“I need to do it for me. Fuck, I was so scared. I couldn’t move or see past the pain. My mind snapped open and the hit kept replaying,” he swallows. “Then you pulled me out. I don’t know how you did it.”
“I didn’t do anything magical. Can I check your vitals or do you need a few?”
“What if we get out of here instead?” His voice is edged with a restless energy that makes it clear he’s desperate for escape.
“You mean out of the room or the hospital?”
“The room. I’m crawling out of my skin.”
“I have a place in mind. It’s not glamorous, but it’s better than nothing. I’ll get you a wheelchair.”
His jaw sets, hands braced on the mattress. “I can walk.”
“Yes you can, but you won’t.” I steady my tone, gentle but firm. Damn, this man is stubborn to the bone. “It’s safer in case you get tired or feel nauseous.”
He wants to push back, I see it in his face, but instead, he accepts my suggestion with a reluctant sigh. “Fine, but only because you’re taking me away from this hellhole.”
The tension in Teddy eases as I wheel him down the hall, the usual buzz of voices and machines around us. The recreationroom is empty this time of the day. It’s usually for families and friends visiting patients, but visiting hours ended a while ago. There's a well-worn couch pushed up against one wall, mismatched chairs stacked in the corner, and an old foosball table. A slightly dusty puzzle sits half-finished on one of the tables in the middle.
I ease Teddy onto the couch carefully. His hands search for the armrest, adjusting until he’s settled.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
“Anytime. You’re allowed to need air, even if it’s recycled and smells faintly of antiseptic hand soap and sadness.”
That earns me a small smile, but it quickly disappears. He’s fidgety, fingers curling into fists. “Sometimes I wonder if I deserved what happened to me.”
I hate that he even thinks that, the doubt having found its way deep. I play with my lip ring, while my eyes flick to his face. He looks so breakable in this moment. My instinct is to shut down that line of thought, but I don’t.
“I was ungrateful and reckless for so damn long, not caring who I hurt, least of all myself.” He picks at his cuticles, his right leg bouncing. “I treated people like they were props in my own drama. Women, especially. I wasn’t violent, but I was selfish and careless with their feelings. I’d use the right words to get what I wanted, then walk away, like none of it had ever mattered.”
I don’t interrupt, because the courage it’s taking for him to share all this is bigger than any reassurance I could offer. Part of me aches at the harsh way he frames himself—I’ve seen enough to know he’s not the selfish man he once was. Still, Ican’t dismiss what he’s saying outright. Maybe he’s right about who he used to be, but sitting here now, it’s hard to see that image.
“I was born into privilege and spent most of my life resenting the world I came from. Think yacht clubs, sprawling estates, and my last name etched on public buildings—that kind of old money from Newport. Most of my actions were to piss off my parents. It worked, mostly. But in the end, what do I have? Nothing but bad memories and a mountain of regrets.”
“Why piss off your parents?” I ask. Our knees brush as I settle beside him on the couch, the soft contact sparking awareness between us. Neither of us moves away.“They showed up when you were hurt.”
“Oh, it was all an act on their part. My father is a rigid CEO who believes in control above all else, whereas my mother is a poised socialite more concerned with appearances than affection. They expected me to follow the Seaborn legacy. I despised every second of it. Learning to use humor and an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude to mask my frustration towards them started pretty young. All they ever seemed to care about was whether I embarrassed them or not, so I strove to do so at every turn.” He leans back, head tilted toward the ceiling, his tone resigned. “My mother actually called before the holidays. I asked them not to visit, to avoid making a production out of it.”
“I hate that for you. At least you have your uncle, right?”
He nods, gratitude softening his features. “Uncle Jake is the only person in my family who ever actually saw me and cared enough to listen. I admire him more than anyone and he’s the kindest person I’ve met. Sometimes I’m scared I’ll end up in his situation. Loving someone and then losing them, being alonefor the rest of my life. I’m not convinced I could survive it. Not after having already lost hockey.”
“You might not be able to play, but you could coach or find another way back to hockey. This doesn’t have to be the end, Teddy. It could be a new, different path to the thing you love.”
“I know,” he sighs heavily, rubbing his face. “Looking back, I got pretty lucky. I was just finishing up senior year at boarding school, but the Woodpeckers management saw my potential. A month later, I walked across a stage, accepted my diploma, and left everything behind. The money, prestige and all those fake people. I moved into my uncle’s place in Brooklyn the same day, prepping for my rookie season.”
I watch him fidget—he’s never still when he talks about his past. It’s like the memories live under his skin, unsettled and restless, pushing him to move.
“One of my last fuck-yous was my nose ring,” he adds with a scoff. “I got it on the day of a big society fundraiser. My father called it vulgar, so I kept it.”
“I happen to like piercings. In fact, I’ve got a lip ring. I got it during my emo phase and never took it out.”
He smirks knowingly. “I know about it. Jasper told me after I asked how you looked. It suits you.”
Oh my god!My heart skips. He actually cared enough to bring me up when I wasn’t around. The thought leaves me warm and a little fuzzy.
“Oh? What else did he tell you?”
