Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 70

[Emily’s POV]

Two weeks since Maddie’s father cut her off, and the world hasn’t ended. Surprising, considering how apocalyptic it felt. The financial aid plan Coach arranged is in place—loans, work-study, hardship scholarship.

Maddie’s managing it all with determined efficiency, working ten hours a week in the athletics office on top of training and classes.

I can see the exhaustion in her face, but she refuses to complain, just keeps pushing forward like acknowledging the struggle would make her weak.

This morning she has a follow-up appointment with her surgeon—the one that’ll determine if she’s cleared for full training. I go with her for support. The medical building is the same depressing beige that all medical buildings aspire to.

We sit in the waiting room with Maddie’s leg bouncing nervous energy. Her name gets called and we follow a nurse to an examination room. The surgeon arrives, pulling up Maddie’s X-rays.

He reviews her progress—ankle healed well, swelling gone, range of motion good, strength tests positive. He turns to Maddie and says she’s cleared for full training. All elements, including jumps and spins.

I watch Maddie’s face transform, relief flooding her expression so intensely that tears threaten. Her hand finds mine, squeezing tight.

“Thank you,” Maddie manages, trying not to cry in front of her surgeon, which is very on-brand for Maddie’s pathological need to appear strong at all times.

After leaving, I can’t stop grinning. The weight and fear that’s been in me since the Nationals, finally giving way to fresh air. “You can really skate again. Full training.”

Maddie’s smile is bright but there’s tension underneath. “Regionals are in six weeks. I need to see if I can actually do this.”

“You will,” I say with absolute certainty, because watching Maddie doubt herself makes my chest ache.

That afternoon we go to the rink for Maddie’s first full practice back. Coach is waiting, practically vibrating with excitement that she’s spectacularly failing to hide.

She gives Maddie a quick hug—rare for Coach—then steps back like she’s embarrassed by her own human emotions.

I help Maddie lace up her skates, my fingers working the laces while trying not to notice her hands are shaking.

“What if my ankle can’t handle it?” she asks, voice small and vulnerable. “What if I’ve lost everything?”

I finish tying her laces and look up. “You haven’t,” I say firmly, channeling every ounce of certainty I possess. “You’re going to be amazing.”

I take position at the boards as Maddie steps onto the ice, my hands gripping the barrier probably hard enough to leave marks. She starts with basic movements, warming up.

Then she attempts her first spin—a camel spin that’s slower than usual but solid, her ankle holding steady.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She tries a simple jump next. Single axel. Launches, rotates, lands it cleanly. I want to cheer but stay quiet, letting Maddie focus instead of breaking her concentration with my overenthusiastic cheerleading.

Maddie builds up gradually. Double axel—lands it. Another one—cleaner, more confident. Then she sets up for her triple axel.

Her signature move. I hold my breath, my entire body tense like I’m about to land the jump myself through sheer force of sympathetic anxiety.

Maddie launches, rotating fast through three and a half rotations. Her ankle holds. She touches down, but it’s shaky—not as clean as her triple axels used to be, not the effortless perfection she’s known for.

“You’re good enough,” I say firmly, needing her to believe it. “You’re always going to be good enough.” The words come out fiercer than I intend, like I can force her to believe them through sheer intensity alone.

Maddie doesn’t respond, just keeps working through her ankle exercises like if she does them perfectly enough, everything else will magically fall into place.

I watch her for another moment, then reluctantly return to studying because one of us needs to pass our classes.

My phone buzzes twenty minutes later, vibrating against the desk hard enough to make me jump. I glance at the screen and my stomach immediately drops like I’m the one doing triple axels.

Coach: “Need to talk to you tomorrow morning. About Regionals and pairs.”

I stare at those words, each one hitting like a separate punch. I know exactly what this conversation is going to be about—the pairs competition, my partnership options, the decision that’ll force me to choose between competitive advancement and staying loyal to Maddie.

Know that whatever happens tomorrow morning will change something fundamental between us, will add another layer of complication to an already complicated situation.

I don’t tell Maddie about the text. Don’t want to add to her stress tonight when she’s already spiraling, already drowning in self-doubt. Don’t want to face the conversation we’ll have once I talk to Coach, don’t want to see the guilt in her eyes when she realizes I’m sacrificing opportunities because of her.

Instead I turn off my phone, close my textbook, and lie down across from Maddie’s bed. The ceiling becomes my focal point as I lie awake, worrying about the conversation that’s coming.

Knowing the decision I’m going to have to make. Wondering if I’ll regret it, wondering if Maddie will hate me for it, wondering why everything about us has to be so impossibly complicated.