Chapter 5 Ivy
IVY
Moving fast down the hall into the employee break room, I don’t stop for anything. Instead, I beeline for the single-stall bathroom, step inside, and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, my head drops forward until my chin touches my chest.
What the fuck just happened?
One minute I was doing my job, trying to calm down a new patient, telling his parents to leave to give him space.
Next, I was staring into the handsome face of Teddy Seaborn.
Before tonight, him being a patient felt like a weird dream.
How is it possible that the same guy I’ve watched play hundreds of games was at Easton General?
I’ve never reacted to a patient this way, but he’s one of my favorite players and absolutely gorgeous with those deep blue eyes rimmed in green.
I’d picked up a shift in the ER as they were short-staffed as usual.
The moment Teddy was wheeled through the trauma bay doors, I thought it was a hallucination.
He was still as a statue on the gurney, eyes closed, blood streaking down the side of his face.
His gear was cut, exposing skin that was too pale under the fluorescent lights.
His normally shiny medium brown hair was plastered to his forehead, matted with sweat and blood.
Paramedics rattled off vitals, voices sharp and urgent as we took him in.
Forcing the terrifying memory aside, I check myself in the mirror that has seen better days and wince at what greets me.
My cheeks are flushed, making it obvious how flustered and off-balance I feel.
All because of an inappropriate physical reaction to a chiseled man I have to remain clinically detached from.
I’m trained for life or death situations and know how to stay calm in high-stress environments.
So why am I behaving like a bumbling idiot?
Get a fucking grip, Ivy. He’s a patient, not your teen crush.
I twist open the faucet and splash cold water on my reddening face, the chill jolting me.
Staring at my reflection while patting my skin dry with a paper towel, I hope to find the version of me who doesn’t care.
The one who can walk in there and treat him like any other patient. She’s nowhere to be found.
Sighing, I toss the used paper towel in the bin and push open the bathroom door. The usual mid-shift scene greets me. A few nurses are slumped at the table, a tech is half-asleep with earbuds in, and three more staff are huddled around a phone at the counter.
“I can’t believe Teddy Seaborn is our patient!” one of them squeals. “Have you seen him yet? He’s so freaking hot.”
“I know, right? Too bad I’m not his type,” another comments. “He prefers his women stupid and easy.”
They burst into laughter. My fingers tighten around the handle of a coffee mug and I force myself to breathe evenly to avoid confrontation. How dare they talk about a patient in such a negative way?
“Have you seen him shirtless? There are dedicated Pinterest boards for him alone.”
“No, show us!”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe his body is real,” the first one says, awe clear in her voice. “He has, what, an eight pack?”
“Damn those tattoos covering his arms and rest of his body,” the redhead adds, sounding breathless. “I would do anything to be able to lick them.”
That’s so damn unprofessional. I can’t believe they’re openly discussing these things in a break room!
“I heard his season is over because of the injury,” the most annoying one gossips. “Maybe his entire career.”
“It can’t be. We need him on the ice!”
“From what I gathered, he’ll take a long time to heal.”
The conversation goes on, but I’m uninterested in hearing the rest of it. I abandon my coffee, no longer in the mood for a mid-shift pickup.
With my hand on the door handle, I stop and turn back to the women. “He’s a seriously injured patient, not some eye candy. How about you don’t objectify him?”
One woman blinks hard, her cheeks reddening. Another presses her lips together and looks down, suddenly fascinated with her nails. The third lets out a quiet, awkward laugh that dies instantly in the heavy silence.
I don’t wait for what comes next and leave the room.
I take the staff elevator up to the rooftop to clear my head.
It’s my go-to spot for fresh air during long shifts.
When I step out into the cold, the air bites at my skin.
I welcome it. In my usual corner, away from the automated lights and out of range of the security cameras, I pull out my phone.
Against my better judgment, I look him up, toeing the line of what’s ethical and accepted.
The moment the search results load, I regret it instantly, but I don’t close the tab.
The top headlines are about his brutal hit from a few days ago and the aftermath.
I scroll past them quickly, not wanting to see any of the clips and stills.
It was enough that I witnessed his injuries myself.
Google is flooded with images of him—Teddy on the ice.
Teddy in post-game interviews. Teddy at charity galas and other red carpet events.
Teddy with the women. So many of them. They’re all gorgeous model-types with perfect hair, designer gowns, glossy lips, and airbrushed smiles.
The search results on the screen paint a crystal-clear image: he’s a known ladies’ man who has dated influencers, models, and heiresses.
The tabloids portray him as a reckless rich kid with a trust fund who just happens to know how to chase a rubber disk on ice.
Management losing patience with the playboy winger
Rumored romance with billionaire’s daughter heats up as Seaborn parties till sunrise
Teddy Seaborn: Too hot for hockey?
