Smiling, I sink deeper into the couch cushions, the lights from the screen flickering across the room. We’ve done this moretimes than I can count during race weeks. All while sleep-deprived, bruised, and sore in places we’d forgotten existed. It always resets my brain. The movie itself doesn’t matter. It’s the normalcy and familiarity that do.
“You ever think about how different this season feels?” Kayla asks, her eyes glued to the screen. “Not just the races. The people, too.”
I glance at her with genuine affection. “Like you and my brother finally being together?”
“Exactly! There’ll be two official couples in the Circuit—us and the married Finns.”
“They’re such a powerhouse.”
“I know, right? This season is gonna slap. Did you see who signed up from Canada?”
“Thierry freaking Perrin.” I pretend to swoon with a palm over my chest. “I thought he retired!”
“He did. He must be bored.”
“What can you expect from a third time champ? He’s such a diva, too.”
We laugh, and I feel the familiar pre-season jitters mixed with anticipation. Once the season starts, we stop noticing the bruises and start measuring our worth in seconds and recovery time. It’s the way the sport gets in your blood, becoming a part of who you are. Someone once called the Ice Cross World Circuit an adrenaline circus on ice and I couldn’t agree more.
“I’ve missed it…even the ice burns.”
“We’re sick in the head, you know that?”
“No question about it.” I let out a soft laugh. The movie hums in the background, loud and strangely comforting. “I’m glad we’re both racing this year, even if we’re supposed to be competitors.”
I first met Kayla when we went to see Max competing during his first season and had no idea how close we would be two years later. Somewhere between airport layovers, late-night strategy talks, and celebrating wins with cheap pizza, she stopped being my competition and became one of my dearest friends. And hopefully one day, family.
She nudges me with her foot. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Good. I like it that way.”
34
TEDDY
JANUARY 3
Dr. Royce stands at the foot of my bed. Something in his energy is different today. There’s a lightness threading through his usual professionalism.
“Your vitals are steady. No red flags from the overnight readings. Did you sleep better last night?”
“Didn’t wake up soaked in sweat or panic, if that’s what you mean.”
He chuckles quietly, flipping through my chart. “I’ll take it as a win. Good news is the swelling has also resolved almost entirely. There are no signs of fluid buildup or delayed bleeding. We’ll keep monitoring for seizure risk, but right now, it’s minimal.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “There’s no guarantee how far your vision might return, or if it will at all, but the acute trauma is behind us. Medically speaking, you’ve stabilized.”
I’ve been waiting for this checkpoint, counting progress in inches, not miles. Hearing the word “stabilized” feels like a finish line and a starting gun all at once. Relief pushes throughme, but so does dread. Stabilized still doesn’t mean healed. It means surviving and I don’t know if that’s enough.
“You’re still blind,” he points out, like it’s not the most obvious part of my diagnosis. “Based on the notes by the physiotherapist, your spatial memory and adaptation have improved. Your balance is consistent with white cane use. That means you’re going home today.”
“Home,” I echo, testing the word on my tongue. I don’t know where home is or what it feels like anymore.
“For one night only,” he clarifies. “You’ll be transferred to Harborview Recovery Center for inpatient rehab tomorrow afternoon.” Dr. Royce’s tone softens. “I won’t pretend it’ll be easy for you. Sensory adjustment can hit hard. Your brain has been working in a highly protected environment. Home will feel louder. Things you’ve adapted to here, such as routine sounds, won’t be the same out there.”
My fingers find the groove of the bedrail. I trace it with my thumb, grounding myself. I want to believe I’m ready to leave the hospital and face the real world. But what if I’m not? Part of me is terrified that I’ll crash the second I try to stand on my own.
“You’ll need someone to go with you,” he adds. “That part isn’t optional—not with the risk of potential disorientation. Even if you know your home layout by heart, your brain is still adjusting. You’re not fully independent until then.”
My grip on the bed rail tightens as I consider my options. Em would show up in seconds, but would also hover like I might break. Jasper is busy with hockey. Same with my teammates. My uncle is in Paraguay on another work trip. That leaves one person. Ivy’s the perfect choice.
