Chapter 22 Teddy
TEDDY
It all starts with silence. But not the soothing kind. It’s the kind that slices. So sudden and sharp. There are no skates on the ice. No crowd roaring for their favorite team. Not even the familiar ever-present sound of my own breathing echoing inside my helmet.
The world is unnaturally still. I can’t remember the last time I heard such silence. Not even in those early mornings before practice when the locker room was empty. The absence is tinged with the presence of something else: dread.
Awareness breaks the dam, and sounds start flooding in.
The devastating thud reminds me of the exact moment the first hit happens.
There’s a split-second snap as the helmet strap breaks.
It stands no chance against Farrington and the violent way he slams into me.
The bitter thought of him triggers everything else, moving the memories forward, bringing every single heartbeat from that single evening into focus.
No time to brace or fight back. I’m levitating, my skates going out from under me.
I float, weightless and suspended. My brain urges me to scream, to alert someone that I’m unprotected.
No matter how much I want my body to do something, anything, it stays frozen.
Not a single cell inside me listens. I’ve become a ghost of myself, a shallow shell of the old.
With a snap of a finger, gravity grabs hold. Its touch is brutal, leaving bruises without touching my skin, before the ice even has a chance to welcome me into its unloving arms.
The impact rattles me as I crash into the hard surface. I’ve never experienced this kind of pain. My whole being screams with the annihilating agony rewiring my brain.
I’m stuck, repeating the moment like a scratched DVD. My mind glitches, dragging me to the exact second of impact over and over again, refusing to let me go. There’s no way out. It’s a corrupted loop of torture.
I can’t see. I can’t scream. I can’t move. The hits keep on coming. Each attack strips away a piece of my dignity and humanity. Sick and tired of the pain, I try to make a sound, but my mouth won’t cooperate. I’m stuck inside my body and floating outside of it all at once.
The ice is cruel and unforgiving, drawing tremors through my frame. There’s sticky warmth seeping from somewhere near my left ear, the metallic smell confirming what I feared, but there’s no way to stop the bleeding. The red liquid pools and paints underneath me in crimson swirls.
Somewhere beyond the pain, distant and muffled voices call out for me. Teddy, Teddy, Teddy. I have never hated my name more.
Louder than them is the static behind my eyes, swelling until it drowns everything else. And then—
Bolting upright in bed, my chest convulses, my lungs seizing. I claw at the air desperately, the oxygen out of reach. Catch me if you can, it taunts me. It’s like waking up with a noose tight around my neck.
My skin is soaked. My heart pounds so hard it threatens to shatter my bones from the inside. Every beat lands a warning shot. I can’t figure out if my hands are clenched or open. They tremble too violently to tell. My whole body does.
"Fuck," I whisper. Or I think I do. Maybe it’s all in my head.
Machines scream back in the dark. Beep. Beep-beep. Beeeeeeeep. One of the monitors wails, high-pitched and panicked. My pulse must be spiking.
Footsteps pound toward the room from somewhere far away. "Teddy?" Ivy’s voice is urgent, edged with concern. Gone is the calm, melodic lilt I imagine when I can’t sleep.
I can’t respond to calm her down; I’m too busy trying to breathe. My vision is blurrier than usual. Only shadows and pressure remain, swallowing the air I need. The walls are gone. Up and down have no meaning inside my head.
I flinch when a hand touches my arm, the connection burning against my skin. Even from the one person who normally heals me.
"Teddy, it’s me," my angel says. "No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. You’re at Easton General. You’re okay."
I want to believe her. God, I really want to. But I’m not okay. There’s an anchor around my ankles, and it’s dragging me deeper into the abyss. I barely manage to shake my head and the pressure behind my eyes builds.
Her familiar coconut scent fills my nose, bringing a fleeting moment of peace. "You’re having a panic attack, Theodore. I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?"
I shake my head in answer as each inhale burns.
"Listen to my voice." She begins to count. "In for five. One, two, three, four, five. Hold for five. One, two, three, four, five. Out for five. One, two, three, four, five."
