Woodpeckers Official Statement
Following the incident in the third period of Woodpeckers vs. Beavers on December 2, Woodpeckers forward Theodore “Teddy” Seaborn underwent two emergency procedures at Easton General Hospital for complications related to head trauma.
As of this morning, Mr. Seaborn is awake and stable. Out of respect for his privacy, we will not be sharing any further information. We ask the media and fans to extend the same respect to Teddy and his family.
We are cooperating fully with the League’s Department of Player Safety and their review of the hit that led to these injuries. Player safety is paramount; dangerous plays have no place in our game.
During his recovery, the organization is in close contact with Teddy and his representatives. Our focus is his health and long-term well-being.
Media note: Please direct all inquiries to the Woodpeckers Communications Office.
— The Woodpeckers Management
I let out a shaky breath. The entire hockey world now knows what only a handful of us did yesterday. No wonder my phone won’t stop buzzing.
The screen lights up again with Kayla’s name, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hit accept. “Morning, well, I guess afternoon.”
“Ivy! Thank god,” she greets me. “I wasn’t sure if you were already on shift.”
“Not yet. Still at home. You saw the statement?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Obviously. It’s everywhere.” She hesitates, her tone softer now. “So…are you treating your favorite player?”
“Kayla. You know I can’t disclose anything more than what the statement has.”
“Don’t Kayla me. Max warned me not to tease you, but come on. He told me about the signed poster in your childhood bedroom and how you never missed watching a Woodpeckers game since Teddy was a rookie. You’ve been a fan forever.”
Heat creeps up my neck, ridiculous at twenty-eight years old but impossible to stop. “That was years ago. Posters and jerseys don’t matter in a hospital.”
“Maybe. But admit it; it must be a little surreal.”
“I can’t think of him as my favorite player and former crush, not when he’s the patient at the hospital where I work. That’s all I can say.”
The comment about not thinking about him is a small white lie on my part. Still, it’s how Ishouldbe reacting to the fact that he’s at Easton General until he recovers. Yet after the way he showed up in my dream, it’s harder to convince myself I’m unaffected.
“You’re stronger than me. I would have fainted on the spot hearing about where he’s staying.”If she only knew the truth…
“Good thing you work in interior design and not in healthcare,” I murmur.
She chuckles. “Fair. Hang in there, Ivy.”
“Thanks for calling, even if it was only to get the information out of me.”
When we hang up, the silence in the apartment feels louder than the conversation.What was that dream about, anyway?Ugh, it shouldn’t matter. My head was just playing tricks on me. But the memory clings, stubborn as the imaginary warmth of his hand in mine.
I swing my legs off the bed and pad barefoot into the tiny kitchen before starting the coffee maker. The hiss and gurgle fill the quiet space. While it drips, I lean against the counter, arms folded, staring at the empty wall in front of me.
I’ll be going back to the hospital in two hours, facinghimagain. I have until then to calm down, to remind myself I’m not the same girl who once cheered herself hoarse when Teddy scored in overtime against St. Louis during the Cup finals. Not the girl who secretly followed every interview and replay. That girl still lingers, but she has no place on his care team.
Mug in hand, I take a slow sip while I pick out an outfit for the commute. It’s getting colder, so I pair Dr. Martens boots with my go-to black skinny jeans, a band tee and matching cardigan. Today’s choice is the Nirvana logo with a yellow smiley face. It goes nicely with my thicker faux leather jacket.
Getting ready after a quick shower, I brush coconut-scented leave-in conditioner through my hair and apply light makeup. Just mascara and lip gloss to brighten up my tired face. It’s a far cry from what I used to wear for years—heavy eyeliner long forgotten in the past.
“Game face on,” I whisper to myself, ready for another shift.
By the time I reach Easton General, the sidewalk is already clogged with reporters and their sidekicks with cameras balanced on shoulders. Their long lenses are aimed at the entrance as though Teddy himself might stroll through the revolving doors any minute. Microphones get shoved toward anyone in scrubs, every hospital employee a possible source.
Is Seaborn really awake? What’s his condition? When will he be released? Will he return on ice anytime soon?
