“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 thefront 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."
