The phone does as requested and soon, Em’s voice comes on the line. “Teddy, I was about to come to see you later. What’s up?”
“My parents are about to release a fabricated statement on my recovery.”
“Well, fuck.”
“Tell me about it,” I let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t even know when, but my father just called me.”
“They’re shaping the narrative, Teddy. If you don’t release a statement before them, they’ll define the whole damn story.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know where they’re getting their information, but it’s definitely not reliable.”
"Right. It beats me how they spun your recovery into a PRstunt about being the proud, supportive parents of some resilient prodigy."
"They don’t even like hockey, and they hate that I play professionally.”
“Exactly,” she huffs. “All of their fake-ass words won’t be for you. They’re for the board members of the Seaborn Foundation and their holiday donors. Some type of image control or crisis management. Whatever they’re calling it this quarter.”
The planned press release will be about misinformation and control. Somehow, even from hundreds of miles away, my parents know exactly how to spin my pain into a press release.
“We need no curated Seaborn narrative, only the ugly truth,” I say, considering my options.
“What kind of statement are we talking about?”
I picture the cameras in my face, the world watching as I admit just how broken I am. It’s terrifying. Vulnerability has never been my game. But the thought of my parents twisting my silence into their polished lies feels worse than any spotlight. If I don’t speak now, I’ll lose myself in their version of me forever.
“An interview filmed right here in my hospital bed. I’ll talk about what I can remember, what the recovery has been like, and what’s next. People should hear it from me, not some foundation press team pushing their own agenda.”
She hums her approval. “It would shake up the entire hockey world.”
“That’s the point. Do you think the Woodpeckers organizationwill accept the plans?” I ask, unsure how the team management reacts to the idea.
"I spoke with Montrose when they were drafting the original press release and he’s fine with us being as open as you want," she explains. Of course she’s already handled it. She’s always three moves ahead, even when I’m stuck flat on my back. “So it’s up to you, Teddy.”
“Then let’s do it. For the first time since the accident, I’m taking control back.”
Em doesn’t wait around, proven by the clatter of keys in the background. “Alright. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I’ll coordinate with the hospital’s media liaison and find a film crew. Let’s create a loose script we can workshop together, but it’ll be your voice and story.”
“Good. I hate the PR version of me. I want everyone to see the guy in a hoodie who can’t sleep through the night without nightmares, pain or a panic attack. I want to tell the truth, even if it kills me to admit I might never play professional hockey again.”
“You’re ready for all that?”
“The world has seen enough of the curated version of my life. It’s time they meet the real me.” My spine straightens at the words, a pulse of determination running through me. “My parents won’t know what hit them.”
“I’m proud of you, my friend. I don’t express it enough, but I admire how you’ve been handling the entire recovery process.”
My throat tightens, and I rake a hand through my hair, trying to mask the sudden rush of emotion. Pride isn’t something I’m used to hearing without conditions attached. “And I can’t thankyou enough for how you’ve handled everything, too. You’re a rockstar, Em.”
“All the flattery won’t get you extra points.” There’s a wry lilt to her voice. “Try to get some rest. I’ll call you when we’re locked in. Be ready to be pampered tomorrow.”
She hangs up and I lower the phone into my lap. My parents (read: their PR team) are ready to tell the world their fabricated version of the story. But they haven’t witnessed the sweat-soaked nights when I jolt awake, gasping for breath, pain still ricocheting through my skull. They don’t know about the panic coiling in my gut every time a comeback is mentioned, followed by the bone-deep exhaustion and the agonizingly slow healing that rarely feels like progress.
They’ll never understand what it’s like to wake up in a body no longer familiar. With legs that won’t cooperate, vision flickering in and out, hands that tremble when holding a fork. They’ve never sat in the dark trying to remember who they were before the lights went out.
Most importantly, they have no clue how much I miss the ice. Not just the game, but the control I had until it was taken away from me. What’s left is a broken man trying to figure out if he still exists outside the game that defined most of his life.
I’ll face the cameras and tell the truth. All of it—the fear, the doubt and the shattered pieces my parents’ polished statement conveniently will leave out. Because this time, the story isn’t theirs to shape. This time, it’s all mine.
27
