Chapter 3 Teddy
TEDDY
I’m met with a full house walking into the busy locker room after a gym session. The space hums with focused energy as players fall into their routines, ready to kick some Beavers’ ass tonight.
I drop onto the cubby bench with a small grunt and strip off my sweat-soaked workout gear.
So much for calling it a “light warmup.” The afternoon of pre-game rep has my body and mind keyed up for the game.
Heading toward the shower stall, I whistle “Sweet Caroline”, the same pre-game ritual I’ve had since high school.
A low moan escapes me the moment the warm water hits my skin.
I close my tired eyes and let the heat loosen the knots in my tense shoulders.
A few extra minutes under the spray is the only time I have to clear my head.
It’s not just about washing off the sweat.
It’s about resetting and getting myself in the right frame of mind.
When I finally step out, I towel off quickly, not wanting to waste any more precious time.
As I make my way to my spot next to theirs in the locker room, I catch the tail end of a conversation between Lance and Foster.
Lance is bent over checking his skates while Foster lounges against the wood divider.
“You can’t keep blaming her,” Lance says, his tone clipped. “I told you it was stupid to let things go further without commitment.”
Foster grins, not taking our teammate’s words seriously. “It’s only messy if I let it be. I was having fun, not putting down roots.”
Lance shakes his shaved head. “Dude, you’re too old for the mind games. You’ll be caught up in some serious trouble if you’re reckless.”
“Trouble?” Foster laughs, carefree as ever. “It was a casual hookup, not a romcom-level love match. Chill.”
I chuckle under my breath at his blasé attitude while checking my gear one last time.
Skates and helmet first, always, because safety matters.
Then stick and tape. Lastly, the rest of the uniform.
The steps are ingrained deep in me, like the ink on my skin.
I’m not paying much attention to the rest of the conversation, but it’s impossible to ignore what they’re saying when it’s about Foster’s love life or lack thereof.
He’s always in the doghouse for one thing or another.
“Speaking of trouble,” Foster starts, his voice lowering, “did you guys see the latest headlines on Seaborn?”
“Here we fucking go,” I mutter to myself, knowing it’s my turn to be roasted.
Lance snorts from his spot. “He made the front page of every single trashy gossip site out there. It’s gotta be a secret talent.”
“Don’t blame me,” I reply and toss the used towel into a hamper with more force than necessary. “Blame the paparazzi. They love me.”
“Instead of blaming others, you should look into your bad habits,” Foster points out, using the same damn words he’s heard from us countless times. “Another rooftop bar, another mystery blonde in your arms. I bet she was amazing in bed.”
“I wouldn’t know. She passed out and I tucked her into bed.”
Foster grins wider. “You’re such a gentleman, Seaborn.”
“Don’t worry,” Lance adds, shaking his head, “the gossiping won’t stop.”
“Bad press is better than no press, right?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light, even if the words taste a little bitter on the way out.
His smile drops, expression turning more serious. “Right. Nothing screams victory like confirming everything your father believes about you.”
The words land harder than I’d like, even delivered as casually as they are. Probably because he’s speaking the truth. Still, I shove the thought aside. No room for negativity right now.
“You good?” Foster’s voice is softer this time.
It’s rare I’m asked that, even if it shouldn’t be. Most of the time, we stick to hockey and banter only.
“I’m fine,” I finally say. Foster nods, satisfied with my answer. Lance gives me a knowing look that screams you’re full of shit.
The clock ticks down, the atmosphere in the locker room thickening with anticipation. Pulling the jersey over my head, the fabric covers my upper body like a second skin. It’s an honor I’ve carried for years. When the nerves creep in, the Woodpeckers red uniform reminds me why I’m here.
“Alright, Seaborn,” Jensen, our captain, calls out. “You ready for this one?”
“Always. Let’s do this.”
My teammates head toward the ice, their heavy steps echoing in the hallway.
Taking a deep breath, I follow them out of the locker room, tapping the stick three times at the door—center, left, right.
The guys start their usual chirping as we hit the tunnel.
It’s chaos and comfort all at once. Our version of calm before the storm.
“Hey, Seaborn.” Foster’s voice carries across the rink, breaking my focus between stretches. “The first one to score gets to choose where we go for dinner.”
I throw him a quick smile and a thumbs-up. Even if all I want is to head home, crash on the couch, and sleep for twelve hours straight.
The third period starts and we’re down by one. Every guy on the bench has the same fire burning in his eyes, a hunger to claw our way back. It’s in the intense way we move and play.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I skate up for the face-off, channeling every ounce of energy into pure concentration. Jensen leans over the dot across from Kroft. Taking the position on his right, I chew on my mouth guard as I meet Farrington’s gaze.
His self-satisfied smirk twists in my gut.
He carries himself with the smug confidence of someone who thinks they’ve already won.
Typical. The guy is a walking penalty. Three minors tonight, and he’s still out here playing.
He’s big, fast, and mean—exactly the bruiser type some coaches salivate over.
A decade of cheap hits and questionable calls, yet the League hasn’t done a damn thing to stop him.
Sure, there have been suspensions and fines, but nothing seems to stick.
What a fucking joke, especially since they suspended Jasper once for five games after he fought Westerholm on ice. If they had treated him fairly, Farrington would’ve been banned years ago.
The ref drops the puck and we’re off. Jensen wins it clean and sends the biscuit my way next. It hits the blade of my stick. Spotting the clear path to the net in front of me, I don’t stop to think, letting instinct lead me.
Farrington is closing in behind me, making me his prey. Because tonight, for whatever fucked-up reason, I’m the unlucky bastard with a target on me. From the corner of my eye, I spot Zimmerman wide and call to him before passing the puck his way. Then everything goes to hell.
A brutal force slams into my back, a freight train straight to the spine.
There’s no warning, only a bone-snapping impact that hurls me forward.
The breath gets punched out of me, and my feet leave the ice.
I slam headfirst into the boards. The glass doesn’t give, not even an inch.
Instead, it stops me, a concrete wall in my path.
The crack of impact thunders inside my skull.
It’s all pressure and pain until I sense the foreboding shift. My helmet is no longer secure; the chin strap must have torn or come unclipped. The entire thing slides off and clatters to the ice beside me.
No protection. Shit. This is going to hurt.
I’m suspended in weightlessness for a heartbeat.
Then gravity takes hold, and I drop to the ice like a marionette with its strings cut.
I move my hands to cover my unprotected head, but it hits the hard surface with a sickening second blow.
A white-hot burst of agony detonates behind my eyes, blooming across my vision in a blinding flash.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a panicked voice screams, please don’t let me die in front of thousands of people.This can’t be the last thing they see of me, broken and helpless, laid out on the ice.
Most sounds cut out after that morbid thought.
There’s no roar of the crowd or shouting from the bench.
I can’t hear the comforting scrape of skates or the blow of a whistle or the clatter of sticks.
The arena dissolves into distant static around me, as if someone has turned the volume all the way down.
The cold seeps through my gear as I lay there. It sinks all the way into my bones, making me shiver uncontrollably. The growing pain behind my closed eyes is a constant drumbeat, deep and splitting. My breath falters as I focus on staying present.
A voice calls my name, though the sound is distant and warped. I want to answer, I really do, but my mouth won’t move. My body refuses to listen, muscles frozen in place. The more I push, the heavier everything becomes, until the fight drains from me completely. And I surrender to the stillness.
Then everything quiets.