Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 38

[Maddie’s POV]

Pain drags me out of sleep at 2 AM. The walls are too white, the air smells like antiseptic, and something is beeping.

Then my ankle screams and everything clicks into place. Hospital. The fall. The ankle that might have ended my career before I turned twenty-one.

My parents are asleep in those torture devices hospitals call chairs. Mom’s curled up with her cardigan bunched under her head. Dad sits straight even in sleep.

They dropped everything to be here. Drove three hours in a panic after Emily called them, and now they’re sleeping in medieval punishment chairs.

The guilt tastes like hospital coffee. I’ve been lying to them for months. About my life, who I am, Emily. They think I’m still dating Derek. They think I’m straight.

They think their daughter has her life together instead of being a disaster who’s in love with her childhood best friend.

My phone sits on the bedside table. I reach for it carefully, moving like I’m defusing a bomb. The phone lights up—3:47 AM—showing messages from Emily.

‘Are you okay?’

‘The doctor said you’re stable. That’s good, right?’

‘I should be there.’

‘I’m competing tomorrow. Today. Whatever.’

I want to call her so badly my fingers ache. Want to hear her voice, even if it’s rough from crying.

But my parents are right here, sleeping their exhausted parent sleep, and I can’t risk waking them. So I call her voicemail instead, which is definitely the emotionally mature decision here.

The line clicks to that robotic voice, beeps, and I start whispering like I’m in a terrible spy movie where the spy has been heavily sedated.

“Hey. It’s me. I can’t call you for real because my parents are sleeping right here and that would be complicated.”

I try to laugh, and fail, and complain instead. “God, Emily, everything hurts. Not just my ankle. Everything. My chest hurts and I’m pretty sure that’s not from the fall. The doctor said I might never skate at the same level again. Might. That word is doing a lot of heavy lifting right now, and I don’t appreciate it.”

I try to organize thoughts that feel like scattered puzzle pieces through the medication haze, which is about as effective as herding cats.

“When I was lying on the ice—you know that moment when you know something’s gone terribly wrong? Like when you drop your phone in slow motion and you just know the screen’s about to shatter?”

I take a deep breath, and it doesn’t help. “It was like that except it was my ankle and possibly my entire future. And I saw you in the stands. Screaming my name. Your face—Emily, I’ve never seen you look like that. So scared. For me.”

My voice cracks because apparently I’m determined to be as pathetic as humanly possible.

“The only thing I could think about while falling was that I didn’t want this to be the last thing I did on ice. Didn’t want to end like this. Broken. Sabotaged. Without getting to show everyone what I’m actually capable of.”

Tears slide down my cheeks and I swipe at them with my free hand. “You’re competing today. You need to be perfect. Show everyone what we’re both capable of. Prove that our rivalry, our partnership, everything we built—prove that it mattered. That we mattered. Please.”

I take a shaky breath that threatens to turn into a sob. “I’ll be watching. I’m always watching. Skate for both of us.”

The line cuts off—maximum message length reached, apparently—and I let the phone fall to my chest.

Sleep drags me under before I can put it back on the table, my hand still clutching it like a lifeline.

Morning comes with aggressive cheerfulness courtesy of a nurse who’s never heard of indoor voices.

She checks my vitals with the efficiency of someone who’s done this ten thousand times.

“Good morning, sweetheart! How are we feeling today?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Pain level one to ten?”

Your roommate. Right. That’s what Emily is to them. Not the girl I’m in love with. Just my roommate.

Then I type with my thumbs. ‘I’m watching the livestream from my hospital bed. My parents are here watching too. Skate like you know how. I believe in you.’

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