“This isn’t only about me, though. It’s about every player who’s ever been told to shut up and skate. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not here to bash hockey. I still love the sport. But the sometimes toxic culture around it? The pressure? The way guys like Farrington get to keep going until someone ends up hurt? That needs to change. And it needs to change now. Because the next player might not be as lucky as I am to still be sitting here.”
“Thank you for being honest and sharing your thoughts. A lot of people, especially in the League management, needed to hear all of that. Your accident has surely sparked a lot of discussion around player safety and early intervention.”
I nod slightly, throat tight. “I used to think silence meant strength, but speaking up takes more courage.”
“I agree wholeheartedly and appreciate you being so open today. How has the recovery process been, day to day?”
“It’s brutal,” I admit with a heavy sigh. “Physically, mentally, and emotionally. Thank God, I’ve had support. My team. My agent. My friends and Uncle Jake. I’ve also had someone special by my side through the worst of it. She’s more than support—she’s my light in the darkness.”
Smiling to myself, I think about Ivy. She’s been both my anchor and my compass, both steadying me when the ground feels uneven, and pointing me forward when I’m lost.
“It sounds like you’re building something new from all this,” Quinn comments.
“I’m trying my best, hoping it’ll be enough.”
“How about your parents? I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t mention them.”
My voice is steady, even if my chest feels so tight it might burst. “I have a message for you, Dory and Sandra: you’ve always used me as your puppet, acting like doting parents. But I’m done. I’ve spent years avoiding you, and nothing has worked. I’ve had time to think and know I’m better off without you. Don’t call, text or write. Don’t send anyone to check in. From this moment on, you’re out of my life.”
The room is quiet, the weight of the words settling in. Even if my heartbeat is loud in my ears, I stay confident and calm outside. I want them to see I mean every single word. There’s no crushing guilt or immediate wave of regret. Just relief. For the first time in my life, I’m not bracing myself for the next lecture, guilt trip or manipulation disguised as concern. They’re history.
29
IVY
DECEMBER 29
Family time in the Campbell household means two things: lots of food and hockey. Ever since I can remember, we’ve watched Woodpeckers games together. My dad even surprised us with season tickets one year, starting a tradition, and we’ve been to many events together since.
I’ve always loved watching the sport, cheering alongside my family, getting into mock debates about goalie stats and who had the better power play. I can’t deny that meeting Teddy has changed my outlook on some parts. Before, I thought hockey fights were part of the fun, a good way to hype up the team and the crowd.
Now every hit and contact makes me flinch. Every time a player slams into the boards, I brace, my stomach coiling in dread. I understand what happened to Teddy was an anomaly, but it doesn’t help when his face flashes through my mind every time someone gets into a brawl.
We’re gathered in the living room at my parents’ place for tonight’s game, bowls of snacks spread out across the coffeetable, the fireplace crackling in the background. Dean is halfway through a plate of chicken wings and Mom’s knitting next to me on the couch. Dad’s balancing a beer bottle on his knee while Max is texting with Kayla as usual. Milo, the little beagle puppy, is curled up on my lap.
The pregame chat is interrupted by a Special Segment graphic and five heads snap up to look at the screen. “Tonight, we bring you an exclusive interview with Teddy Seaborn, who speaks publicly for the first time since his injury.”
My heart jumps in my throat, even though I knew this was coming. My brothers were playfully arguing over what’s going on with Teddy earlier, speculating on whether he was actually making a comeback soon. I’d ignored it, knowing that it would take a medical miracle for him to play in the League.
“What the hell?” Max leans forward, cutting through the quiet. “Is this live?”
Dean squints. “Looks like it. It reads ‘live from Manhattan’in the corner.”
Sitting up straighter, my eyes are locked on the screen. I wish I could be there for him, offering support. Max turns up the volume as they show the outside of Easton General Hospital.
Footage of Teddy’s hit plays next, catching me completely off guard. I’ve avoided the replay until now. Even knowing what’s coming, the impact still guts me. The moment it happens is unmistakable—a violent, echoing crack turns my blood cold. It’s a sound I’ll never forget. Teddy crumples instantly, his limbs folding beneath him, and the camera zooms in. I look away before I have to watch his blood stain the ice.
When a cheerful tune starts a moment later, I hesitantly glance back at the screen. It plays older footage of Teddy through hiscareer—his best goals, the Cup wins, and other memorable moments with his teammates. He looked so much happier playing. It’s hard to keep my emotions in check after seeing all the clips.
“He hasn’t been seen since that night?” Dean asks.
I shake my head. “Not publicly.”
“Seaborn has a titanium spine for putting himself out there in live broadcast,” Max mutters. "I can’t decide if I admire him or think he’s completely nuts."
“He doesn’t care how it makes him look,” I explain, toying with my lip ring, not out of nerves this time but because my heart aches for him. “He just wants people to understand him better. Not the headlines or the gossip. The real him.”Because it’s the only way to keep his heart intact and his sanity from splintering.
The feed changes to the live shot of Teddy sitting upright in the hospital bed. They’ve trimmed his beard and makeup covers the dark circles under his eyes. He still looks likemyTeddy. The same guy I get to see every day at work, the one who has captured a part of my heart even if I kept fighting the feelings.