Shirtless Star Player Sets Internet Ablaze After Beach Pics Surface
My thumb freezes. I’m supposed to be caring for him, not scrolling gossip that has nothing to do with his recovery.
I clear the browser tabs, delete the search history, and lock my phone.
Biting down on my lip ring, the familiar tug settles me back into myself, reminding me why I can’t let curiosity turn into something careless.
“This is silly,” I mutter, sliding my phone into my pocket. “He’s injured and your patient. Stop being a creep. You can’t even trust half the stuff online.”
Reminding myself of my responsibilities as Teddy’s nurse, I walk down the sterile hallway, my footsteps echoing in the quiet. It’s my literal job to go see him. I’m here to make sure he’s comfortable and healing. Nothing else.
“Damn,” Teddy says with a dramatic sigh the moment I walk into his room and close the door behind me. “I wish I could have pancakes with maple syrup and a pat of butter.”
I stop in my tracks. How much pain meds did they give him if he’s talking about breakfast food?
Then he adds, “No fruit or powdered sugar. Only pancakes topped with a little bit of butter, drowning in sugary maple syrup. The breakfast of champions.”
The corner of my mouth twitches as I try to keep a straight face. “Bold of you to assume hospital pancakes would be anything close to edible.”
“Have you ever had a perfect breakfast?” he asks, smiling my way.
I move to check the monitors and his IV. “Define perfect.”
“Just you, the food, and no one around to tell you that you’re being reckless with carbs.”
His description earns a small chuckle from me. “I was in Paris earlier this year and they had this all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at my hotel,” I share. “It was perfection.”
His fingers move restlessly across the blanket, tracing a random pattern. “I’m listening. Go on.”
“Being a good tourist, I started with a croissant. Then there was fresh baguette, eggs with too much butter, all these different kinds of cheeses, jams, and a cappuccino that made me believe in God for about five minutes.”
“That's the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all year.”
I glance at him, and even though his eyes are not focusing, it feels as if he’s looking straight at me.
“I went back for more croissants,” I add cheekily. “No shame.”
“You shouldn’t have any. It sounds perfect.”
"It was. I’m planning on heading to Europe again next month and can’t wait."
He lets out a low whistle. “Europe, huh?”
“Annual trip with my brothers.” I leave out the fact that we'll most likely be joining the Ice Cross World Circuit. “You’ve probably been to Paris and seen all the tourist spots, right?”
“Yeah, when I was a teenager. I would love to revisit one day. There are so many other places to explore, too.”
“What’s on your bucket list?”
“I would love to see—” His voice trails off. “Fuck, it’s impossible to think about the future right now.”
My fingers pause on the IV bag I’m changing. “Your diagnosis can be temporary.”
“Temporary,” he repeats, testing the word as if he’s never heard it.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, about the things I used to just accept as a given.
All the little details around me. My whole life, I never really thought about how much I relied on my sight.
I could look at something and know it’s there. But now, it’s all gone.”
We’ve known each other for less than an evening, and yet here he is, opening up to me. How do you comfort someone who feels familiar because they’re a public figure, even though you don’t really know them as a person?
“You’ll be okay. I’m sure of it. With or without your sight.”
Teddy shifts in the bed, frustration evident in his voice when he speaks.
“Are you sure? I can’t even tell what’s in front of me.
You’re standing right fucking there, but I can’t see you.
The world around me has been wiped clean and I’m left with an empty canvas.
I’m not convinced that analogy even makes sense. ”
“It makes perfect sense, but there’s still a long way to go before a final diagnosis. Many people live fulfilling lives without sight, and resources and support are available for the blind and visually impaired. Even if, unfortunately, the world is built more for the able-bodied.”
“Are you only saying all that to make me feel better?”
“Maybe, but I believe every word. You’ll get through this,” I reply with a small shrug, trying to keep my tone casual. “And I’ll bring you pancakes with maple syrup one day soon.”
“You really had to twist the knife, didn’t you?” he asks playfully. The genuine smile that follows eases the tension in the room. Even as the weight of his earlier words lingers between us.
“Hey, if pancakes are the only thing I can promise, I’ll do it.”
He inches himself higher against the pillows, grimacing as the wires tug at his skin. “I’m not going to lie, Ivy, but this is pretty fucking hard. But I, um, appreciate you being here.”
The comment hits in that weird spot between professional concern and the echo of my old crush. I take a small breath to steady the flutter.
“You don’t need to have all the answers right now. I’m here with the rest of your care team, and we’ll figure it out as we go.”
“Thanks. I guess I also need someone who’s not afraid to give it to me straight.”
“I’ll try my best to stay true and honest.”
He flashes a smile that would make my teen self faint. “I’ll hold you to it.”