Chapter 9 Ivy
IVY
The treadmill is my reset button. No matter how long the shift or how late I stayed up the previous day, running evens me out.
It’s my type of therapy in the middle of the busy season of my life.
I feel my best when my quads burn, lungs sting, and sweat slicks down my spine.
The steady pound of my sneakers against the belt is more soothing than anything else.
Fifty minutes into my run, my focus drifts to the TV mounted on the wall opposite me.
Teddy’s hockey headshot fills the massive screen, like the damn universe is trying its best so I won’t forget his existence.
I stare too long, caught in his former self.
That version of him is not the bandaged, bruised man I’ll see later today, but the one I crushed on as a teenager.
My foot missteps, and I nearly eat it, slapping both hands onto the treadmill rails to steady myself. “Real smooth, Campbell,” I mumble under my breath.
The woman running near me gives me a side-eye. Jeez, mind your own business, lady. I fumble with the speed controls, my cheeks blazing and pulse hammering with embarrassment.
It’s surreal, watching him larger than life on-screen, when I’ve seen him broken in more ways than one. The contrast makes my head spin. The man everyone debates about in sports segments can’t be the same one whose voice cracked when he asked me if he’d ever see again.
The wildest part is that he knows I exist. Not in the fairytale-like way a fan dreams of being noticed by their favorite athlete, but in an unexpected way.
Teddy Seaborn, my teenage crush plastered across my bedroom walls, now recognizes my voice and calls me by name.
Part of me could get used to that closeness.
But I can’t let myself. I have to hold the clear line between nurse and patient.
There’s a long list of rules I need to follow, too.
By the time I shut off the treadmill, my legs feel like jelly. My water bottle shakes in my hand as I step down, forcing a laugh when the college kid who works the gym raises an eyebrow at me.
“You okay, Ivy? You nearly face-planted up there.”
“Fine,” I lie and wipe sweat from my forehead. “Just distracted.”
He glances at the TV, now showing another slow-motion shot of Teddy’s career. “Uh-huh. Distracted.”
I roll my eyes, pretending I don’t care, but inside I’m unraveling.
Because my confused thoughts aren’t about the star on the highlight reel anymore.
They’re about the man waiting at Easton General.
Now I only have to separate the two sides to survive the next weeks caring for him. Easier said than done.
The café near my place in Astoria always smells of roasted coffee beans and buttered toast. That same comforting scent will linger on my clothes afterwards.
Outside, the city is wet and gray. But here, wrapped in comfort, time slows.
One of my closest friends, Nevaeh, is easy to spot.
She’s curled into a booth at the far side, one leg tucked underneath her, a cup of chai latte cradled between her palms. Her dark curls are piled into a bun, and her lavender cardigan highlights her tanned skin.
When she sees me, she breaks into a grin that makes her bright eyes crinkle at the corners.
“There she is,” she calls, loud enough to cut through the hiss of the espresso machine. “The speed demon herself.”
I groan, making a show of rolling my eyes as I slide into the booth across from her. The vinyl seat squeaks under my weight. “Don’t start.”
“Please. You texted about your personal best in all caps the second you crossed the finish line in Montreal. There were enough exclamation points to make it look like a fire alarm went off.” She takes a slow sip, eyes glinting over the rim of the mug. “Forgive me if I bring it up.”
“It was kind of a big deal.”
“Kind of?” Her brows shoot up. “Ivy, you crushed it! The months of training and all that stubbornness are finally paying off.”
Equal parts pride and disbelief fill my chest. “It certainly felt different this time. Like everything finally lined up.”
“Good. You deserve that.”
I blink a few times and manage a small smile. “Thanks, Vae.”
The server drops menus on the table, but Nevaeh doesn’t look at hers. She’s still studying me. “Remember skateboarding down the hill by my house? Everyone else was terrified, but you shot past us like gravity was optional.”
I wince at the not-so-pleasant memory. “Until I hit the curb and broke my arm the summer between freshman and sophomore year of high school.”
“Yeah, but you got up, bleeding from more than one place and still grinned like you’d pulled off some magic trick. That’s the attitude you have to hold onto and you’ll do amazing things.”
Her steady confidence awakens the part of me that wants to believe her but rarely dares.
I lean back and let the warmth of her words seep in, even as my brain insists on tallying all the stupid reasons I’m unqualified.
It sucks to second-guess whether I deserve a spot in the Circuit, even if I know I do.
I worked too hard not to believe in myself.
When the server comes back, we order. Nevaeh gets the kale salad she swears is life-changing, but I want a sandwich with fries because carbs are survival.
As we wait, my friend tells me about her new upstairs neighbor, a guy who insists on playing saxophone at two in the morning. “It sounds like a goose and a trumpet had a screaming baby.”
I snort into my ice water. “I hope you’re recording this. You could sell it as a horror soundtrack.”
“I already texted you a clip, but you didn’t listen.”
“After twelve hours of alarms and monitors beeping, I don’t need to add goose-trumpet to the mix.”
That gets her laughing, head tilted back and curls bouncing. I tell her about a patient who tried to bribe me with a Tupperware full of homemade cookies so I’d “accidentally” bump him up the surgery schedule.
“Like some shady backroom deal,” I finish the story.
“Did you eat the cookies?”
“Of course not.” I pause and smile slyly. “Okay, one…but only after his surgery.”
Nevaeh snorts and smacks the table so hard that people at the next booth turn to look. Our conversation continues with more funny stories. By the time our food arrives, we’re laughing so hard the server flashes us a bemused glance. For a moment, the world outside and all my worries feel far away.
Nevaeh waits until I’m halfway through my fries and slips the question in casually. “So, what’s next? Now that you’ve hit your personal best?”
