Chapter 8 Teddy
TEDDY
Avicious pounding behind my eyes wakes me up, like a hammer slamming into my skull with every beat of my heart.
I open them instinctively, but there’s nothing.
It’s not the kind of dark you get when you close your eyes to sleep.
No, this is an absence eating away at the edges of everything I once knew.
My mind swims with disjointed images and fragments, the world slipping out of my reach.
Taking a deep breath, I gather some semblance of control and focus on my breathing.
Inhale, exhale. Repeat. But it’s not enough.
The ice did more than rattle my brain; it shook my whole damn body.
Each bruise is a sobering reminder of how quickly everything can change. One wrong move and you’re fucked.
Every inch of my body aches, stiff and sore from hours of lying still.
My limbs are heavy and unfamiliar. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, and for a terrifying second, I’m convinced I might suffocate with the pain.
It takes me back to that day. I vaguely remember the start of the third period.
Then it’s a blur. There’s the hit and the crash of my body on the ice. Then nothing.
Here’s what I do know: I’m in the hospital and have my own professional care team, including Ivy.
There’s something about her that I can’t get out of my mind.
When she speaks, my heartbeat steadies and I feel calmer.
I don’t actually know her, but she has been a source of comfort in the middle of this turmoil.
To my horror, the pain doesn’t ease as minutes pass at a snail’s pace. The pounding is constant behind my eyes. I want to rip the feeling out with my bare hands, claw it away until my skull is empty.
Footsteps pull me out of my spiraling, unclear thoughts. The words that follow are muffled and distant like I’m underwater. I barely recognize a deep masculine voice as Dr. Royce’s from earlier.
“How are you feeling today, Teddy?” he asks, standing next to the bed.
I pause to collect myself, trying my best to push through the fog filling my mind. “I don’t feel great.” My voice comes out scratchy from disuse. “My head is killing me.”
“We’ll up your pain meds. I’ll get some ice packs as well. Have you had anything to eat or drink?”
“Just give me something to take the edge off, Doc.”
“Consider it done.” He says and presses a few buttons. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The effort of talking leaves me drained, like every word is being dragged out of me.
I close my eyes, the rhythm of the machines syncing with the pounding in my skull.
Beep. Throb. Beep. Throb. Beep. Shifting my position slightly, I look for relief, but there’s none.
I’ve been injured before, hurt plenty, but this is different.
I want to punch something, or skate until my legs give out, or scream until my lungs burn.
“Teddy.” Ivy’s voice cuts through the annihilating pain.
“I don’t feel too good.”
She sits down beside me, the mattress tilting, her presence solid against my aching body. “What hurts? Your head? Your body?”
“Everything hurts. I’m reaching the limit of how much I can take.”
Her fingers brush mine in a feather-light touch, but it’s enough to make me feel less alone. Her skin is smooth against the rough calluses I’ve earned from the years of playing. The contrast makes me hyperaware of the contact.
“How can I make you feel more comfortable?” she asks gently.
“No more meds. Too much makes me feel groggy,” I shake my head, regretting the move instantly. “Fuck that hurts.”
“I’ll get an ice pack.”
I hear the soft crinkle of plastic and her delicate hand guides it against the back of my neck a moment later.
The sudden cold bites at first and I shiver uncontrollably, but soon the relief spreads like a wave.
Ivy steadies the pack in place with one hand, her other palm brushing my shoulder in much needed reassurance.
There’s nothing overly personal in the touch, but it conveys that I’m safe and being cared for.
Deep down, I’m embarrassed that I need this kind of comfort, that I can’t tough it out like I’ve always done.
But Ivy doesn’t seem to judge me, and she never tells me to man up or pretend the pain isn’t real.
She stays until the panic clenching around my lungs begins to loosen.
“You don’t have to hold it all in,” she murmurs soothingly. “It’s okay to admit you’re hurting.”
My throat works around the lump forming there. “Not really my style.”
“Good thing styles can change,” she answers, a hint of humor in her tone. “Besides, nobody expects you to be indestructible right now.”
For once, I don’t argue with her statement. I just keep breathing, hoping to feel better soon.
Another morning creeps in without light. My head isn’t splitting like last night, but I still feel bruised from the inside out. Like someone hollowed me and put the pieces back incorrectly. The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the steady rhythm of machines keeping watch over me.
