Chapter 4 Teddy
TEDDY
The first thing I notice is the unfamiliar sounds—constant beeping, distant footsteps, and muffled voices. Then the agonizing pain hits, making me want to scream. I open my eyes, but what greets me stops me in my tracks.
I blink once. Twice. Three times. Nothing changes. My vision remains shadowed, reminding me of the time I left contact lenses in overnight. Only this time it’s worse. I wonder if I forgot to remove the lenses after the club.
Wait, did we even go to the club post-dinner?
A tightness I have never experienced before clings to my skull, while a dull, unrelenting pressure behind my eyes pulses in time with my heartbeat. Swallowing hard, my throat feels as dry as the Sahara. My clammy skin prickles with unease.
Fuck, what’s wrong with me?
There’s a rustle of movement on my left, followed by an unpleasant voice I’d recognize anywhere. My heart rate spikes at the helplessness that fills me.
“He’s awake, Sandra. About time.”
Theodore “Dory” Bancroft Seaborn the Third. My father. I spent years learning to speak differently, trying not to sound like him. What the fuck is he doing here?
Every cell in my body recoils at the grating presence. A lifetime of expectations and disappointments flash through my mind, urging me to once again be silent, so he can’t use my words against me.
“Teddy, sweetheart,” my mother coos from the other side.
Her voice rings false and sugary sweet; as though she’s auditioning for the part of a worrying parent, which is laughable.
There’s not a single motherly bone in her fragile body.
“You’re in the hospital. You had an accident and have been in a medically induced coma for three days. ”
I understand what all her words mean separately, though putting them together makes no sense. Hospital? Accident? Coma? What the fuck is happening?
My dry, cracked lips barely move as I attempt to speak. I force myself to swallow, trying again. “Water,” I croak.
A drawn-out moment later, the rim of a plastic cup presses against my lips. I sip carefully, the ice water soothing my sore throat. After a few more mouthfuls, I lie back and breathe hard, exhausted after such a simple task.
I blink again, but nothing changes. “Turn on the lights, for fuck’s sake.”
“They are on,” my mother replies, her tone confused.
Jerking my hand upward, I move it toward my face. Dory catches my wrist in a firm grip before I can reach my eyes. “Calm down, Teddy,” he commands in a clipped manner. “Don’t touch your face. You’ve just come out of another surgery hours ago.”
“Surgery? What the hell is wrong with me?” Silence. “I can’t—I can’t see anything.”
Sandra’s breath catches. “What do you mean?”
“It’s all black.” My voice breaks. “Something is wrong with my eyes.”
She whispers frantically, followed by Dory asking for a doctor. It hits me all at once; I’ve lost my vision. Not in a metaphorical way, but in the real, terrifying sense. Someone pulled a curtain over my eyes and forgot to lift it.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, no, no—”
“Teddy, stop,” my father says as he puts his palm on my shoulder. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Get away from me!” I scream and flail my arms, feeling the pinch of what might be the IV drip on my left hand. “Don’t fucking touch me—I don’t want you here!”
My chest heaves, but sucking in breath changes nothing. Instead, the pressure in my skull intensifies with the quickening beeping of the hospital monitors. I need space—I can’t fucking breathe.
“Get them out!” I yell, praying for someone to hear my plea. “Get them the hell out of here!”
The door opens, new footsteps entering the room, light on their feet. “Everyone out,” a woman orders. Her tone is no-nonsense that cuts through the panic. “Now.”
“You’re a nurse. I was asking for a doctor—” Dory, the asshole, starts to whine.
“I’m the one keeping your son from spiraling,” the nurse snaps. “Out. Now. I won’t ask again, Mr. Seaborn. If you don’t leave in the next thirty seconds, I’ll call security to escort you out of the building. We both know you don’t want that to happen.”
After a heavy pause, retreating footsteps echo around the room. The door opens and closes as my parents leave. I draw a steadying breath and force myself to calm down despite how little I know about what’s going on. An eerie silence settles over the space.
A voice breaks it, softer than before, almost tentative. “Hi, Theodore.”
The melodic way she says my first name cuts through the remaining chaos inside my head.
Not Teddy, the name everyone else calls me, including my parents, my teammates, and the fans chanting in the stands.
Just Theodore. As if she’s speaking to a person, not a persona.
For a fleeting moment, I’m not Teddy Seaborn, star winger for the Woodpeckers.
I’m not the legacy son from a powerful family with country club smiles, high-society expectations, and curated reputations.
I’m just me, and it’s the first realization that has felt real since I woke up to this nightmare.
“I’m Ivy Campbell,” she introduces herself. “I’m your nurse. You’re in the neurology wing at Easton General Hospital.”
“What happened?” I barely manage without my voice wavering. My mind is blank. I can’t remember anything after the start of the third period against the Beavers. Absolutely nada.
“You had a brain injury following two separate hits during a game. They performed two emergency surgeries to relieve the pressure and stop the worst of the bleeding,” she explains as gently as possible considering the current situation.
“You’ve been out of it for over seventy hours. Your body needed the rest.”
The new information should terrify me, but her silky voice smooths the sharp edges. My breathing slows, her presence calming me with every passing second.
“There’s something wrong with my eyes.”
She sighs knowingly. “Some bleeding was spotted around your eyes while running tests. We were hoping for a better outcome. However, we couldn’t predict anything based on the findings alone—you had to wake up first.”
“What is it? Why can’t I see?”
“Hold on, I’ll get the doctor,” she says, followed by mumbling. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
That sounds ominous. My stomach knots, and I wish I hadn’t asked anything at all.
