Chapter Two
Coop
Coop Vale had never been afraid of a planning meeting.
He liked planning meetings.
He liked agendas.
He liked snacks.
He liked the part where people pretended they didn’t need snacks and then quietly ate six pretzels while arguing about logistics.
Planning meetings were civilized.
Predictable.
Helpful.
This one had Frankie Callahan in it.
So civilized was already dead.
“Why are there three colors of sticky notes?” Nolan asked, leaning over the table in the student-athlete lounge like he had discovered a crime scene.
Coop set down the stack of folders. “Because three categories exist.”
“Bold claim.”
“Logistics, donor-facing, and hockey operations.”
Nolan squinted. “What color is emotional damage?”
Frankie, seated at the far end of the table with a black coffee and a tiny notebook, did not look up.
“Plaid.”
Nolan pointed at her. “See? This is why she should run everything.”
Frankie turned one page in her notebook. “I should run nothing.”
“You run the crease.”
“The crease behaves.”
Birdie dropped into the chair beside Frankie. “The crease absolutely does not behave. I’ve seen you threaten it.”
“It knows what it did.”
Coop smiled before he could stop himself.
Frankie’s eyes flicked to him.
Caught.
He tried to look normal.
This was difficult because normal, around Frankie, had started to feel like a language he’d once spoken fluently and now could only remember under pressure.
She wore a black Spitfires hoodie today, sleeves pulled over her hands, hair twisted into a messy knot. No gear. No mask. No giant goalie pads making her look like a tiny furious fortress.
Which somehow made her more intimidating.
Without the wall, you could see the person who had built it.
That was worse.
Better.
Dangerous.
He looked down at his folder.
Professional. He could be professional.
He was an alternate captain. He had coordinated bus lists, media days, equipment drives, freshman move-in disasters, and one deeply regrettable team breakfast where Nolan tried to prove eggs could be cooked in a waffle iron.
He could co-run a showcase planning session with one deadpan goalie who did not want to be there and also maybe looked at him like he was a shot she hadn’t decided whether to glove or let in.
Fine.
Normal.
Hayes walked in behind Reese, carrying two coffees and the expression of a man who had already been corrected twice this morning and respected the process.
Reese slid into the seat near the head of the table. “Okay. We have forty minutes before weights, and Coach Sutter said if we waste them, she’ll make us regret literacy.”
Birdie nodded solemnly. “She does love punctuation-based violence.”
Hayes set one coffee in front of Reese. “I thought that was a joke.”
Everyone looked at him.
He lifted both hands. “Learning.”
Frankie’s mouth did a thing.
Not quite a smile.
Coop saw it anyway.
That was becoming a problem. He was noticing everything. The shift of her hands around her coffee. The small, private frown she gave the room before she spoke. The way she watched exits first, people second, and him third.
Sometimes.
Maybe.
He had not built a personality around wishful thinking.
Mostly.
Claire Whitcomb came in last with a tablet, Brenda Kline beside her in a lemon-yellow cardigan that looked too cheerful for institutional peril.
“Thank you all for being flexible,” Claire said.
Frankie wrote something down.
Coop wanted very badly to know what.
Probably: Flexibility is how they get you.
Possibly: Vale smiles too much. Suspicious.
Fair.
Brenda opened a folder. “The goal today is to establish the showcase framework. We want this to feel collaborative, energetic, and forward-looking.”
Wren, at Reese’s left, lifted one finger. “And not like Brookfield is panic-proving women’s hockey deserves oxygen.”
Brenda blinked.
Claire coughed lightly.
Reese said, “We’re going to need language that doesn’t make survival sound like a pageant.”
“Great note,” Brenda said, writing very fast.
Frankie looked at Coop.
It was a tiny look.
Fast.
Dry.
Shared.
His chest warmed anyway.
Ridiculous.
He was twenty-one years old, not a cartoon prince seeing sunlight for the first time.
Still.
Frankie Callahan had included him in a look.
That felt unreasonably close to victory.
“Coop,” Claire said, “since Coach Landry suggested you help lead from the men’s side, why don’t you and Frankie start by walking us through what you think the event needs to accomplish?”
