DECEMBER 5
Moving fast down the hall into the employee break room, I don’t stop for anything. Instead, I beeline for the single-stall bathroom, step inside, and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, my head drops forward until my chin touches my chest.
What the fuck just happened?
One minute I was doing my job, trying to calm down a new patient, telling his parents to leave to give him space. Next, I was staring into the handsome face of Teddy Seaborn.Before tonight, him being a patient felt like a weird dream. How is it possible that the same guy I’ve watched play hundreds of games was at Easton General? I’ve never reacted to a patient this way, but he’s one of my favorite players and absolutely gorgeous with those deep blue eyes rimmed in green.
I’d picked up a shift in the ER as they were short-staffed as usual. The moment Teddy was wheeled through the trauma bay doors, I thought it was a hallucination. He was still as a statue on the gurney, eyes closed, blood streaking down theside of his face. His gear was cut, exposing skin that was too pale under the fluorescent lights. His normally shiny medium brown hair was plastered to his forehead, matted with sweat and blood. Paramedics rattled off vitals, voices sharp and urgent as we took him in.
Forcing the terrifying memory aside, I check myself in the mirror that has seen better days and wince at what greets me. My cheeks are flushed, making it obvious how flustered and off-balance I feel. All because of an inappropriate physical reaction to a chiseled man I have to remain clinically detached from. I’m trained for life or death situations and know how to stay calm in high-stress environments. So why am I behaving like a bumbling idiot?
Get a fucking grip, Ivy. He’s a patient, not your teen crush.
I twist open the faucet and splash cold water on my reddening face, the chill jolting me. Staring at my reflection while patting my skin dry with a paper towel, I hope to find the version of me who doesn’t care. The one who can walk in there and treat him like any other patient. She’s nowhere to be found.
Sighing, I toss the used paper towel in the bin and push open the bathroom door. The usual mid-shift scene greets me. A few nurses are slumped at the table, a tech is half-asleep with earbuds in, and three more staff are huddled around a phone at the counter.
“I can’t believe Teddy Seaborn is our patient!” one of them squeals. “Have you seen him yet? He’ssofreaking hot.”
“I know, right? Too bad I’m not his type,” another comments. “He prefers his women stupid and easy.”
They burst into laughter. My fingers tighten around the handle of a coffee mug and I force myself to breathe evenly to avoidconfrontation. How dare they talk about a patient in such a negative way?
“Have you seen him shirtless? There are dedicated Pinterest boards for him alone.”
“No, show us!”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe his body is real,” the first one says, awe clear in her voice. “He has, what, an eight pack?”
“Damn those tattoos covering his arms and rest of his body,” the redhead adds, sounding breathless. “I would do anything to be able to lick them.”
That’s so damn unprofessional. I can’t believe they’re openly discussing these things in a break room!
“I heard his season is over because of the injury,” the most annoying one gossips. “Maybe his entire career.”
“It can’t be. We need him on the ice!”
“From what I gathered, he’ll take a long time to heal.”
The conversation goes on, but I’m uninterested in hearing the rest of it. I abandon my coffee, no longer in the mood for a mid-shift pickup.
With my hand on the door handle, I stop and turn back to the women. “He’s a seriously injured patient, not some eye candy. How about you don’t objectify him?”
One woman blinks hard, her cheeks reddening. Another presses her lips together and looks down, suddenly fascinated with her nails. The third lets out a quiet, awkward laugh that dies instantly in the heavy silence.
I don’t wait for what comes next and leave the room. I take the staff elevator up to the rooftop to clear my head. It’s my go-tospot for fresh air during long shifts. When I step out into the cold, the air bites at my skin. I welcome it. In my usual corner, away from the automated lights and out of range of the security cameras, I pull out my phone.
Against my better judgment, I look him up, toeing the line of what’s ethical and accepted. The moment the search results load, I regret it instantly, but I don’t close the tab. The top headlines are about his brutal hit from a few days ago and the aftermath.I scroll past them quickly, not wanting to see any of the clips and stills. It was enough that I witnessed his injuries myself.
Google is flooded with images of him—Teddy on the ice. Teddy in post-game interviews. Teddy at charity galas and other red carpet events. Teddy with the women.So many of them. They’re all gorgeous model-types with perfect hair, designer gowns, glossy lips, and airbrushed smiles. The search results on the screen paint a crystal-clear image: he’s a known ladies’ man who has dated influencers, models, and heiresses. The tabloids portray him as a reckless rich kid with a trust fund who just happens to know how to chase a rubber disk on ice.
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