I stall, chewing slower than necessary. “Keep training while I wait to hear if I made it as one of the twenty women who get to go onto the Circuit next season.”
“When will you find out again?”
“On the twentieth.”
“Oh, the same day we’re meeting with the crew,” she smiles, mentioning our friends. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
Her faith warms me like sunlight on my skin. I push a fry around the plate, dragging it through a smear of ketchup. “What if I get there and fail?” I voice the worry circling my head for days.
Nevaeh blinks, surprised. “Fail?”
“Yeah. What if I get to the Circuit again and fall apart? Last season, I had the excuse of being new. Nobody expected much from me. The stakes are higher now. Everyone and their mother are watching.”
“So what? You’re not defined by whether you stand on a podium or not. You’re defined by your perseverance.” The knot in my chest loosens a little. Across from me, Nevaeh smirks. “Besides, what’s the worst-case scenario? You wipe out spectacularly and move on. Shit happens.”
That earns a low laugh from me. “Thanks for the pep talk, Coach Vae.”
“Anytime. Payment accepted in fries.”
I shove another fry in my mouth before she can snatch it, and we both dissolve into laughter. The fear inside me eases more with every minute. Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready for the Circuit and everything that comes with it.
By the time I clock in after the late lunch with Nevaeh, I’m back to my work self: assured, steady, and ready to help save lives. The shift from friend to nurse is always abrupt, but it’s one I’ve learned to make on autopilot.
Working in a hospital means I live in a world where seconds matter.
It’s calculating drip rates with one hand while calling a doctor with the other.
It’s charting tiny changes that can mean the difference between recovery and regression.
Some days it feels like I’m holding back the tide with nothing but my bare hands.
Other days, when a long-term patient takes their first shaky step in weeks, it’s like watching a miracle in slow motion.
I’ve seen people come back from injuries that should’ve kept them in bed forever or worse, and I’ve also seen families shatter at a bedside, their hope collapsing under the weight of one single CT scan.
The job teaches you to be steady even when the ground shakes beneath you.
Patients, families, even the new residents—they look to us to be calm in the chaos.
Today, the pace is manageable. I check in on a post-op craniotomy patient whose wife hasn’t left his side, reassure a young man just extubated that the rasp in his throat is normal, and help an anxious intern prime a feeding tube.
Afterwards, I grab the empty wheelchair waiting by the nurses’ station and start down the hall. Teddy’s first physiotherapy appointment is on the schedule, and I promised Dr. Royce I’d help him get there.
The moment I step inside, a new scent catches me off guard—a clean, yet warm scent drifting through. It’s subtle but intoxicating, like crisp apples and woods. And effortlessly masculine. Definitely not the standard hospital soap. Em must’ve brought him his toiletries.
The scent threads through the sterile air until it’s all I can breathe in. It suits him—polished and confident with an edge that lingers.
Teddy’s perched on the edge of the bed. “Hey, champ,” I say, easing the chair closer while ignoring how distractingly good he smells. “Ready for your big debut?”
He makes a face. “If by debut you mean looking like Bambi on ice, then yeah. Totally ready.”
“Trust me, you’ll be more graceful than Bambi. But let’s get your shoes on.”
Crouching down, I guide his feet gently into sneakers and tie the laces tight enough for support, but loose enough so he’s comfortable. Teddy stays quiet.
“Remember, no one’s grading you,” I remind him.
He scoffs. “Good. Because I’d fail spectacularly.”
I hate that he sees himself as failure when all I see is someone finding his way forward. Part of me wants to shake him and insist he’s more than this broken version he believes in. The other part wants to ease the weight pressing down on him.
“We don’t hand out Fs here, only progress reports, and yours already says ‘rock star.’” He snorts. I straighten and touch his shoulder. “Here. So you know where I am.”
He grips my arm and pushes himself up. With a little guidance, he lowers himself into the chair with a grunt. I help set his feet on the rests.
“Look at you. Pro status already,” I comment.
“Yeah, sitting down. Very impressive…not.”
I push him into the hallway, the squeak of the wheels punctuating our conversation. “Sitting is step one. Walking comes later. Rome wasn’t built in a day, Theodore.”
“Neither was my patience,” he shoots back before his voice softens. “I actually had a personal question—um, do you think I can have my nose ring back? I miss having it.”
“I’ll see if they’ve kept it with your things or I can get you a new one.”
“Anything works so the piercing won’t close while I’m stuck here.”
“Consider it done.”
“I appreciate you doing that for me, Ivy. I didn’t have anyone else to ask.”
My first instinct is to brush his comment off with a joke, but instead I find myself biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. I’m embarrassingly pleased that he trusts me with even this small piece of himself.
We roll past the nurses’ station, a few heads turning as they recognize him. To keep his focus on our conversation, I ask, “So, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do once you’re back on your feet?”
“Race you to the vending machines.”
I laugh. “Careful. I’ve got years of training. You’d lose.”
“Not if I trip you.”
“Wow. Already planning sabotage. I like your style.”
My chest warms at the banter, light and playful, like we’re two friends messing around instead of a nurse and her patient in a hospital corridor. It’s ridiculous how much I look forward to these exchanges.
By the time we reach the physiotherapy ward, Teddy’s shoulders aren’t quite so rigid. I park his chair by the door and crouch down so we’re eye level, making sure he feels me right there with him.
“You’ve got this,” I tell him firmly. “And if you ever do beat me to the vending machine, I’ll buy the first round of Snickers.”
That earns me a grin—small, but genuine—before I hand him over to the physiotherapist.
“Break a leg,” I call after him.
“Don’t ever say that to a hockey player,” he shoots back over his shoulder. “I thought a superfan like you would know that.”
I let his laughter trail after me, carrying the warmth of it as I get to my next task. It feels like proof that he’s moving forward, one step at a time.