Chapter 11 Teddy
TEDDY
“Did you hear about Seaborn?” a man asks outside my room, his voice hushed.
Until those words, I was trying to fall asleep, while ignoring the dull throb in my skull that’s become a regular part of my life. But now I’m wide awake. It’s like someone poured ice water straight into my veins. My breath falters as I strain to hear the rest of the conversation.
A second male voice responds. “Unlucky bastard. I heard from one of the nurses that the hits caused bleeding in his brain. I wonder why the League hasn’t made another statement.” Maybe because they want to respect my damn privacy, you nosey asshole. “She also said he can’t see anything.”
Fucking hell. Of course they’ve been gossiping about me. What’s new?
“Do you think he’ll return to the ice?”
“You want my honest opinion? There’s no way. Even if he gets the best care possible and some vision returns, he’ll never pass the medicals. Not for the League. Not with brain trauma on top of everything else. They don’t take those types of risks, no matter how great the player is.”
My fingers tighten around the sheets, the grip keeping me grounded.
The fabric bunches and the ridges dig into my palms, offering something solid when everything else is crumbling.
They speak like it’s a done deal, as if my future on the ice has been erased.
As though I’ve already lost the only thing I’ve ever worked for.
Hockey has always been my everything. My escape and purpose in life, an identity beyond my family name.
Without it, I don’t even know what’s left of me.
Just a void where my future used to be. What the hell does a person do when the thing defining them disappears overnight?
“It’s such a shame. He was one of the best on the team. Had another decade in him, if he took care of his body.”
“We’re not winning the Cup this season. It shouldn’t come down to one player, but when the player is Seaborn, it kind of does.”
“Tell me about it. What a fucking mess.”
Every word eats at the bit of hope I’ve been hanging onto for dear life.
I press the heels of my hands to my forehead.
But it does nothing. The blood is still there, trapped somewhere in my skull, turning everything into this useless existence.
Pressure builds behind my eyes, hot and sharp, the kind that would normally mean tears, but nothing comes. I’m too empty for that.
“It’s not only about him being out of the game,” the first person points out. “Everyone knows the Woodpeckers management is scrambling for a short-term replacement, but you can’t plug a random player into his spot and expect the same results.”
“He had such explosive chemistry with the first line. They were magic this season. What are we supposed to do, break up the whole formation? I don’t think so.”
A heavy sigh. “I have no idea. I used to watch him in the juniors. He has always been this sharp, intuitive player. Not only fast, but smart. Scarily smart.”
“Yeah,” the other one agrees. “He was at the peak of his career and then…”
I’ve been holding on to some na?ve belief that this is temporary.
That I would wake up one day with the haze lifted and my life snaps back into place as if nothing ever happened.
The thin thread of faith has now been ripped apart, leaving only desperation behind.
It’s like the ice has given way under me, and I’m sinking into the freezing water with nothing to grab on to.
It’s the time I face the truth: I’m finally paying for all the shitty things I’ve done in my life. For every mistake and all the times I pushed too hard or cared too little. All those moments are closing in, laughing directly in my face.
“Poor guy. I hope he has good people around him. He’s gonna need ’em.”
Their footsteps echo as they move past my door, talking about last night’s game, but it’s too late to ignore what was said.
It wasn’t gossip—it felt like a prophecy.
The words have burrowed deep under my skin, turning my thoughts overcast. They were a hit to the chest without padding, leaving a bruise that won’t heal anytime soon.
I want to get up, puke my guts out, and run far away.
But I can’t. Swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I sit up and try to breathe through the rising panic, but my ears won’t stop ringing.
I can feel it in my throat, too, tight and burning.
My fingers tremble as I reach for support, knocking something over on the side table.
A cup, maybe. Liquid spills down my arm and onto the bed, soaking the sheets.
I’m unraveling, and there’s no one here to stitch me back together.
This isn’t how my life was supposed to go. I gave my fucking everything to the sport, including my body, focus, and time. My whole damn life I pushed myself harder than anyone else on the ice because hockey was the only thing that ever made sense to me.
Was it all for nothing?
I drop my face into my shaking hands. The strangers’ voices keep replaying in my head, taunting me. They don’t know me or what I can fight through. But, they might not be wrong about the future. That’s the part that crushes me the most—the fear that they’re right. That I truly am fucked.
Two raps at the door break the spiral. “Morning vitals,” a familiar voice says. Silence is my only answer as I sit frozen in helplessness. I don’t want Ivy to see me in the middle of a mental breakdown. Her footsteps stop. “You okay?”
The question makes me want to laugh hysterically. Am I okay? Well, sugar, what do you fucking think? I have no way to express any of what I’m feeling. Instead, I shake my head, not uttering a word.
“Okay then. As I said earlier, I’m here for your morning vitals,” Ivy repeats, her voice brisk and efficient.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Let’s pretend everything’s fine and dandy.” What I mean is let’s pretend I’m not one breath away from shattering.
She doesn’t respond, and I hate how much the silence between us gets under my skin. There’s the rustle of her scrubs as she approaches, and the lightest touch against my forearm.
“Don’t touch me without a warning!” I bite out, sharper than I mean to.
“Sorry. Arm, please.”
I hold it out without looking in her direction. Not that it matters. She wraps the cuff around my bicep. The fabric is itchy as the monitor whirs to life with a familiar hum and tightens around my arm like a vice.
“Having fun yet?” I ask sarcastically through gritted teeth, bitterness dripping from every word.
“Yup,” she replies without missing a beat, her tone dry as sandpaper. “My lifelong dream has been to take blood pressure from grumpy men in hospital beds.”
I scoff. “Glad I could help fulfill at least one of your fantasies.”
She doesn’t laugh or even sigh. She pulls the cuff off, followed by the beep of the thermometer before she puts it in my ear.
“You know,” her firm voice breaks the silence, "having mood poisoning isn’t an excuse to be a dick."
I blink at the weird word choice. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me. Because the last time I checked, you didn't lose your hearing.”
I open my mouth to throw a witty comeback, but nothing comes out. There’s a blank space where my snarky reply should be.
“You’re pissed off,” she continues. “I get it. But I won’t be your punching bag. I didn’t walk in here with a clipboard and a grudge. I walked in because I care.”
Her carefully chosen words land hard, like a puck to the gut. And she isn’t done.
“You’re grumpy and don’t want to talk? Fine. Then don’t. Stop making me the enemy because I showed up to do my job. I’m not the one who blindsided you on the ice, Teddy. So don't you even try to make me the bad guy here.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, the words hot in my throat. “That I’m lashing out because I’m scared shitless?”
“I’m glad you can acknowledge the reasons behind your shitty actions.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, because she’s right. “It’s hard to let anyone see me like this.”
“Then don’t think of it as me seeing you, but rather as me showing up.”
She finishes the rest of the checks in silence, her movements professional, yet distant. A clear line has been drawn, and I know I’m on the wrong side of it.
When she walks out, I feel smaller than I did five minutes ago, shrunk down by the weight of the words I said instead of everything I should have. Well, shit. I fucked up again.