Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 67

My heart pounds so violently I’m surprised it doesn’t crack a rib and puncture a lung for good measure. Mom. Of course it’s Mom.

Who else would call from an unknown number like this is some kind of Cold War spy movie where everyone’s communicating in code and hiding from surveillance?

“I’m calling without your father knowing,” she says, and her voice is already trembling, which doesn’t bode well for this conversation. “He’s very angry. He’s not ready to talk to you.”

My stomach sinks through the floor, through the earth’s core, possibly all the way to Australia. I sit down on my bed because standing suddenly feels ambitious. “Okay,” I manage, because what else do you say to that?

“But I wanted you to know that I love you.” Her voice breaks on the word love, and I can hear her trying to hold it together, trying to be strong or brave or whatever she thinks she needs to be right now.

“Does that mean you’ll support me?” I ask, hating how desperate I sound, hating that I’m even asking this question. Like love should be conditional. Like it’s something you have to earn through good behavior and conformity.

The silence on the other end stretches so long I check my phone to make sure we’re still connected. Finally, she says: “I don’t understand this. I’m confused and hurt that you lied for so long. But I love you. That hasn’t changed.”

“Does Dad still love me?” The question escapes before I can stop it, before I can pretend I don’t care about the answer.

Her voice shatters completely. “Of course he does. He’s just… he needs time.” Even she doesn’t sound convinced by her own words.

“Time for what?” My own voice is rising now, frustration and fear mixing into something toxic. “To decide if I’m worth loving? To figure out if his daughter being gay is a dealbreaker? How much time does that take, exactly?”

“That’s not fair, Maddie.” she protests, and my heart breaks even further. I don’t hold back replying.

“None of this is fair, Mom.” I’m pacing now, my ankle protesting slightly but I ignore it. “I’m gay. That’s not changing. The question is whether you and Dad can accept that. Whether you can accept me.”

“I don’t know.” She sounds small, defeated. “I need time too.”

“How much time?” I demand, because I’m tired of vague promises and maybes. “A week? A month? A year? How long am I supposed to wait for you to decide if I’m acceptable?” She doesn’t answer. The silence feels like its own answer.

“I have to go,” she finally says. “Your father’s coming home. But I wanted to hear your voice. To know you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay.” The words come out sharp, cutting. “My father rejected me and you’re letting him. You’re standing by while he does this.”

“It’s not that simple,” she says quietly, and I can hear the tears in her voice, the guilt and the fear and the helplessness.

“Yes, it is,” I say, my voice steady now, cold. “You either choose me or you choose him. That’s what it comes down to.”

“He’s my husband.” She sounds terrified by the prospect. I understand. It terrifies me too. But I’m not the one between the anvil and the hammer.

“And I’m your daughter.” My throat tightens. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

The pause that follows feels eternal. I can hear her breathing, can imagine her standing in our kitchen or maybe her bedroom, phone pressed to her ear, trying to figure out how to have both of us when her husband has made it clear she can’t.

A few other teammates offer quiet support as I set down my bag—small smiles, brief words of encouragement. “We’re here if you need anything,” Sarah says, squeezing my shoulder. Another skater, Maya, just nods at me with a small, understanding smile.

But others are cold. Christina and Beth stand across the rink, whispering to each other while looking my way. They barely acknowledge my presence when I stretch near them, turning away deliberately, making their disapproval crystal clear without saying a word.

Coach Marquette gathers the team before practice starts, her expression stern. The room goes quiet immediately.

“Personal lives are personal,” she says, her voice carrying across the ice. “The only thing that matters on this team is skating ability and supporting each other. If anyone has a problem with a teammate, they can leave. The door’s right there.”

The statement is clearly directed at Christina and Beth. Christina’s face flushes but she doesn’t say anything. Beth stares at her skates.

Practice itself is tense. I can feel eyes on me constantly, and can hear whispers when I skate past certain groups.

I try to focus on my skating, on rebuilding my strength, on landing my jumps cleanly. But the atmosphere is oppressive, heavy with judgment and speculation and disapproval. Every move feels scrutinized, every mistake magnified.

After practice, Emily and I are walking toward the locker room, sweaty and exhausted, when we hear Christina’s voice from just inside the doorway. She’s talking to Beth, not bothering to lower her voice, not caring who might overhear.

“I just think it’s weird, you know?” Christina says, her tone dripping with false concern. “Like, were they together while we were all changing in front of them? That’s kind of predatory.”