Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 31

[Emily’s POV]

I’m running before I realize I’ve moved. My mother’s hand slips from my shoulder as I bolt toward the stairs, pushing past people still applauding, unaware that something’s gone wrong.

The security guard at the barrier sees me coming and steps into my path, arms spread wide.

“Miss, you can’t—”

“That’s my—” I choke on the word, can’t finish it. “She’s hurt. I need to get down there.”

“Only authorized personnel on the ice during medical emergency.” His voice is firm but not unkind. “I’m sorry.”

I try to push past him anyway. He doesn’t budge. Below us, the medical team swarms around Maddie’s motionless form.

I can see her dark hair spread across the ice, one leg bent at an angle that makes my stomach turn. She’s not moving. Why isn’t she moving?

“Please.” My voice cracks. “Please, I just need to—”

“Emily.” Coach Marquette’s hand lands on my shoulder, grip tight enough to ground me. “They’re taking care of her.”

“She’s not moving.” I’m shaking, my whole body trembling like I’m the one who fell. “Coach, she’s not—”

“She’s conscious.” Coach’s voice cuts through my panic. “Look.” I follow her gaze and see Maddie’s eyes open, searching the crowd.

Even from here I can see the shock written across her face, the way her chest rises and falls too fast.

Our eyes meet across the distance and something in my chest cracks open. I press against the barrier, ignoring the security guard’s warning to step back. “I’m here,” I mouth, willing her to understand. “I’m here.”

Maddie’s hand lifts off the ice, reaching toward me. The gesture is small, desperate, and it destroys me.

Then a paramedic blocks my view, kneeling beside her with a medical bag. Another joins with a stretcher. I lose sight of her completely as they work.

“They’re taking her to the hospital.” Coach’s grip on my shoulder tightens. “The ambulance is already here.”

“I need to go with her.” I turn to face Coach, barely seeing her through the blur of tears. “I need to be there when—”

“Only family is allowed in the ambulance.” Coach’s expression is sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry, Emily. I know you want to be with her, but they won’t let you.”

“But I—” The words stick in my throat. I can’t say what I am to Maddie, can’t explain why every second she’s out of my sight feels like drowning. “She needs someone. She’ll be scared.”

“Her parents will meet her there.” Coach squeezes my shoulder once before letting go. “You can follow in a car, wait at the hospital for news.”

Below, they’re lifting Maddie onto the stretcher. I watch them strap her down, watch one of the paramedics place an oxygen mask over her face even though she’s breathing on her own.

The crowd has gone quiet now, the celebratory atmosphere evaporated. I hear whispers—‘what happened, did you see, her ankle just gave out’—but they feel distant, underwater.

They start moving her toward the exit gate. I track every inch of their progress, unable to look away. Maddie’s eyes are closed now, her face pale against the white pillow of the stretcher.

One hand grips the edge of the blanket they’ve draped over her, knuckles white with tension.

“Emily.” My mother’s voice comes from behind me. I didn’t hear her approach. “Sweetheart, we should go. We should get to the hospital.”

I nod without turning around. My eyes stay locked on Maddie as they carry her past the boards, past the horrified officials, toward the arena exit.

The crowd parts for them like water. Someone’s crying—another skater, maybe, or a coach. The sound grates against my nerves.

“I’ll handle the officials and the media,” Coach says, already pulling out her phone. “You go. Get her things from the locker room first—she’ll need them. I’ll text you updates as I get them.”

‘How are you feeling?’

‘We’re running late, car trouble on the highway.’

‘Should be there in an hour or so. You skate soon, right?’

‘Maddie? Did you see our messages?

Are you warming up? Break a leg! (Not literally!)’

Someone has to call them and explain that their daughter is on her way to the hospital, that she’s hurt, that she fell and didn’t get up. That someone is me.

My mother appears in the doorway. She takes one look at my face and crosses to me immediately. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Her parents.” I hold up the phone so she can see the messages. “They’re not here yet. Their car broke down. They don’t know—someone has to tell them.”

“Oh, honey.” Mom pulls me into a hug that I can’t quite sink into, my body still rigid with shock. “Do you want me to call them?”

I shake my head against her shoulder. “No. It should be me. I was there. I saw what happened.”

“Are you sure?” Because she doesn’t seem sure. She seems worried, practically terrified—for me, for Maddie. But I don’t have it in me to console her right now.

“Yeah.” I pull back, wiping at my eyes with the heel of my hand. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Mom nods slowly. “Okay. But I’ll be just outside if you need me.” I nod absentmindedly, barely registering the door that closes behind me.

I stare down at the phone in my hand. Maddie’s lock screen shows a photo of the two of us from all those years ago—both grinning after a good practice, our faces pressed together for the selfie.

We look so happy. So unaware of what was coming. Still kids.

I need to make this call. I need to be the one to tell her parents that their daughter is hurt.

But first I need to figure out how to form words when my throat is this tight, when my hands won’t stop shaking, when all I can see is Maddie lying motionless on the ice with her ankle bent wrong and her eyes searching for mine through the crowd.

I take a breath. Then another. My thumb hovers over the contacts list. The phone buzzes in my hand.