Chapter 41 Teddy
TEDDY
Em and I ride in a private SUV with a driver she trusts, and neither of us say anything the whole way to meet the Woodpeckers management. Only soft background music on the radio and the low hum of traffic accompany us as we make our way through Manhattan.
“Is the press conference still happening?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“Yes. After the meeting, it’ll be you, Mr. Montrose, and Coach Bayliss. Natalie’s briefing them now. Sunglasses can stay on if you prefer them. There are no questions, only you talking.”
“What if someone asks about the surgery anyway?”
“I shut it down. Your focus should be on getting through today without too much hassle.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand once. “I’ll be there for you.”
“Thanks, Em.” The words feel small compared to what she’s doing for me—standing between me and the wolves, steady when my legs are shaking and barely holding me up.
At the arena, the car slows and when it stops, Em steps out. She opens my door, and I swing my legs out slowly, cane in hand.
“This way,” she says.
I reach for her arm, finding her elbow, and let her pace guide mine. We take the elevator up together, the tension growing tighter in my shoulders with each passing floor. Like I’m winding up for a game I’ll never play.
“You ready?” Em asks when the doors open.
No. Not even close. But I nod anyway. She opens the door, and I walk in. Based on who I know is coming, it’s a full house today.
Chandler Montrose, the GM, is the first to speak. “Teddy. Good to see you.” His voice is the same polished granite it’s always been, impossible to read.
“To your left,” Em murmurs, and I follow her toward an empty chair.
Coach Bayliss mutters something that lands somewhere between a grunt and a groan.
“Dr. Moxham is here,” Em adds under her breath, mentioning the team doctor.
I sit slowly, counting the figures in my mind. Me. Em. Chandler Montrose. Coach Bayliss. Dr. Leona Moxham. Camilla Undergrove from Player Development. Natalie Kessler from PR. I feel their eyes on me, watching my every move.
Natalie’s familiar voice cuts through the quiet, clipped and clear. “Before we begin, I want to express how relieved we all are to see you. We’ve been rooting for you, Teddy.”
I tilt my head slightly her way, hiding my nerves. “Thanks. It’s good to be here.”
“Your medical privacy is still intact. The team’s official statements have stayed within the parameters we discussed with your agent. Any public health details moving forward are entirely your decision,” Dr. Moxham says.
“Excellent. We don’t need to share any information that might be used against Teddy and his recovery. We’ve had enough narratives forced on us these past months,” Em says, exactly as I’ve been thinking to myself. “This one stays in our hands.”
Mr. Montrose clears his throat. “Let’s get to it, then. Teddy, this meeting is yours. We’ve prepared a timeline for any public announcements and contract options if you choose to remain on long-term IR for the rest of the season. There’s space for you.”
Being on the injured reserve list would be the best option if I could play again. Unfortunately, my situation is more complicated. “There’s no reevaluating my decision,” I tell the room. “I’m no longer playing.”
Someone exhales sharply through their nose. I can practically hear the muscles in Coach’s jaw clenching all the way from here.
“I won’t be a part of the roster again,” I continue, my palms clammy against my thighs, nails biting into the fabric of my jeans. “Not next month. Not next season. Not anytime in the future. I’m done.”
The following silence lands like a puck against plexiglass. I can only imagine them exchanging worried glances.
“There’s no pressure, Teddy. We’re with you, whatever the timeline is, we know you’ve been through hell.” Camilla breaks the silence, and I appreciate her words, even if they don’t change a thing.
“Let’s not call it hell, even if it surely fits at times,” I correct softly, offering her a small smile. “I’ve been trying my best to use more neutral language while discussing my recovery lately.”
“So it’s official? You’re choosing to retire?” Mr. Montrose’s voice is sharp and it grates against my skin.
I nod once. “Yes. I’m hanging up my skates.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I thought I’d feel relief, but all I feel is the hollow echo of a door slamming shut on the only life I ever knew.
“Before you make this final, I want to be sure you’ve considered all your options.
We’re not just talking about IR or waiting out the season.
