15
IVY
DECEMBER 18
It’s snowing today. I didn’t notice it at first, focused on checking on how Teddy was doing; making sure he was comfortable, hydrated, and not in pain. As I twist the cap onto his water bottle, the big flakes outside catch my eye, and I turn toward the window. They float lazily past the glass, slowing time, even here in the busy hospital.
“It’s snowing!” I say excitedly and turn to him.
“I take it you’re a fan of snow?”
“Of course. Aren’t you? I assumed you would be considering you’re a hockey player.”
“You know what they say about assuming.”
The comment draws a laugh from me. “But it’s the first snow of the season!”
“Think we can go out there?” he asks, a hopeful tone in his voice.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You meanoutside?”
“Exactly.” When he shifts, his movements are stiff. “I can’t see it, obviously, but I’d like tofeelthe first snow of the season.”
The words come out tentative and hopeful. I do a mental checklist of all the things we’ll need to make it happen. Wheelchair. The IV drip has to be disconnected safely. Extra layers—sweatpants, hoodie, jacket, beanie, gloves maybe. A blanket for his lap. I’ll also need to log where we’re going in case anyone asks. But it’s doable.
“Of course. I’ll get you a wheelchair.”
Helping him once I return, I guide his legs over the edge of the bed. He moves cautiously, but there’s determination in him that wasn’t there a few days ago. He eases into a dark gray hoodie while I pull the matching sweatpants over his legs.
“Should I wear my sunglasses?” he asks, bringing my attention back to the moment.
“It’s up to you. It might be too bright outside without them now that you can see some changes in light.”
“Can you grab them for me? They should be in the top drawer.”
I open the dresser drawer and find his Wayfarers beside a faded photograph. It’s a candid shot of a younger Teddy with his Woodpeckers teammates in the locker room. They’re grinning as they hold the Cup, looking exhausted and exhilarated. The warmth reflecting in his eyes shows what the team means to him. It truly is his family.
I put the glasses in his hand and our fingers graze. His touch lingers a second longer than usual, sending sparks up my arm. It takes him a moment before he slides the shades on his face. Adding a thick jacket to his outfit, I complete the look by pulling a beanie low over his ears.
Once he’s in the wheelchair, I park him near the door, leaving a blanket on his lap. “Hang tight while I grab my jacket.”
“Don’t forget your gloves,” he calls after me.
In the employee dressing room, I tug on my puffy jacket and pull my knitted accessories from the locker. A quick glance in the small mirror on the door shows my eyes brighter than they’ve been in days. There’s also a flush in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the temperature. I’m stupidly giddy to experience this moment with him.
When I return, Teddy’s smiling to himself excitedly like a little kid on Christmas morning, his hands resting on his covered knees.
“Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he replies.
I push the chair towards the elevators as someone calls out to me. “Nurse Campbell!” I turn to find Ellie from the unit’s front desk jogging toward us, clipboard in hand. “Dr. Royce wants to confirm your two o’clock consult.”
“I’ll be there. Just giving a patient some fresh air.”
She glances at Teddy, her expression understanding. “Alright. Stay safe out there. They’re promising a snowstorm in a few hours.”
“We'll be back soon.”
