Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 34

I jerk backward so fast I nearly tumble off the bed. One second Maddie’s pulling me close enough to kiss, the next I’m scrambling away like someone caught doing something they absolutely should not be doing in a hospital room—which, accurate assessment considering the circumstances.

Hanna bursts through the door like a tornado made of maternal panic and tears. She’s crying before she reaches the bed, face blotchy with mascara, hands already reaching for Maddie.

She doesn’t glance my direction. Doesn’t register that I was just sitting on her daughter’s hospital bed, approximately three seconds away from crossing every line of appropriate public behavior.

“Maddie, oh my god, Maddie.” Her hands cup Maddie’s face, fingers gentle despite the urgency. “Does it hurt? What did the doctors say? Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

David follows two steps behind. Where Hanna is all motion and tears and desperate maternal energy, David moves with controlled precision. His face is tight, jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle twitching.

He stops at the foot of the bed, hands gripping the metal railing, eyes scanning every visible injury with the systematic focus of someone cataloging damage.

I slip off the bed as quietly as possible, which turns out to be not quiet at all because hospital beds are designed by sadists who want everyone to know exactly when you’re fleeing a scene.

The plastic mattress cover crinkles loudly. I might as well be wearing bells and carrying a sign.

I edge toward the window, giving them space, trying to become part of the furniture. Maybe if I stand very still they’ll forget I exist.

“Mom, I’m okay.” Maddie’s voice is thick from crying and medication, words sliding together at the edges. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“You’re not okay, look at you.” Hanna is sobbing now, openly weeping while trying to maintain some composure. “Your leg, your beautiful leg, what happened? How did this happen?”

“I fell during my triple axel.” Maddie’s trying so hard to comfort her mother through her own pain, through the medication haze that makes her blink too slowly. “It was just a bad fall, Mom. It happens sometimes.”

David hasn’t said anything yet. He’s still gripping that railing, still scanning his daughter. His throat works as he swallows. Then his eyes find me. I freeze.

For a horrible second I think he’s going to ask what I was doing on his daughter’s bed, why I was so close. Instead, he nods with brief acknowledgment and quiet gratitude.

I nod back because what else do you do when your secret almost-girlfriend’s father thanks you for being there after watching his daughter get carried off the ice on a stretcher?

Hanna finally looks up from Maddie, finally sees me standing by the window trying to impersonate a lamp.

Her tear-stained face shifts from grief to confusion to recognition in the space of three heartbeats.

“Emily?” My name comes out somewhere between surprise and warmth, like she’s trying to reconcile the gangly twelve-year-old from her memory with whoever I’ve become. “Emily Harper?”

“Hi, Mrs. Reyes.” My voice sounds strange even to my own ears.

She crosses the room before I can process, pulling me into a hug that’s tight enough to crack ribs but brief enough to prove she hasn’t forgotten why we’re here. “Oh my god, Emily. I didn’t—you called us. You were the one who called.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I’m speaking into her shoulder, breathing in perfume and grief and the particular smell of someone who’s been crying for the better part of an hour. “I’m sorry I had to tell you that way. I didn’t know—”

“Don’t apologize.” She pulls back, hands gripping my shoulders, studying my face. “Don’t you dare apologize. Thank you. Thank you for being here with her, for calling us, for—”

Her voice breaks. She squeezes my shoulders once more, and her expression softens slightly despite the tears. “And please, call me Hanna. You’re not twelve anymore.”

“Thank you, Emily.” David clears his throat from his position at the foot of the bed, his tone more reserved but genuine. “We appreciate you staying with Madison until we could get here.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have left her.” A doctor enters, interrupting me, with a tablet and an expression that screams “I have bad news.” He’s youngish, maybe early thirties, with tired eyes.

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