A heavy sigh. “I have no idea. I used to watch him in the juniors. He has always been this sharp, intuitive player. Not only fast, but smart. Scarily smart.”
“Yeah,” the other one agrees. “He was at the peak of his career and then…”
I’ve been holding on to some naïve belief that this is temporary. That I would wake up one day with the haze lifted and my life snaps back into place as if nothing ever happened. The thin thread of faith has now been ripped apart, leaving only desperation behind. It’s like the ice has given way under me, and I’m sinking into the freezing water with nothing to grab on to.
It’s the time I face the truth: I’m finally paying for all the shitty things I’ve done in my life. For every mistake and all the times I pushed too hard or cared too little. All those moments are closing in, laughing directly in my face.
“Poor guy. I hope he has good people around him. He’s gonna need ’em.”
Their footsteps echo as they move past my door, talking about last night’s game, but it’s too late to ignore what was said. It wasn’t gossip—it felt like a prophecy. The words have burrowed deep under my skin, turning my thoughts overcast. They were a hit to the chest without padding, leaving a bruise that won’t heal anytime soon.
I want to get up, puke my guts out, and run far away. But I can’t. Swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I sit up and try to breathe through the rising panic, but my ears won’tstop ringing. I can feel it in my throat, too, tight and burning. My fingers tremble as I reach for support, knocking something over on the side table. A cup, maybe. Liquid spills down my arm and onto the bed, soaking the sheets. I’m unraveling, and there’s no one here to stitch me back together.
This isn’t how my life was supposed to go. I gave my fucking everything to the sport, including my body, focus, and time. My whole damn life I pushed myself harder than anyone else on the ice because hockey was the only thing that ever made sense to me.
Was it all for nothing?
I drop my face into my shaking hands. The strangers’ voices keep replaying in my head, taunting me. They don’t know me or what I can fight through. But, they might not be wrong about the future. That’s the part that crushes me the most—the fear that they’re right. That I truly am fucked.
Two raps at the door break the spiral. “Morning vitals,” a familiar voice says. Silence is my only answer as I sit frozen in helplessness. I don’t want Ivy to see me in the middle of a mental breakdown. Her footsteps stop. “You okay?”
The question makes me want to laugh hysterically. Am I okay? Well,sugar, what do you fucking think? I have no way to express any of what I’m feeling. Instead, I shake my head, not uttering a word.
“Okay then. As I said earlier, I’m here for your morning vitals,” Ivy repeats, her voice brisk and efficient.
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Let’s pretend everything’s fine and dandy.” What I mean islet’s pretend I’m not one breath away from shattering.
She doesn’t respond, and I hate how much the silence between us gets under my skin. There’s the rustle of her scrubs as she approaches, and the lightest touch against my forearm.
“Don’t touch me without a warning!” I bite out, sharper than I mean to.
“Sorry. Arm,please.”
I hold it out without looking in her direction. Not that it matters. She wraps the cuff around my bicep. The fabric is itchy as the monitor whirs to life with a familiar hum and tightens around my arm like a vice.
“Having fun yet?” I ask sarcastically through gritted teeth, bitterness dripping from every word.
“Yup,” she replies without missing a beat, her tone dry as sandpaper. “My lifelong dream has been to take blood pressure from grumpy men in hospital beds.”
I scoff. “Glad I could help fulfill at least one of your fantasies.”
She doesn’t laugh or even sigh. She pulls the cuff off, followed by the beep of the thermometer before she puts it in my ear.
“You know,” her firm voice breaks the silence, "having mood poisoning isn’t an excuse to be a dick."
I blink at the weird word choice. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me. Because the last time I checked, you didn't lose your hearing.”
I open my mouth to throw a witty comeback, but nothing comes out. There’s a blank space where my snarky reply should be.
“You’re pissed off,” she continues. “I get it. But I won’t be your punching bag. I didn’t walk in here with a clipboard and a grudge. I walked in because I care.”
Her carefully chosen words land hard, like a puck to the gut. And she isn’t done.
“You’re grumpy and don’t want to talk? Fine. Then don’t. Stop making me the enemy because I showed up to do my job. I’m not the one who blindsided you on the ice, Teddy. So don't you even try to make me the bad guy here.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, the words hot in my throat. “That I’m lashing out because I’m scared shitless?”