Trying my best, even if it hurts, I inhale, hold, then let it go. I can’t stand the thought of disappointing Ivy. Not after everything she’s done for me.
"You’re doing great," she cheers for me. "Keep going."
Her voice is the only steady thing in the room. I grip the sheets, my knuckles aching, but it gives me something solid to hold onto.
She keeps counting. "Inhale. One, two, three, four, five.”
My lungs start to listen after a while. The ache and the heavy weight surrounding me don’t go away, but I’m coming back to reality from the faraway place where I got lost.
"You’re not on the ice.” Her reminder calms another part of me. "You’re not back there. You’re here with me, Theodore.”
Those last words cut through everything else. They’re a fragile thread I can hold onto. My heart rate slows. Not back to normal, but to a rhythm less terrifying and frantic. The noise from the monitors quiets with it.
I press my palms to my closed lids, trying to push away the memories and the fear, forcing the feelings back into the vault I thought I’d locked weeks ago.
"I can’t stop reliving it," I whisper. "The hit. The sounds. The way it felt. It’s like I never left the ice.”
The mattress dips as Ivy settles beside me, the same way she did on Christmas. Slowly, she stretches out, her body aligning with mine. We’re probably breaking a dozen rules, but right now, I don’t care. Having her next to me is the best medicine, now that every touch doesn’t hurt.
She wraps her arms around me, pulling me to her. "Your brain is trying to make sense of what happened while it’s stuck on the most violent part," she explains calmly, whispering in my ear.
"In my nightmare, I could feel him close, but I never expected such a hard hit," I mumble. "I had the puck and then…the pain was excruciating. I can’t tell if it’s what actually happened or not.”
"Your brain protected you by blocking some of it out, but it might be all coming to the surface. That’s why your body remembers the fear and the helplessness you felt, trying to purge the negative memories.”
"I used to think panic attacks were a glitch that happened to other people. Not me." A voice inside my head calls me weak. It sounds a lot like my father’s.
"You’re not alone in those thoughts. A lot of people think the same way until it happens to them. Nothing wrong with it.”
"The worst part is that I still can’t see anything. Everything is drowning in ink."
Ivy doesn’t hesitate. Her hand slides into mine. "I’ve got you. You’re not alone."
Even if her presence brings calm, frustration coils hot in my chest. It’s another setback, a reminder that my body and mind are no longer mine to control.
I’m supposed to be recovering, getting stronger, not breaking down like this.
Tears ambush me. There’s no loud sobs or ugly crying.
Just pain spilling from the inside, searing my skin as it traces down my face.
I swipe at my wet cheeks with the blanket. "Sorry.”
"Don’t be. It’s good to cry and get the feelings out.”
My chest rises and falls unevenly before I manage, “Do you think it’ll get better?”
“Yes,” she says gently, her voice steady where mine isn’t, “but you need to keep letting others help.”
Letting people close has always felt dangerous, beyond the small circle I trust. On the ice, showing weakness means giving your opponent an opening.
Off the ice, it means giving someone the power to hurt you.
I learned to bottle everything up and bury it under work, training, and bravado.
Admitting I need help feels like admitting defeat, and I’ve never been good at losing.
"I suck at letting other people in,” I whisper.
Her reply comes warm and sure. "You let me in."
Her hand stays in mine, helping me bear the stifling moment.
Her breathing is even, showing my body that we’re safe.
She’s telling my nervous system it’s allowed to calm down and rest. I breathe deeper, if unsteady.
Slowly, my breathing matches hers. Her weight beside me keeps the fear at bay.
Whatever rules we’re breaking, I’d keep breaking them if it means feeling this safe.
Minutes pass. The world isn’t closing in anymore. My fingers relax and my jaw unclenches. The trembling subsides, leaving the dull ache of exhaustion behind. I sink deeper into the pillows, Ivy’s hand in mine. Outside, a cart wheels past. There’s a soft clatter of trays and muffled voices.
In this room, it’s just us.