clasped behind his back, gaze sharp, “your body is strong, your technique good, but your spirit is clouded, a warrior divided cannot endure.” I whisper, “I can endure,” but even I hear the hollowness, his head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing, “endurance is not enough, you walk with the Matsuda name now. You carry our honor as well as your own, yet you train like a boy abandoned, not a man chosen.” His words land harder than any sparring blow. Chosen? I don’t feel chosen, I feel discarded in the Dojo.
Sensei’s gaze softens, though it never weakens, compassion rests in his voice. “Michael, do you know why I am concerned?” My throat tightens, “because I’m failing?” He shakes his head slowly, “because you are close to breaking, and a broken man invites danger—not just for himself, but for all who stand beside him.” If I falter here, on this mat, what happens in the next ambush, the next fight in the shadows? “I don’t want to break,” I admit, my voice cracking, Sensei does not flinch, “then you must allow others to bear the weight.” His tone like steel drawn from the sheath, “we will assist, Rika Sato is arriving shortly to become your new sparring partner.” Sensei explains that Rika is a master, ruthless at times and surpasses Asuka in some areas. Before I can form a question, Sensei adds, “Kiyomi will be visiting you with a proposal, listen closely and answer carefully.” I want to refuse, say I am all right, but know it as a lie.
Sensei studies me and declares, “Enough for tonight, go get cleaned up.” I bow low, grateful, then step off the mat, mind whiling. The shower refreshes and wakes my body leaving me with my thoughts, endurance is not enough, I am not alone. By the time I dress and step back into the dojo, the mats are mostly empty, the lights dimmed, at the far end, I stop short. Kiyomi Matsuda is here, she stands before Sensei Ogata, her voice pitched low and steady, her hands folded in front of her with the kind of dignity that makes the air feel sacred. She doesn’t wear a gi, she never does, Kiyomi belongs to the world of silk and subtle power, but tonight her presence feels no less commanding.
I hesitate at the edge of the mat, unsure if I should intrude, yet something draws me forward. Their conversation pauses as my footsteps carry me across the tatami. Kiyomi turns first, her eyes finding mine with a calm clarity that unsettles me more than any sparring match. “Michael,” Sensei says, his tone neutral but firm, “you have returned quickly.” I bow, careful not to meet either gaze too directly, “I didn’t wish to leave without giving my thanks.”
Kiyomi studies me for a moment, her look holds no judgment, only resolve. She turns to Sensei, then to me, as though weighing whether to speak. Finally, her voice breaks the quiet, “we were speaking of you, of what must come next.”
My pulse quickens. Of course they were, my weakness has become their concern, my path, no longer mine alone. Sensei folds his hands behind his back, nodding once, “tomorrow, Michael, you will not train alone, the clan has decided this.”
Kiyomi steps closer now, her presence steady, her eyes unwavering. “You carry too much, and the burden shows, from this night forward, you will have guidance, you will not be left to stumble in the dark.” I consider protesting that I don’t need rescuing, but the sincerity of Kiyomi’s statement stays my tongue. Instead, I bow again, deeper this time, my voice low, “Yes, Sensei and Kiyomi.” The silence that follows is not the emptiness of earlier but something expectant, tomorrow, I will be supported—ready or not.
Senpai
I crack the living-room window and let the cool air spill across the sill. Inside, everything is neat, the way Hanna prefers it, she’s humming a tune, I can’t place, as she sweeps the kitchen. I should be working, Aegis stares back from my laptop as a stack of half-finished modules and notes. I keep trying to push myself into a flow, to let the logic pull me under and swallow all the noise, but the mental gears grind. I hear a knock, three measured taps, intentional and composed, and think who is at the door, no one buzzed, instantly alert. I wipe my hands on my jeans, cross the room, peer through the peep hole and then open the door.
Kiyomi stands in the hall, back straight, eyes steady, she doesn’t lift her chin, doesn’t press me with any visible force, and still the space seems to align around her. I step aside, “good evening, please come in.” She enters the condo without a wasted motion, slides her coat and shoes off and accepts the offered guest slippers. Hanna looks up from the kitchen, the hum dying on her lips, there’s a quick searching moment in her gaze; is this safe? Is this new person going to disrupt the fragile balance we’ve built? Then she tucks it away beneath manners.
“Hanna,” I say, “this is Kiyomi ... a good friend of mine.”
Hanna bows politely, “Good evening.”
