Chapter Fourteen
Cooper
The last of the afternoon sun gleams through the front windows of Plucked, casting the instruments in a warm haze of gold, dust floating in their beams like glitter.
The large flatscreen behind me is muted, streaming Declan’s game today, subtitles rolling across the screen as two commentators talk about stats or plays or something sporty.
All of it meaningless to me except when the camera lands on my best friend.
An electric guitar rests across my lap, my thumb plucking a slow chord as my phone buzzes on the counter. Swiping it up, my gaze barely flicks over the screen as my finger hits the notification. Query reply… My back goes ramrod straight, everything inside me stalling.
The bell over the door jingles, the sound landing somewhere dull and far away.
“Welcome to Plucked,” I say automatically, not looking up at whoever came in, my heart flatlining as I stare at the email.
From: A&R Submissions (Punkline Records)
Subject: Query reply - Cooper Riddick
Dear Cooper,
Thank you for inquiring with Punkline Records. While I am impressed with what you sent, I’m afraid that right now we are prioritizing acts with a larger online presence and a more consistent release frequency.
If you build momentum, please reach out to me directly, as I would love to revisit in the future.
Sincerely,
Fiona Burgandy
I stare at the reply for a full minute. A shaky breath escapes me, my pulse skipping before beating rapidly, my fingers trembling as they hover over the screen. It’s not a deal—hell, it’s not even a maybe—but it’s a reply.
The first one ever.
Someone listened. Someone at a real label listened to my demo, typed my name, wrote the words impressed with what you sent.
Holy fucking shit. Sure, the bit about not being big enough, needing to post more, build momentum, stings like a bitch, but it’s something.
Advice on what I should be doing—even if I already was working my ass off.
Flagging it—because I do not want to forget this moment—I place my phone back down on the counter, trying not to overthink the email.
Baby steps, Cooper. Nothing to get overly excited about.
Except, I can’t not tell Declan. Exhaling, I shake my head. He’s probably lacing up already, focused, headphones on as he gets in the zone.
I should wait.
But he’s the only one who’ll understand how big this is.
Lurching forward, I snag my phone again, typing quickly into our message thread.
Me
Got an email from Punkline Records. Not a yes, but they liked my stuff. My stuff!!!! Said to reach out again once I’m bigger. It’s something, though, right?
Also, you’re gonna kill it out there tonight.
I inhale and hold my breath, trying to clear my head and stop my racing heart before focusing on the melody I wrote days ago.
Grabbing my pen, I scribble lyrics, the song flowing out of me with a newfound ease I struggled with before.
They spill onto the page as if they’ve been there all along, waiting for me to let them out.
It’s almost like that email was the kick up the ass I needed.
“Hey, Cooper,” Bobby, one of the shops regulars, says, appearing on the other side of the cash register.
“Hey! Knew you’d be back,” I tease as I set the electric guitar behind me.
Bobby glances down at the sleek red Fender in his hands, indecision still in his eyes when he turns back. “Thought I might give it a go.”
“Really?” I ask, my excitement levels peaking all over again.
There’s a spark in his eyes that reminds me of why I love working here, why music is like breathing.
Sure, I want the lights, the crowds, the roar of an audience someday, but moments like this are special too.
Seeing someone with their first flicker of passion, daring to push past their comfort zone and pick up an instrument… It’s its own kind of magic.
He hands me the guitar, and I duck into the back to grab the case, giving it a quick polish before zipping it up. A bright red strap to match the guitar’s body and several spare strings are on the desk when I return.
“Great choice,” I tell him, ringing up the guitar and accessories.
“Working on something new?” he asks as his gaze flicks down to my notebook.
“Trying anyway.” Closing the book, I slide it toward the edge of the desk. “Demos never write themselves, right?”
“Exactly.” Passing me his credit card, his attention goes back to the game. “Declan’s really something, huh?”
I don’t know what play they’re setting up when I glance over my shoulder, but as the camera pans over his sweat-slicked face etched deep in concentration, pride blooms in my chest. Even through his helmet, I can see his jaw clench, eyes razor-sharp, every muscle wound tight. “He sure is.”
Grabbing the remote, I unmute it, the announcers’ voices crackling through the speaker.
“Here comes Cohen, flying down the right side again. He’s been all over the ice tonight, showing exactly why this kid is NHL-bound.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Look at that edgework.”
“Cohen along the boards again… passes to Healey. Gets it back…”
Tearing off the receipt, I slide it across the desk for Bobby to sign, tucking a couple of picks into the case’s front pocket, and zipping it up.
“Oh shit,” Bobby whispers, gaze glued to the screen, eyes going wide as his body stiffens.
