Chapter 29 Ivy
IVY
Family time in the Campbell household means two things: lots of food and hockey. Ever since I can remember, we’ve watched Woodpeckers games together. My dad even surprised us with season tickets one year, starting a tradition, and we’ve been to many events together since.
I’ve always loved watching the sport, cheering alongside my family, getting into mock debates about goalie stats and who had the better power play.
I can’t deny that meeting Teddy has changed my outlook on some parts.
Before, I thought hockey fights were part of the fun, a good way to hype up the team and the crowd.
Now every hit and contact makes me flinch. Every time a player slams into the boards, I brace, my stomach coiling in dread. I understand what happened to Teddy was an anomaly, but it doesn’t help when his face flashes through my mind every time someone gets into a brawl.
We’re gathered in the living room at my parents’ place for tonight’s game, bowls of snacks spread out across the coffee table, the fireplace crackling in the background.
Dean is halfway through a plate of chicken wings and Mom’s knitting next to me on the couch.
Dad’s balancing a beer bottle on his knee while Max is texting with Kayla as usual.
Milo, the little beagle puppy, is curled up on my lap.
The pregame chat is interrupted by a Special Segment graphic and five heads snap up to look at the screen. “Tonight, we bring you an exclusive interview with Teddy Seaborn, who speaks publicly for the first time since his injury.”
My heart jumps in my throat, even though I knew this was coming. My brothers were playfully arguing over what’s going on with Teddy earlier, speculating on whether he was actually making a comeback soon. I’d ignored it, knowing that it would take a medical miracle for him to play in the League.
“What the hell?” Max leans forward, cutting through the quiet. “Is this live?”
Dean squints. “Looks like it. It reads ‘live from Manhattan’ in the corner.”
Sitting up straighter, my eyes are locked on the screen. I wish I could be there for him, offering support. Max turns up the volume as they show the outside of Easton General Hospital.
Footage of Teddy’s hit plays next, catching me completely off guard.
I’ve avoided the replay until now. Even knowing what’s coming, the impact still guts me.
The moment it happens is unmistakable—a violent, echoing crack turns my blood cold.
It’s a sound I’ll never forget. Teddy crumples instantly, his limbs folding beneath him, and the camera zooms in.
I look away before I have to watch his blood stain the ice.
When a cheerful tune starts a moment later, I hesitantly glance back at the screen.
It plays older footage of Teddy through his career—his best goals, the Cup wins, and other memorable moments with his teammates.
He looked so much happier playing. It’s hard to keep my emotions in check after seeing all the clips.
“He hasn’t been seen since that night?” Dean asks.
I shake my head. “Not publicly.”
“Seaborn has a titanium spine for putting himself out there in live broadcast,” Max mutters. "I can’t decide if I admire him or think he’s completely nuts."
“He doesn’t care how it makes him look,” I explain, toying with my lip ring, not out of nerves this time but because my heart aches for him.
“He just wants people to understand him better. Not the headlines or the gossip. The real him.” Because it’s the only way to keep his heart intact and his sanity from splintering.
The feed changes to the live shot of Teddy sitting upright in the hospital bed.
They’ve trimmed his beard and makeup covers the dark circles under his eyes.
He still looks like my Teddy. The same guy I get to see every day at work, the one who has captured a part of my heart even if I kept fighting the feelings.
“He looks older,” Dean comments solemnly.
“Not in years, but in experience. That poor boy. Nobody should experience what he has,” Mom whispers, her eyes glistening.
The interviewer, Quinn Matthews, looks polished with her long brown hair in a sleek ponytail, wearing a Woodpeckers red dress. I’ve been following her on social media for years, but this moment makes me an even bigger fan of one of the only female sports reporters in hockey.
When the camera cuts to Teddy, I catch the nerves in his body language, his shoulders pulled taut and jaw ticking.
He looks like a man holding himself together by sheer force of will, afraid that if even one part of him loosens, the whole facade might crumble.
Quinn greets him warmly, and he manages a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
His voice carries a hint of stiffness at first, but it’s steadier than I expected.
Everything else around me fades as I watch him lay himself bare, brick by brick. Only his voice fills the space around me. I’ve heard it countless times, yet it still curls around my heart, refusing to let go.
“It was a dirty play. You could see the intent,” Dean mutters, sounding pissed off.
“Thank fuck they won’t let Farrington play until the investigation ends,” Max agrees.
Mom doesn’t say anything, her knitting forgotten in her lap, hands still. She watches with fixed, unblinking focus. Every so often, she reaches down to absently rub the puppy.
“That coward should’ve stopped playing years ago,” Dad adds, taking a gulp of his beer. “Not sure what the Toronto management thought, keeping a liability like him on their team. They’re paying big bucks for it.”
I feel a rush of conflicting emotions. Part of me wants to cheer them on for saying what I’ve been screaming inside for weeks, but another part aches.
The justice in their words doesn’t erase the image of Teddy on the ice, broken and bleeding, or the fear that still fills me when I think of how close he came to not making it.
Teddy’s next words catch me off guard. “Thank God, I’ve had support. My team. My agent. My friends and Uncle Jake. I’ve also had someone special by my side through the worst of it. She’s more than support—she’s my light in the darkness.”
My eyes well with tears, vision going blurry, and my breath catches.
It’s the same nickname he asked me to use on his phone, but extended.
His light in the darkness. A loud, involuntary sound somewhere between a sob and a startled gasp escapes from the back of my throat.
It draws my family’s attention and they read me like an open book.
It doesn’t take them long to realize Teddy is talking about me.
Milo stirs in my lap, yawning sleepily. Mom scoots to sit right next to me and envelopes me in the tight motherly hug I need right now, as I wipe away my tears.
Dad’s worried gaze meets mine. “Is this why you’ve been so tight-lipped about your job these last few weeks?”
My voice barely works when I breathe out, “Yeah, among other things like HIPAA.”
“Damn, Ivy,” Dean lets out a low whistle. “That’s awesome. I can’t believe you’ve been treating one of our favorite players!”
Max shifts forward, elbows on his knees, gaze not leaving the interview. “He’s lucky to have you and smart enough to acknowledge it, too.”
I blink rapidly and swipe the corner of my eye with my shirt sleeve. “I had no idea he was going to mention anything about me.”
“It was rather sweet of him,” Dad pipes up from the other side of Mom.
Dean nudges me gently. “You fancy him, too, huh? Teddy and Ivy, sitting in a tree—”
“Dean Lorenzo Campbell, leave your sister alone,” Mom reprimands sharply, her raised voice making poor Milo jump. “Can’t you tell she needs a moment to process what just happened on national television?”
“But Mom, it’s fun to tease Bubbles.” He grins, only brotherly affection and a touch of awe in his expression.
“Seaborn is a brave kid.” Dad reaches over and rests a steady hand on my shoulder. “You’ve been brave, too. It can’t be easy to see that type of pain at work every time you go in. I’m proud of you, kiddo.”
“Thanks, Dad. That means a lot.”
We fall quiet as the interview goes on. I’ve always loved my family, but at this moment, I feel seen. They understand this isn’t some story on the screen or a tragic sports moment. It’s about my work, but also about someone I’ve recently let into my life recently.
When Quinn asks Teddy how he’s moving forward from here, my eyes stay locked on him. Because I already know the answer; he’s not doing it alone. Not without me by his side.
Even if I don’t want to fully admit it to myself, I’ve officially fallen for Theodore Bancroft Seaborn IV.