Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 40

[Maddie’s POV]

I watch Emily skate through the livestream on my phone, tears streaming down my face. This is real emotion watching the girl I’m in love with destroy the competition while I’m stuck in a hospital bed with my ankle wrapped like a mummy.

Emily lands her triple Lutz perfectly. Every spin hits with precision that makes my chest ache—not from injury, but from pride mixed with nostalgia for what we built together.

“Oh my god,” Mom breathes beside me, her own tears flowing freely. “Emily, that was beautiful. That was just—” Her voice breaks and she presses her hand to her mouth, overcome.

Dad sits on my other side, silent throughout. When they announce Emily’s score—first place by a huge margin—he nods once.

“She skates with fire,” he says quietly. “Reminds me of you when you were younger.”

The comment pierces through my pharmaceutical haze. Not with malice, but with nostalgia for what I’ve lost. For who I was before my ankle betrayed me mid-rotation.

My hands shake as I type out a message to Emily. ‘Perfect. You were perfect. My mom cried. My dad said you reminded him of Maddie in her best days. Please come when you can. We need to talk before officials get here. They called—they’re coming to question me in a few hours. I need you. I don’t know what to say.’

I hit send and immediately regret writing “I need you”—possibly the most desperate thing I could have written. But it’s also the truth.

Mom sets down her phone and turns to study my face with that maternal x-ray vision that sees through all lies. “How close are you and Emily?” she asks carefully.

My throat goes tight. “We’re roommates. Friends.” Mom nods slowly, but something in her expression says she’s connecting dots.

The way Emily and I looked at each other. The desperate way I reached for her. The crying watching her compete like she just saved orphans instead of landing jumps on ice.

She doesn’t push. Instead she squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you have a good friend at college. Someone who understands your world.”

Dad clears his throat. “Emily seems like a good person. Loyal friend.” He meets my eyes. “You’re lucky to have someone like that.”

“Yeah. I am.” I don’t trust myself to say more because if I keep talking I might confess everything—the rivalry that became love, every stolen moment we’ve been hiding.

Twenty minutes later—twenty minutes I spend checking my phone and trying to figure out what to tell investigators—there’s a knock on the door.

Emily appears in the doorway still wearing her team jacket, face flushed from running. She’s breathless, eyes immediately finding mine, and my heart forgets how to function normally.

My parents stand to greet her. “Emily!” Mom pulls her into a hug. “Congratulations! That was stunning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Reyes.” Emily’s polite but her attention stays locked on me.

Dad extends his hand. “Excellent performance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reyes.” Emily shakes his hand but her eyes keep returning to me.

Mom catches the look and exchanges a glance with Dad. “You know what? Your father and I should get coffee. Give you girls a chance to catch up.” She’s already grabbing her purse. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

It’s clearly intentional. They leave, door closing softly, and suddenly it’s just Emily and me. Emily rushes to my bedside the second they’re gone.

We stare at each other for a moment before she carefully climbs onto the hospital bed beside me, mindful of my leg.

I immediately curl into her, needing the contact. She smells like ice rink and adrenaline and Emily. Her arms come around me and I breathe her in, letting myself have this moment before everything falls apart.

Finally I pull back just enough to speak. “Officials called about an hour ago.”

Emily meets my eyes, honest and terrified. “I don’t know. But there are too many layers to unpack safely. When they question me, I’ll tell the same story.”

We spend the next several minutes aligning our details—the parking lot confrontation, the jacket incident, Jenna’s resentment about captain position and pairs selection, the escalation. We build a narrative that’s true but incomplete.

We’re still figuring out what to say about the “too close” comments when there’s another knock. My stomach drops.

A nurse enters, expression apologetic. “Miss Reyes? The investigators are here. They’re early.”

She glances between us, reading the panic. “They’re waiting in the hallway whenever you’re ready.”

Emily and my eyes meet. We haven’t finished. We’re not ready. Not even close. Emily starts to move off the bed but my hand shoots out, grabbing hers with desperate strength. “Can Emily stay? Please?”

The nurse hesitates, then nods. “If that’s what you’d like.”

“I’ll stay as long as you want,” Emily says quietly, squeezing my hand.

I take a shaky breath. Then I look at the nurse and force words past my constricted throat. “Send them in.”

Emily moves to the chair beside my bed but keeps hold of my hand, our fingers clasped so tight I can feel both our pulses hammering.

We both know what happens next could unravel everything—our relationship that we still haven’t named, my persona that’s already cracking, the fragile trust of my parents drinking coffee downstairs who have no idea their daughter’s life is built on lies, and possibly both our skating futures. The door opens.