“How are you feeling today?” Ivy asks during the morning checkup, her voice careful but not pitying.
“Like I got steamrolled,” I admit, my throat dry and the words gravelly. “But not as bad as before. The ice and sleep helped.”
“That’s good.” I hear the pen scratching against the chartboard as she notes something down. “I was worried for a moment there.”
“Me too.”
The excruciating pain from yesterday lingers in my sore muscles, like aftershocks of an earthquake. I wonder if I should tell her how close I came to losing it last night. But the words stick in my throat.
“I’d like some help with my phone, if you’ve got the time,” I finally say with a reluctant sigh.
I hate being so helpless and not being able to do things I always did.
Every added request feels like handing over a piece of myself I can’t get back.
“Texting is surprisingly hard when you can’t see the damn screen.
But I want to keep it on silent, so I won’t be notified with each new message. ”
“Sure. I’m gonna need your face to unlock it,” she replies, grabbing my phone from the side table and settling into the chair beside the bed.
“You’re about to have access to all my hidden secrets,” I joke, turning to face her.
“There. Unlocked. I’m switching on Siri for easier navigation and texting before handing it to you.”
“Guess I’ll have to get used to outsourcing my life to a digital assistant. And honestly, it feels like a disaster waiting to happen,” I groan.
“It’ll be fine.” She finishes the set up and nudges the phone into my hand, her touch lingering just long enough to notice. “Let’s try spoken responses first. Just start with ‘hey Siri, text Emerson Merryweather’.”
“I don’t see Emerson Merryweather in your contacts,” the phone chimes. “To who?” it adds.
We both chuckle, and Ivy clears her throat. “Repeat what I just told you and then dictate the message. Remember to say full stop, question mark, comma and exclamation mark when you need them,” she explains. “And if you want to double check what was typed, say ‘read the text’.”
I squeeze the device hard, wanting to throw it instead. Clearing my sore throat, I try to find humor in the situation instead of frustration. “Hey Siri, text Em the Bulldog.”
Ivy snickers, muttering of course under her breath. I like how she isn't stuck-up like one of her colleagues and can laugh at my antics. Life’s too short to take everything seriously.
“What do you want to say?” comes from the phone.
“Ivy is a genius and I’m helpless without her,” I say without thinking. Another laugh slips out of her, bright and unfiltered, and it hits me like a shot of adrenaline. It’s ridiculous how much relief one sound can bring.
“Send it?” Siri asks.
“Read the text.”
“To Em the Bulldog: Ivy is a genius and I’m helpless without her. Send it?”
“Yes.”
A confirmation follows.
“Now you have a voice-activated texting system,” Ivy comments cheerily. “You can also ask it to read aloud messages you receive by saying ‘hey Siri, read messages’ or ‘hey Siri, read messages from Em the Bulldog’ if you want a specific person.”
“Thanks, Ivy,” I say, turning my head toward her with an appreciative smile. It feels small for all the help, but it’s better than nothing.
“You’re welcome.”
I set the little rectangle against my leg.
It used to connect me to everything, but is now unfamiliar, like learning to skate as a kid.
Maybe this is how it begins: one new trick at a time until the rest of the world stops feeling so out of reach.
At least I’m not cut off completely. But the thought I shared with Em yesterday gnaws at me.
I can’t face my teammates right now, not like this.
“I don’t want visitors. Not my teammates or our coaches.
I can’t let them see me like this. Not yet.
” I hope Ivy doesn’t ask me to explain my reasons, because I can’t.
I don’t want to tell her that if they’re here, I’ll feel less like myself and more of a shell of the person they all knew.
“But I still want to keep in touch with them. I don’t want them thinking I’m shutting them out completely. ”
“That makes sense. I’m sure they miss you, too.”
A humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “Knowing Foster, he’s tried to sneak past security. Lance would’ve dragged him back by the collar. Jensen’s probably sending me plays I can’t read right now. They’re idiots. My idiots.”
“You really care about them.”
“They’re my family,” I admit, my chest tightening until it hurts. “The good kind. Speaking of which, do me a favor: ignore anything from my parents. I don’t want to hear from them.”
“Alright. I heard that Em updated the list of approved visitors yesterday.”
“That’s right.” I nod, relieved that she already knew the information. “If you have time, can you read me a few messages from the guys?”
“You should try the read aloud feature.”