Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 71

[Maddie’s POV]

Coach’s office smells like old leather and broken dreams, which seems appropriate. Emily and I sit across from her desk while Coach studies us with that expression she gets when she’s about to ruin someone’s day. The championship trophy on her shelf gleams, mocking me.

“Your recovery is ahead of schedule, Maddie,” Coach starts, and I feel Emily’s hand find mine under the desk, squeezing tight. “Ankle strength is good, range of motion is excellent. You’ll be ready for individual competition at Regionals.”

I wait for the other shoe to drop. There’s always another shoe. “But six weeks isn’t enough time for pairs,” Coach continues, her expression carefully neutral. “Individual skating puts stress on your ankle, but pairs? The lifts, the throws, the physical demands? Your ankle can’t handle that yet. Not safely.”

Emily’s grip on my hand tightens to the point of actual pain, but I don’t pull away because I can feel the tension radiating off her. “I want to withdraw from pairs,” Emily says immediately, her voice sharp and definitive.

Coach’s eyebrows shoot up. “Emily, we need to discuss this before making hasty decisions that could impact your competitive trajectory.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Emily says, and I turn to look at her profile, at the stubborn set of her jaw that I’ve come to know so well. “If Maddie can’t compete pairs, then I’m not competing pairs. End of discussion.”

“Emily.” Coach leans forward, arms crossed on the desk. “You’re skating at your career best right now. Your technical scores are the highest they’ve ever been, your artistic marks are consistently strong. Pairing with someone else for Regionals could significantly boost your ranking, open doors for you competitively.”

“I don’t want those doors,” Emily says flatly, and I feel something crack open in my chest at the certainty in her voice. “Not if they don’t involve Maddie.”

“Emily, be reasonable,” I interrupt, pulling my hand from hers to face her properly. “This is a huge opportunity. You can’t throw it away because of me.”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Emily says, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “I’m making a choice about what matters to me.”

“What matters is your career,” I argue, feeling frustration build hot and sharp in my throat. “Coach is right. You could compete with someone else, someone whose ankle isn’t held together with surgical precision and hope. You could actually advance your ranking instead of sitting on the sidelines because your partner is broken.”

“Don’t call yourself broken,” Emily snaps, and there’s real anger in her voice now, the kind that cuts clean through all my careful logic. “Your ankle had surgery. You’re recovering. That doesn’t make you broken.”

“It makes me unable to compete pairs,” I shoot back, matching her intensity because I’m not going to let her sacrifice her career for me, not when I’ve already taken so much from her.

“Which means you need to find another partner if you want to compete.” I insist. “Coach can help you find someone. Someone who can actually do lifts without risking catastrophic joint failure.”

“I don’t want someone else,” Emily says, and her voice has gone quiet now, dangerous in its certainty. “I want to skate pairs with you. Only you. That’s not negotiable.”

“Emily, think about this logically,” Coach interjects, trying to regain control of a conversation that’s spiraling into territory that makes professional coaches uncomfortable.

“You’ve worked too hard to let personal feelings derail your competitive opportunities.”

Personal feelings. The phrase hangs in the air between us, loaded with everything we’re not saying, everything Coach doesn’t know about what’s actually happening between Emily and me.

“My personal feelings are that I’d rather not compete pairs at all than compete with someone I don’t connect with,” Emily says, her eyes locked on mine. “That’s my decision. Not yours, not Maddie’s. Mine.”

“See?” I gesture helplessly, feeling vindication and guilt war in my chest. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“But here’s the thing,” Emily continues, stepping closer until we’re inches apart, close enough that I can see the determination in her eyes. “Skating pairs with someone I don’t connect with, someone who isn’t you? That’s not worth it to me. I’d rather withdraw entirely than go through the motions with a partner I don’t care about.”

“What if you regret this?” I ask quietly, voicing the fear that’s been clawing at my throat since Coach started talking. “What if months from now, you realize you gave up something important for a relationship that might not even last?”

“Then I’ll regret it,” Emily says simply, like it’s that easy, like the potential for future pain doesn’t terrify her the way it terrifies me. “But right now, this feels right. You feel right. That’s enough.”

I’m too exhausted to argue anymore, too worn down by physical therapy and recovery and the constant weight of knowing I’m holding Emily back from everything she could achieve if I weren’t in the picture.

So I just nod, let her take my hand, and we walk back to the dorm in silence that feels less heavy now, more like understanding than defeat.

That evening, I’m lying on my bed with my ankle elevated and iced—the glamorous life of a recovering athlete—when my phone rings. I look at the screen, unease coiling in my chest. Mom. My finger hovers over the green circle, unsure of whether I want to answer.

But the desire to hear her voice is stronger. So I pick up.

“Maddie.” My mother’s voice comes through the line, and my entire body goes rigid. “We need to talk.”