My fingers freeze on the zip, my stomach lurching at the look on his face. “What—?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares, slack-jawed, and somehow, I just know.
Something’s wrong. Twisting toward the TV, three Denver jerseys hunch around a body sprawled on the ice, gloves scattered, sticks abandoned.
For a few drawn-out seconds, the commentary cuts out.
Even the roar of the crowd dies like I accidentally hit mute.
“That…did not look good.” The commentator’s voice sounds like it’s underwater as my heart rockets beneath my ribs.
“No,” I whisper, eyes frantically searching the screen. Even though I can’t see his number, I know that posture, know that stillness.
It’s him.
It’s Declan.
“Cohen’s clutching that right knee,” one of them says, concern laced in his tone. “Trainers are coming over from the bench…”
The feed flickers, and then everything slows as an action replay rolls.
Declan blazing down the ice. Puck glued to his stick, a blur of other team’s colors barreling around him, one slamming sideways, shoulder first. Blades catch, leg twists, knee caves inward, and I don’t have to hear the pop to understand.
Declan folds, sliding down the boards, stick spinning away as his head tips back in agony.
“That doesn’t look good,” Bobby breathes.
“Watch that right leg when he plants— See it give out?”
“Yeah, that’s… That’s a nightmare.”
The footage snaps back to real time. Someone flicks Declan’s helmet off, the camera zooming in on his face, chalk-white and clammy, teeth bared as he tries to push himself up, arguing with the trainer holding him down by his shoulder.
My hands clamp around the counter so hard my knuckles ache, the edge of the screen starting to blur.
“They’re bringing the stretcher. Denver’s leading scorer… their captain-in-waiting…” He exhales a harsh breath. “This is devastating if it’s as serious as it looks.”
Declan’s shouting now, shoving the trainer away, face turning red and livid, slamming his fists into the ice. My heart lurches, breath catching, waiting for him to straighten, my brain screaming see! He’s fine! He always gets back up.
But when he tries to stand, the leg won’t let him, collapsing into his teammates, fisting their jerseys like he can hold himself together.
“He can’t put any weight on that right leg. They’ll probably run a test to check, but from here, it looks unstable.”
Unstable? No. No. He’s fine. He has to be.
“They’ll do an MRI tonight, but if it’s a full ACL tear, he’s done for the season.”
Done for the season.
The words hit as hard as the collision, my stomach roiling as I watch Declan bow his head and try one more step. His shoulders shake when he realizes he can’t, then he disappears down the tunnel, the trainer helping him, seconds before the screen flashes to a commercial break.
Everything happens in pieces after that, like my brain can’t take it all in as my body works on autopilot.
Bobby leaves, I flip the sign to closed and lock up.
One second, the shop’s full of light, that first guitar thrill glowing in my chest, and the next, I’m outside, the chilly early spring air biting at my cheeks.
It doesn’t sting the way I know it should—it barely registers, in fact—unable to penetrate through the numbness I already feel flowing through my veins.
The whole drive is a blur, one of those trips where you blink and you’re suddenly home, the replay chewing through every thought I have.
My stomach’s a mess by the time my tires crunch into the driveway, throat tight, breath shaky.
Stumbling inside, I beeline for the dim living room, the flicker of the TV painting blue and white up the walls.
I stop in the middle of the room, watching Dad pace in tight circles, phone pressed tight to his ear, voice low and strained as he mutters to himself.
On the couch, Andrew sits rigid, eyes locked on the screen.
Even though the game’s back on, he isn’t watching the puck.
His phone trembles in his grip, knuckles white as they strangle it.
“Dad?” I whisper, voice like gravel.
“I’m trying to get Andrew booked on the next flight out,” he says, frustration lining his forehead. “If someone would just answer the damn phone.”
Andrew doesn’t seem to hear him, he just…continues staring, looking older somehow, shoulders caved, new worry lines carved into his face.
“They took him straight to imaging,” Dad adds, lowering the phone slightly. “They think it’s his ACL.”
If it’s a full ACL tear, he’s done for the season.
“They don’t know for sure yet,” Andrew blurts too fast, like saying it out loud makes room for hope. “It could be nothing. Just a…a sprain.”
The replay rolls again, muted, making everything seem so much worse. In my head, I can hear him yell, hear the crowd, hear that pop. The worst part is him trying to stand, face contorted in pain, folding into the trainer, defeat clouding his dark eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing the lie we’re all trying to feed ourselves. “A sprain.”
The words taste like ash, and I just stand there, hands buried in my pockets, hiding the way they tremble, wishing I could call Declan and fix it—rewind the tape, change the angle, catch him before he hits the ice.
But I can’t. All I can do is sink down next to his dad and wait by the phone.