We could petition for a medical exemption, bring you back in a leadership role,” Camilla says.
“Even if you’re not on the ice, you could be part of the training staff or the strategy team.
I’m sure we can find you a role within the organization. ”
“We could limit contact,” Coach adds, his tone hopeful. “Ease you in with no pressure to suit up. You’d be protected.”
Their suggestions dangle like bait in front of me.
I can picture myself still at the rink. But the mental image is ruined almost immediately.
Because standing there, not playing, would feel like being punished for something I can’t fix.
Watching someone else live the life I had while my own body sits on the sidelines would kill me faster than another hit ever could.
“With all due respect—” I do my best to keep my voice steady. “—you can’t protect me from what will happen. I’m sitting here as living proof of that.”
Coach mutters something under his breath. It sounds a lot like “Goddamn fucking Farrington.”
I sit straighter, pressing on. “I’m not risking another injury. Not after the past few months. Who knows how bad the next hit could be. Being off ice is the safest option, even if it means my career as a professional hockey player is over.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself and your decision, Teddy. You’ve gone through more than these people realize to make it here today. That should be enough.” Em’s voice is calm and steady, her hand resting on my arm.
Someone flips through papers, before Natalie speaks in the professional tone she often uses with players to get her point across.
“If this is the final decision, then we can move to the public response. I’ve drafted three versions of the retirement statement.
The first one focuses on your achievements.
Another highlights your resilience and medical journey.
And the last option leans more on your legacy and community impact. ”
“I know what I want to say, thanks,” I tell her.
“We’d like to release the statement after the press conference,” Natalie continues. “It’ll be brief and tightly managed. Mr. Montrose, Coach Bayliss, and you at the table. No live questions, just the pre-screened pool of reporters capturing what you say.”
“You’ll stay on full benefits through the transition period, so if you change your mind at the last minute, there won’t be any issues. It includes coverage for all post-op care, therapy, assistive tech—”
“My mind won’t change,” I interrupt, ending Dr. Moxham’s attempts to keep me on. “But thank you.”
“We’d love to keep you involved, Teddy. Development camp. Rookie mentorship. Community outreach. Hell, even the front office, if you want. You’re not just a player to us. You’re part of this team’s identity,” Camilla says, her voice tinged with hope.
Do none of these people understand that I’m actually done? That I want to get out while I’m still relatively healthy?
“I’ll think about it,” I lie easily.
There’s no chance I could work for the organization. I’m not ready to stand behind the bench and watch someone else take my spot. Not while my entire body still craves to be on the ice.
“You were one of the toughest bastards I ever coached,” Coach mutters, and it lands somewhere deep in my chest. I blink behind my sunglasses.
“That hit was a damn crime,” he continues, voice thick. “It should’ve resulted in a lifetime ban in every damn league across the world, not only ours. The guys haven’t been the same after seeing you be carried away, not knowing what’s happening.”
Hearing Coach talk about that night is like reopening a wound I’ve been trying to stitch shut.
His anger is protective, but it also drags me back to the moment I’d give anything to erase.
I want to say something, anything, but my voice won’t come.
All I can do is sit in the wreckage of the memories.
He presses on, quieter now. “Even the rookies who barely knew you were asking tough questions and looking after each other more. Hell, some of ’em grew up overnight. That kind of thing leaves a lasting mark, Teddy.”
I nod once, because it’s all I can manage. A throat clears and Natalie quickly says, “We’ll finalize the statement. Miss Merryweather will get a copy for final checks. Then we’ll coordinate with the media. Everything on your terms.”
I’m so glad I’ve Em helping me through this; it’s a lot to process. But she’s the only person who knows what’s right for me and my career. Hell, I pay her big bucks for that exact reason.
“We hate to lose you, Teddy. Truly. But we respect the hell out of this choice,” Montrose comments.
I swallow hard. My voice is barely a whisper. “It was never a choice I wanted to make. Life had other plans.”
“You’ll always have a home here. Whether you’re on the ice or not,” Coach says.
“A home is only good if you can stand to live in it. For now…I need to step outside.”
