The mattress dips as Ivy settles beside me, the same way she did on Christmas. Slowly, she stretches out, her body aligning with mine. We’re probably breaking a dozen rules, but right now, I don’t care. Having her next to me is the best medicine, now that every touch doesn’t hurt.
She wraps her arms around me, pulling me to her. "Your brain is trying to make sense of what happened while it’s stuck on the most violent part," she explains calmly, whispering in my ear.
"In my nightmare, I could feel him close, but I never expected such a hard hit," I mumble. "I had the puck and then…the pain was excruciating. I can’t tell if it’s what actually happened or not.”
"Your brain protected you by blocking some of it out, but it might be all coming to the surface. That’s why your body remembers the fear and the helplessness you felt, trying to purge the negative memories.”
"I used to think panic attacks were a glitch that happened to other people. Not me." A voice inside my head calls me weak. It sounds a lot like my father’s.
"You’re not alone in those thoughts. A lot of people think the same way until it happens to them. Nothing wrong with it.”
"The worst part is that I still can’t see anything. Everything is drowning in ink."
Ivy doesn’t hesitate. Her hand slides into mine. "I’ve got you. You’re not alone."
Even if her presence brings calm, frustration coils hot in my chest. It’s another setback, a reminder that my body and mind are no longer mine to control. I’m supposed to be recovering, getting stronger, not breaking down like this. Tears ambush me. There’s no loud sobs or ugly crying. Just pain spilling from the inside, searing my skin as it traces down my face.
I swipe at my wet cheeks with the blanket. "Sorry.”
"Don’t be. It’s good to cry and get the feelings out.”
My chest rises and falls unevenly before I manage, “Do you think it’ll get better?”
“Yes,” she says gently, her voice steady where mine isn’t, “but you need to keep letting others help.”
Letting people close has always felt dangerous, beyond the small circle I trust. On the ice, showing weakness means giving your opponent an opening. Off the ice, it means giving someone the power to hurt you. I learned to bottle everything up and bury it under work, training, and bravado. Admitting I need help feels like admitting defeat, and I’ve never been good at losing.
"I suck at letting other people in,” I whisper.
Her reply comes warm and sure. "You let me in."
Her hand stays in mine, helping me bear the stifling moment. Her breathing is even, showing my body that we’re safe. She’s telling my nervous system it’s allowed to calm down and rest. I breathe deeper, if unsteady. Slowly, my breathing matches hers. Her weight beside me keeps the fear at bay. Whatever rules we’re breaking, I’d keep breaking them if it means feeling this safe.
Minutes pass. The world isn’t closing in anymore. My fingers relax and my jaw unclenches. The trembling subsides, leaving the dull ache of exhaustion behind. I sink deeper into the pillows, Ivy’s hand in mine. Outside, a cart wheels past. There’s a soft clatter of trays and muffled voices.
In this room, it’s just us.
23
IVY
DECEMBER 27
When I walk in hours later, Teddy doesn’t look up. He’s upright, but his mind is elsewhere. Dark circles paint the skin beneath his eyes, hair sticking up like he’s been dragging fingers through it all day. His shoulders slope forward, carrying a weight he can’t seem to set down.
“Hey.”
"Hey, Ivy." His voice is low and rough, like it hasn’t been used all day. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says, the words barely above a whisper.
The memory of him falling apart flashes in my mind—his trembling body, the panic in his voice, the way I held on and prayed my presence was enough. I should feel only compassion as his nurse, but there’s more, a pull I’m trying hard not to follow.
Taking the chair beside him, I tell him, “It’s okay.”
“Last night was the worst I’ve ever felt. I thought I was doing better after Christmas and then—bam.”
It hurts to hear his confession, but it also binds me closer to him, tugging at feelings I’ve been trying to keep contained. My heart beats faster, not from pity, but from the dangerous truth that I’m starting to care about him in a way that has nothing to do with duty.
“You don’t have to explain,” I reply.
