We start slow with the basics and logistics, discussing how often we’ll meet—daily for the first two weeks, then twice a week unless she thinks I would benefit from more. Afterwards, I offer her the surface level answers I’ve perfected since the hit, describing my vision loss, career collapse, and adapting to the new life of an injured athlete.
As the sessions progress, I still steer clear of the deep stuff, including the way I miss the sound of skate blades slicing across fresh ice more than I’ve ever missed anything before. Except Ivy, of course. I’m quiet about the dull ache in my chest when I think of my teammates and how the team is doing without me. I also leave my parents unmentioned.
“What do you remember about the night of the injury?” she asks out of the blue during the fourth session.
My entire body stiffens and I give her the rehearsed version. “Third period. A bad hit. The boards. The sounds.”
“And then?”
I rub my clammy palms against my sweats. “The hospital.”
“No. Before that. Right after the hit.”
Well,fuck. I flinch before schooling my expression, but I’m sure she didn’t miss it.
"A voice in the back of my head screamed,don't die in front of thousands of people," I finally whisper. “I didn’t want my life to endthere. I held on because I didn’t want to be remembered as the player who died on the ice.”
It’s the first time I’ve said that to anyone. At least I don’t think I told that to Ivy.How did it come to me now? What’s this sorcery?
“That was the scariest part, wasn’t it? The idea of dying in such an inhumane way?” Mel asks gently.
I nod, because she’s right. I truly thought I was going to die in the spotlight. Nobody deserves that. “And then my worst moment was broadcast in high definition, frozen on replay. I wasn’t just injured. I was stripped of every ounce of humanity and millions of people have seen the clips by now.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Violated, humiliated, bare…take your pick. Everyone saw me broken, and suddenly my story wasn’t mine anymore.”
There’s a faint scratch of her pen on paper before she speaks again. “Since meeting you for the first time, I could tell it’s not your vision loss you’re grieving the most. It’s the version of your life you thought you’d build for yourself in the future. The one where your story stays yours and you’re the one making the choices.”
That lands in my chest like a punch. Because she’s right once again. “I don’t know who I am without the game,” I croak, the words catching in my throat. “Hockey has been the main focus in my life for so long. It gave me purpose and a place to belong, an identity I could point to when everything else was messed up. Now it’s gone. I’m just a guy sitting in a rehab center, trying to pretend the future doesn’t terrify me.”
“You have an opportunity to find out who you are outside of the game. Who’s the real Teddy under all those layers?”
The question should be simple, but it’s anything but. “What if I don’t like what I find?” I ask her back.
“Then we sit with the discovery, too. We don’t run from it. You’ve done enough running.”
I couldn’t agree more, even if I tried. It feels freeing to have someone name what I’ve been doing all along. Maybe it’s time to stop running from myself. “Yeah…I guess I have.”
“Who knows, you could still have a future with the sport, just not the way you hope. There are plenty of opportunities for someone passionate about the game.”
I remember Ivy telling me the same. When the session ends, I step out into the hallway with my white cane in hand. The future still fucking terrifies me, but for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like a black hole waiting to swallow me whole.
39
IVY
FEBRUARY 7
Missed call from Ivy
Ivy
Hey…I just needed to hear your voice.
Missed call from Teddy
Teddy
