The scent threads through the sterile air until it’s all I can breathe in. It suits him—polished and confident with an edge that lingers.
Teddy’s perched on the edge of the bed. “Hey, champ,” I say, easing the chair closer while ignoring how distractingly good he smells. “Ready for your big debut?”
He makes a face. “If by debut you mean looking like Bambi on ice, then yeah. Totally ready.”
“Trust me, you’ll be more graceful than Bambi. But let’s get your shoes on.”
Crouching down, I guide his feet gently into sneakers and tie the laces tight enough for support, but loose enough so he’s comfortable. Teddy stays quiet.
“Remember, no one’s grading you,” I remind him.
He scoffs. “Good. Because I’d fail spectacularly.”
I hate that he sees himself as failure when all I see is someone finding his way forward. Part of me wants to shake him and insist he’s more than this broken version he believes in. The other part wants to ease the weight pressing down on him.
“We don’t hand out Fs here, only progress reports, and yours already says ‘rock star.’” He snorts. I straighten and touch his shoulder. “Here. So you know where I am.”
He grips my arm and pushes himself up. With a little guidance, he lowers himself into the chair with a grunt. I help set his feet on the rests.
“Look at you. Pro status already,” I comment.
“Yeah, sitting down. Very impressive…not.”
I push him into the hallway, the squeak of the wheels punctuating our conversation. “Sitting is step one. Walking comes later. Rome wasn’t built in a day,Theodore.”
“Neither was my patience,” he shoots back before his voice softens. “I actually had a personal question—um, do you think I can have my nose ring back? I miss having it.”
“I’ll see if they’ve kept it with your things or I can get you a new one.”
“Anything works so the piercing won’t close while I’m stuck here.”
“Consider it done.”
“I appreciate you doing that for me, Ivy. I didn’t have anyone else to ask.”
My first instinct is to brush his comment off with a joke, but instead I find myself biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. I’m embarrassingly pleased that he trusts me with even this small piece of himself.
We roll past the nurses’ station, a few heads turning as they recognize him. To keep his focus on our conversation, I ask, “So, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do once you’re back on your feet?”
“Race you to the vending machines.”
I laugh. “Careful. I’ve got years of training. You’d lose.”
“Not if I trip you.”
“Wow. Already planning sabotage. I like your style.”
My chest warms at the banter, light and playful, like we’re two friends messing around instead of a nurse and her patient in a hospital corridor. It’s ridiculous how much I look forward to these exchanges.
By the time we reach the physiotherapy ward, Teddy’s shoulders aren’t quite so rigid. I park his chair by the door and crouch down so we’re eye level, making sure he feels me right there with him.
“You’ve got this,” I tell him firmly. “And if you ever do beat me to the vending machine, I’ll buy the first round of Snickers.”
That earns me a grin—small, but genuine—before I hand him over to the physiotherapist.
“Break a leg,” I call after him.
“Don’t ever say that to a hockey player,” he shoots back over his shoulder. “I thought a superfan like you would know that.”
