Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 43

My heart pounds like it’s training for the Olympics—which, given the circumstances, feels both metaphorically appropriate and deeply ironic.

Maddie’s staring at me with hurt written across her face, and I need to fix this before it becomes unfixable in that permanent, relationship-ending way that keeps therapists employed.

“I heard them,” I say, words rushing out like they’ve been waiting at the starting line. “During your performance. Those girls behind me—they were talking about you. About equipment. About karma catching up with the ice queen.”

Maddie’s expression shifts from hurt to confusion in a way that would make for excellent split-screen comparison if this were a reality TV show. Which it’s not. Unfortunately. “What do you mean you heard them?”

“I mean I heard them clearly. Every word.” My hands shake as I grip the hospital bed railing like it’s the only thing preventing me from floating away into an anxiety-induced stratosphere.

“They were laughing about loosening screws, about how you deserved it. The moment I understood what they were saying, I bolted.”

“You bolted?” Maddie’s voice is barely a whisper—the kind reserved for libraries and confessionals and moments when you’re afraid of the answer but need to hear it anyway.

“I fought through the crowd like some demented obstacle course.” I aim to be funny, but it doesn’t land, because otherwise I’ll be hysterical.

“Pushed past people still applauding, completely oblivious to the fact that someone had just confessed to attempted assault loud enough for the cheap seats to hear.”

I can feel the panic rising again just remembering it—that special cocktail of terror and adrenaline that makes you do spectacularly stupid things in the name of someone you care about. “I made it to the ice barrier and tried to get security to let me through.”

Maddie’s grip on my wrist loosens slightly. “They wouldn’t let you?”

“Security protocol—useless bureaucratic nonsense designed to protect figure skating’s sanctity while equipment gets sabotaged.”

The bitterness surprises even me. “I was screaming your name from the barrier. Screaming until my throat was raw, trying to warn you.”

“I couldn’t hear you.” Maddie’s voice cracks, understanding flooding her features. “The music was too loud.”

“By the time security let me through—after you’d already fallen—it was too late.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I tried, Maddie. I swear I tried to reach you.”

The hurt drains from Maddie’s expression, replaced by something that looks like gratitude mixed with fear.

She squeezes my hand—the one still wrapped around my wrist—and asks the question I’ve been dreading. “Why didn’t you tell the officials this when they questioned us?”

My throat goes tight. This is the part where I have to explain why the truth is too dangerous. “Because then they’d ask why there was sabotage. What the motive was.” Maddie’s quiet, and I can see her mind working through the implications.

“That leads to questions about the bullying,” I continue, each word carefully chosen. “Which leads to questions about why Jenna’s group targeted us specifically. And every answer reveals more than we can afford to expose.”

“The fake wealth,” Maddie says slowly. “My real background.”

“And the ‘too close’ comments,” I add, voice dropping. “All of it. Every single thing we’ve been trying to keep contained would come spilling out.”

Maddie absorbs this, tension finally draining from her shoulders. She squeezes my hand again—properly this time, with both hands wrapped around mine. “I understand now. You were trying to protect us.”

“I was trying to protect you,” I correct, because that’s closer to the truth. “Everything else was secondary.”

Before either of us can say anything more, the door swings open and Maddie’s parents walk back in, carrying coffee that smells like hospital cafeteria regret.

David zeroes in on our joined hands but doesn’t comment. Instead, she sits beside Maddie’s bed. “What did the officials say? Do they know who did this?”

The walk to the parking lot with my mother takes approximately seventeen years. She doesn’t speak until we’re in the car, engine running, heater blasting. “Did the questioning go okay?”

I give her the basics—investigators asking about team dynamics, conflicts, who might have wanted to hurt Maddie. I keep my answers brief, factual, carefully devoid of detail.

My mother’s quiet for several blocks. Finally she says, voice careful, “I noticed how Maddie reached for you when she was scared. How you’re clearly the person she trusts most.”

My entire body goes rigid, every muscle tensing. The weight on my chest increases exponentially, making it hard to breathe, hard to do anything except stare out the window at passing streetlights.

“Whatever you and Maddie have,” my mother continues, voice still gentle, “it’s clear you mean a lot to each other.”

I want to respond. Want to say something—anything—that will deflect this conversation. But my throat’s too tight, my lungs aren’t working, and the words won’t come.

“I’m not trying to pry, Emily,” she says after another block of painful silence. “I just want you to know that you can talk to me. About anything. Whenever you’re ready.”

I continue staring out the window, watching Toledo blur past through vision that’s getting suspiciously blurry.

The weight of everything—Maddie’s injury, the investigation, the secrets we’re carrying, this conversation I absolutely cannot have—presses down on my chest until I can barely breathe.

My mother doesn’t push. She just drives, giving me space while making it clear that space isn’t the same as distance. That whenever I’m ready to talk, she’ll be there.

I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. But as we pull into the hotel parking lot and I force myself to take a full breath for the first time in what feels like hours, I wonder how much longer we can keep running from a truth that everyone around us seems to be slowly, inevitably figuring out.