Lights flash as we walk into the press room. Even through the sunglasses, the brightness hits hard. Thank fuck Em remembered to grab them.
Exhaling through my nose, my hand tightens around the cane as I move one cautious step at a time. The gentle taps on the hard floor are more familiar now. Each one maps a world I can no longer see, only sense through other ways.
The stage is small. I recall that much from the walk-through Em arranged earlier. The rectangle table and three chairs are a few strides ahead, my spot flanked by Mr. Montrose and Coach.
There are a plethora of sounds in the space. Reporters shift in their seats, someone clears their throat, all while cameras shutter around us. Taking a seat, I settle between the two men who have played a big part in my professional hockey career.
Mr. Montrose speaks first. His voice is crisp and practiced, but touched with emotion. “Thank you all for being here today. We’re here to honor a player who’s meant a lot to this organization, both on and off the ice. I bet you know this guy, but if you don't, here's Teddy Seaborn."
Then it’s my turn. I find the edge of the table with my hand, fingers curling tightly around the wood. It’s smooth beneath my palm and somewhat comforting in a way most things aren’t anymore.
“Thanks for being here and giving me a chance to heal before speaking to you,” I start, my voice wavering. “It’s meant a lot to get all the support while in recovery.”
I pause, drawing in a steadying breath, willing the following words not to stick in my throat. “I’m officially announcing my retirement from professional hockey.”
A few flashes pop following my statement, bursts of white slashing behind my sunglasses. The noise ricochets around the room before dropping into a heavy silence.
Clearing my throat, I continue, monotone.
“I didn’t come to this decision lightly, but the truth is that my body made it.
” My hand presses harder into the table, knuckles probably turning white.
“After the brutal hit in December, I sustained injuries that changed the trajectory of my life. Since losing most of my vision, I’ve also lost my ability to play the game I’ve loved since I was a kid. However, I haven’t lost who I am.”
My throat tightens. I blink the wetness away, but don’t lift my head and keep talking.
“I first found hockey thanks to my uncle Jake. I was three the first time I stepped on ice, wearing skates that were too big on my feet. I fell ten times that day and cried on the snowbank for minutes after. I really thought I hated hockey.” I chuckle at the memory, others joining me.
“But I didn’t. Turns out I loved the feeling of the cold in my lungs and the scrape of blades underneath me.
The speed, the clarity, the noise; everything.
I loved how the game made sense when nothing else did, including my home life. ”
“I played through school and was drafted by the Woodpeckers at eighteen. Suddenly, I had something I earned on my own—a cubby with my name on it and a team of brothers that didn’t care where I came from or who my father was.
The organization gave me a home and a family.
” I pause, smiling sadly. “If I’m being honest, this isn’t how I thought it would end. ”
Another pause. My fingers press harder into the edge of the wood.
“I still count myself lucky to have played and to have worn the red and black jersey.” I lift my hand to my chest, just briefly, to feel the thump of my own heartbeat.
Proof that I’m still here. “Sometimes, I wake up thinking I’m late for the morning skate, dreaming I can see the ice in front of me. For a second, I feel like myself again.
“I’m still me, only reshaped and learning to live in this new reality.
Hockey hasn’t left me. It’s a part of my blood and always will be.
” I let out a deep breath. “So maybe I won’t wear the Woodpeckers jersey again, but I’ll find a way to stay in the game.
Coaching, mentoring, something. I want to be the person I needed when I was that scared kid growing up. ”
My voice dips lower, rough but steady. “To the fans, to the Woodpeckers management, to my teammates, to the people who showed up today—thank you. You made this sport more than just a game to me. You gave me a reason to fight for every second on the ice. I’ll carry you in my heart forever.”
For a moment, the room stays still, the air heavy with flashes and the faint whirr of cameras. “Thank you,” I get out one more time, my eyes filling with tears.
“Thank you for joining us. The press conference is now over,” Mr. Montrose concludes.
He touches my arm, a silent signal of support. No questions. No more statements. Just the anticlimactic end of a chapter I never wanted to close.