Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 47

[Emily’s POV]

Surgery morning arrives with the enthusiasm of a funeral march. I’m awake before my alarm, listening to Maddie’s restless breathing. Her voice cuts through the darkness asking. “Are you awake?”

“I’ve been up for an hour already,” I croak, rubbing my eyes. “Conducting my own personal anxiety Olympics. Impressive?”

“Definitely,” she agrees, groggily sitting up. “I haven’t really slept. Kept thinking about the timeline before I can skate. My whole season basically sacrificed to the surgical gods,” she groans. I try to smile.

“We’ll get through it. One step at a time. First step: surviving the actual surgery.” I try to sound reassuring, like I’m not also internally screaming.

“Your motivational speeches need work,” she says, but she’s smiling. I tell her I’m working on commission and she gets what she pays for, which makes her laugh. Small victories.

We both get up and I help her shower, steadying her while she washes her hair. After, I help her into loose sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hands shake, tying her shoes, so I kneel and double-knot them like she’s five and heading off to kindergarten. “Thank you,” she says again, her voice small. Terrified.

“Where else would I be?” I look up at her. “Hey. You’re going to be fine. The surgeon’s done this hundreds of times. When you wake up, I’ll be right here. Promise.”

The Uber arrives at six-fifteen, obscenely early for conscious human functioning. I help Maddie down the stairs, crutches clicking. The driver asks if we need help and I decline, because what we actually need—a time machine or a magic wand—isn’t available through Uber. I checked.

The hospital looms against the dawn sky, all medical efficiency and fluorescent soul-crushing. We check in and a nurse leads us to pre-op—a curtained alcove with intimidating equipment.

The nurse hands Maddie fabric that barely qualifies as clothing and tells her to change. After she leaves, I help Maddie into the gown. She’s shaking now, full-body tremors.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. I tell her I know, but she’s brave, braver than she thinks. She starts catastrophizing and I cut her off.

“Stop. No catastrophizing. You’re going to be fine.” She nods, unconvinced. A nurse starts her IV and Maddie grips my hand hard enough to cut off circulation. I don’t complain—if breaking my fingers helps, consider them broken.

Dr. Morrison arrives—mid-fifties, competent. He reviews the procedure using terms like “arthroscopic repair” and “ligament stabilization.” Then comes the part that makes Maddie’s eyes fill with tears.

“Recovery timeline is eight to twelve weeks before skating. Full competition readiness takes four to six months, possibly longer.” I watch her do the math—competitions missed, rankings lost. He adds this is a best-case scenario, assuming no complications.

After he leaves, Maddie turns to me. Tears streaming down her face, and it makes something behind my ribs ache. “My season’s over.” She says with morbid finality.

“It’s not,” I counter, grabbing her hand. “It’s still there. Delayed, not destroyed. You’ll come back. You’re too stubborn not to, anyway.” I smile. She doesn’t smile in return.

A surgical nurse appears saying they’re ready. My stomach drops. Maddie looks at me with pure terror and I kiss her forehead, not caring who sees. “You’ve got this. I’ll be right here when you wake up,” I search her face to see if the reassurances even help, and I see the question before she asks. “Promise.”

They wheel her away. Then I’m alone with nothing but waiting and hospital fluorescent lighting.

The waiting room has uncomfortable chairs designed by people who hate the human spine, and a TV playing morning news at a volume designed to prevent rest. I text Hanna that surgery started and she responds immediately thanking me.

I try studying organic chemistry but my brain refuses to process molecular structures when someone I care about is being surgically reconstructed.

The minutes crawl by with the speed of continental drift, each one lasting approximately seventeen hours while simultaneously feeling like it’s flying past.

Anxiety does weird things to time perception. Also to appetite, sleep cycles, and the ability to sit still without fidgeting like a caffeinated squirrel.

An hour in, Ava appears with two coffees like a guardian angel with a caffeine addiction. “Heya,” she waves at me, careful not to spill any coffee.

“How are you here?” I ask, incredulous, and take the offered cup. I give her a once-over, just in case. “You’re fine, right?”

“I’m peachy,” she grins, getting into a seat next to me. “You texted me this morning, and I decided that you absolutely need some company.” I want to say that she shouldn’t have, but I think she reads it on my face, so she beats me to it. “I’m here already. Deal with it. How are you holding up?” she asks.

“It’s…” I pause, searching for a correct word to explain whatever fuckery has been going on between and with us. Then I decide that there’s no better word for it. “Complicated.”

Chris: How’s the surgery going?

“It went well, no complication,” Dr. Morrison smiles. Small mercies—actually, no, this one’s huge. “We repaired the ligament damage and stabilized her joint. She’s in recovery now. Will be groggy for about an hour.” Relief floods through me. “We’ll keep her for a few horse, and then she can go. Care package included.”

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