There are taps of a finger against the phone before she dials, followed by the low murmur of her voice when the call connects.
“Dr. Royce, Seaborn’s awake…yes, he’s asking about his vision.
Should I?” A pause. “Okay. I’ll tell him. ”
“What is it?” I repeat my earlier question in a barely audible whisper.
A chair scrapes the floor on my right. She must be sitting down.
“Dr. Royce will go into more detail once you meet him, but it’s most likely Terson’s Syndrome,” she explains.
“That’s when bleeding in the brain triggers hemorrhaging inside the eyes.
The pooled blood clouds your vision, but the retinas themselves usually remain intact. ”
“So I’m not—” I stop, swallowing hard. “I’m not permanently blind?”
“It’s difficult to predict the outcome.” Ivy doesn’t sugarcoat the situation, which I appreciate.
“In many cases, vision somewhat returns once the blood reabsorbs on its own. Sometimes surgery helps, but unfortunately, there’s no guarantee of restoring vision.
Right now, all we know is you’re stable.
The fact that you can speak this clearly is a miracle in itself. ”
“It is?”
“Very much so, but I’m glad you can communicate. It means you don’t have to feel alone.”
“You sure about that?” My voice cracks. “Feels pretty damn alone in here.”
She places a delicate hand on my forearm and squeezes it reassuringly. “I’m here with you. You’re not alone.”
A flicker of warmth pulses through me at her comforting touch. It doesn’t chase away the pain, but manages to cut through the haze I’ve been trapped in.
“I might’ve scared off my parents,” I say tiredly.
Ivy lets out a soft, genuine laugh. “I’m still here, though. And I’ve seen worse.”
“Let me guess. It’s another day at the office for you?”
“I’m a neuro nurse who used to work in the ER,” she replies, a hint of humor threading through her tone. “It’s not my first time holding someone’s hand through hell.”
“I hate being helpless,” I confess under my breath.
“You’re allowed to be scared. It doesn’t make you helpless.”
Utterly exhausted, I sink into the pillows. My thoughts spiral, even as the panic begins to settle. “Am I that obvious?”
“No. But I could hear it in your voice when you were yelling earlier. Most people raise their voices out of anger. It sounded like you were drowning, and yelling was the only proof that your head was still above water.”
There’s something weirdly comforting about the fact that she actually gets me. “You’re not just saying all this because it’s your job, right?”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.” Her voice softens again on the last word. “I’m not going anywhere. Fair warning, you might be sick of me by the time you leave.”
I laugh at her attempt to lighten the situation. My new reality is filled with questions I can’t answer, yet Ivy calms me more with every word said. “At least you have a lovely voice. It could be way worse.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” She chuckles, the sound music to my ears. “Are you thirsty?”
“Yeah, I could probably drink more than small sips I took earlier.”
“We’ll start with ice chips. You should take it easy at first.”
“Ice chips?” I scoff. “Living the fucking dream.”
“Only the finest frozen water for one of our best players in decades.”
“You a Woodpeckers fan?”
“As if there’s any other option,” Ivy huffs playfully. “Besides, The Treehouse is basically a second home for my family,” she continues, mentioning the nickname of our home arena.
“You could’ve said the Peacocks instead,” I point out the obvious.
“My dad would disown me if I rooted for the other team. He yells at the TV, coaching from the couch, unless he’s at the game. Thinks he knows the line changes better than your actual coaching staff does.”
I grin, or at least I think I do. “Don’t go anywhere,” she says, knowing damn well I won’t. “I’ll get those ice chips for you.”
She steps out of the room, leaving me alone for the first time since waking up. I take deep breaths, trying to get my rampant thoughts together. The same stupid rule my father drilled into me as a kid plays on loop: don’t feel too much, don’t show too much.
A few moments pass and I wonder if Ivy forgot about me. Then the door opens, followed by a faint rattle of ice as she comes back.
“Told you I’d deliver. Give me your hand,” she says gently. “I’ll place a cup in it.”
I lift my right hand toward where she’s standing. Her fingers brush my wrist first, sliding down to my palm. She turns it up and sets the plastic holding the ice there. I tighten my grip, trying not to spill the content.
“Easy,” she murmurs. “Bring it up slowly.”
I raise the container, tilting it until a few pieces hit my open mouth. The comfortable silence falls between us as I chew.
“Ivy,” I whisper her name after repeating the action four times.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not treating me like I’m broken.”
"You’re not broken. You’re going through something unexpected. That’s not the same."
“Still feels as if my life ended as I knew it.”
“We’ll survive one ice chip at a time.”
I fall silent, letting her words settle deep in my chest. The comforting way she said we instead of you. As though she has decided I won’t face the changes alone.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re annoyingly smart?” I mumble.
She laughs again. “All the time. Occupational hazard.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side then.”
“You’re doing fine so far.”
“You always this good at talking people off ledges?” I shift, grunting when every bruise in my body protests the movement.
“Only the ones worth saving.”
Her affirming words land somewhere in the hidden part of me. The part I keep locked away from the world. “Guess I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Theodore,” she replies, my name sounding even better coming from her lips the second time. “Now it’s time for my rounds. I’ll check in on you afterward.”
I nod in reply. A soft click marks her exit. The fear tries to fill me, but with Ivy’s uplifting voice in my head and the faint smell of coconut lingering in the air, it feels less suffocating. Before falling back asleep, my mind repeats her name. Ivy. That’s one I won’t forget.