“It is good to meet you,” Kiyomi answers, warm but restrained, as if she were greeting a guest in her own home. Her eyes take in the cleaned counters, the lined-up mugs, the broom in Hanna’s hand, and I see a flicker of approval that doesn’t reach her mouth. “I’ll be in my room,” Hanna says, voice small but steady. She leans the broom against the wall and slips down the hall, pausing once to look back at me, I nod and she vanishes, giving Kiyomi and me privacy.
I motion toward the sofa. “Please.”
She sits without touching the backrest, palms folded, posture speaking a language I’ve only begun to learn from Sensei. I take the chair opposite and feel, foolishly, like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office. No scolding, just assessment, like she’s weighing me against something beyond the room.
“You look strong, Michael,” she says at last, “but you are tired, not from training, tired from the weight you carry alone.”
“I’m managing,” it sounds flimsy the moment the words leave my mouth.
She tilts her head, “a kōhai often thinks effort alone will make him into a man, in the dojo, we know better, strength without guidance invites injury.” The word stings, kōhai, junior student, it shouldn’t as I am a student, but I’ve learned to hide inside the momentum of action. I rub my hands together to have something to do, “I’ll get there.”
“You will,” she replies, tone certain as winter, “if you accept your senpai.”
I start to speak and stop, I’m remembering my parent’s kitchen, the crowd noise from long ago hockey games crackling over the radio. Those were simpler times, you skate, you shot, you pay the price with your body, it was enough. Ann Arbor has become a different kind of rink: microphones instead of forecheckers, contracts instead of sticks, smiling faces with hidden agendas. Integrity isn’t counted in bruises when headlines twist the narrative.
Her expression doesn’t change, “outside the dojo, you are still kōhai, you rely on muscle where wisdom is required. The press would paint you as selfish, powerful men covet what you are building, there are snares being set that you cannot see, because you have never been taught to see them.” I feel the flush rise, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No,” she says, and her voice gentles, “and still it has found you.” Then, matter of fact: “I have interviewed three people on your behalf, each competent, honorable and will act as your senpai in their domains, you will meet them soon.” For a split second, I want to push back on the word interviewed, as if my life is a vacancy to be filled. However, the discipline she brings saturates the room; anger would be out of tune, like shouting in a shrine. “Who?”
“Bill Dixon,” she says, “attorney, he understands contracts and walls; how to build them, how to keep your name and ideas from those who would exploit it. You are a generous man, that is good, but the law does not reward generosity, it requires forbearance and preparation.” I see a thick stack of paper in my head and groan. Paperwork is a kind of drowning, but I remember Mr. Ford’s boardroom smile, the country club where Elizabeth’s brother tried to secure my AI. Something cold clicks into place, drowning is better than being robbed.
“Melissa Travers,” she continues, “public relations, she can teach you the media kata, how to move through verbal strikes without injury, how to let false narratives slide past you by choosing your words wisely. She enhances your character and mitigates malicious lies.” I remember the rage when I was blamed for the Frozen Four elimination because I was playing in the Olympics versus for the university.
“Jack Danner,” she finishes, “security, he has learned patience the hard way, he is a lens to anticipate, focus on and rapidly respond to risks.” Asuka protected me, now I must protect Hanna and myself. I let the names run once through my mind. Bill, Melissa, Jack, people I haven’t met who have already viewed my future, “you expect me to say yes?”
“I expect you to act as kōhai, to accept senpais where you lack mastery, that is not shame, it is our way.” She adds, “Coach Benson is your hockey senpai; the business world is no different.” My impulse to argue drains away, her words irrefutable. “There is one more,” she adds, as if the decision were already made and we’re simply walking its length to ensure fit. “Your image generates attention, I know you hate this, but Aegis needs funding to succeed. Modeling is lucrative, especially after your gold medal performance, you need a new agent, not tied to Calvin Klein. A loyal agent who respects your boundaries while seeking opportunities across fashion brands, otherwise, Aegis starves.”
I practically spit, “I’m not a product.”
“No,” she agrees.
I have two choices: Walk away, spend my savings down to nothing and hope it all works out, or follow Kiyomi’s advice and swallow my disdain. “I’ll hear him or her out,” and realize how lucky I am to have Kiyomi as a senpai. Kiyomi rises and I bow deeply to her signaling the end of the meeting.
We walk to the foyer, and I retrieve her outerwear, she changes her shoes, reaches for her scarf and coat, her movements deliberate, measured. “Remember, Michael, tomorrow is the clan dinner, you will come, and you will not come alone.” Her eyes shift toward Hanna, standing uncertain at the threshold of the hall, “she is part of your household now, where you are honored, so is she, bring her.”
The words fall with the weight of ritual, not suggestion.
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