Every face turned toward them.
Coop straightened.
There it was.
The easy version of him wanted to smile, make the room comfortable, charm everyone into breathing again. He could do that. It had always worked. People liked him best when he made things lighter.
But Frankie had made rule number four yesterday.
No making Coop talk first because he smiles more.
He still hadn’t stopped thinking about that.
No one had ever made a rule to protect his seriousness before.
So he did not smile.
Not all the way.
He looked at Frankie. “You want to start, or do you want me to?”
Her eyes narrowed, like she was checking for a trap.
Enough.
He waited.
Frankie set her pen down. “The showcase needs to prove three things.”
Brenda’s pen hovered.
Frankie held up one finger. “We are competitive.”
Second finger. “We are already drawing support.”
Third finger. “Investment in us is not charity. It is strategy.”
The room went quiet.
Coop felt the words hit exactly where they needed to.
Clean.
Sharp.
No begging.
Claire’s expression warmed. “That’s very strong.”
“It’s true,” Frankie said.
“Even better.”
Reese leaned back, eyes bright with captain pride.
Hayes looked at Coop like, Well, there it is.
Coop nodded and picked up the thread. “From the men’s side, we need to be support without becoming the headline. Joint event, not rescue mission. Shared Brookfield hockey identity, separate program value.”
Wren pointed at him. “That works.”
“High praise.”
“Moderate.”
“I’ll take it.”
Frankie looked down at her notebook.
This time, Coop was almost sure the corner of her mouth moved.
Brenda tapped her pen against the folder. “Wonderful. So we’re thinking opening remarks from the athletic department, donor reception, skills showcase, maybe a short scrimmage component, and then the Westbridge head-to-head as the marquee—”
“No,” Frankie said.
Brenda stopped. “No to which part?”
“All speeches before hockey.”
Claire tilted her head. “Why?”
“People leave during speeches.”
Birdie whispered, “She’s right and brave.”
Frankie continued, “Put hockey first. Make them feel it before you ask them to fund it.”
Coop leaned forward. “Skills showcase first could work. Fastest skater, accuracy shooting, goalie challenge, mixed relay. Then short remarks while everyone’s still excited. Then donor reception.”
Nolan raised his hand. “Goalie challenge?”
Frankie looked at him.
Nolan slowly lowered his hand. “I support women from a safe distance.”
Hayes smiled into his coffee.
Brenda looked between Coop and Frankie. “That’s actually a very engaging structure.”
“Not actually,” Frankie said. “Just.”
Coop bit the inside of his cheek.
Claire’s eyes moved between them with the discreet interest of someone who had worked in Advancement long enough to recognize chemistry and not name it until it could be leveraged.
Dangerous woman.
“Okay,” Claire said. “Hockey first. Story second. Ask third.”
Reese nodded. “That’s clean.”
Wren was already typing. “That’s a campaign spine.”
Birdie leaned over to Frankie. “You have a campaign spine.”
Frankie picked up her coffee. “Tell anyone and perish.”
“With hydration?”
“Without.”
Coop laughed.
Frankie’s eyes cut to him.
He did not apologize.
He liked her funny. He liked her sharp. He liked that she could make a room better without letting it know she was helping.
He liked too many things.
That was the issue.
Brenda flipped to another sheet. “There is one delicate matter.”
Everyone froze.
Frankie murmured, “Plaid sticky note.”
Nolan nodded grimly. “Emotional damage.”
Brenda’s smile went thin. “Westbridge has requested representation in the showcase planning process.”
Birdie sat up. “The enemy wants a chair?”
“Birdie,” Reese said.
Birdie held up both hands. “Sorry. The well-funded enemy wants a chair.”
Claire said, “They’re joining the conference. It’s not unreasonable for them to want alignment on the public-facing pieces.”
Wren’s face went blank in a way that meant someone was about to suffer online, in private, later.
Frankie asked, “Who?”
Brenda checked her paper. “Their men’s assistant captain. Asher Reed.”
Birdie made a choking sound.
Every head turned.
Her face had changed completely.
Not scared.
Offended.
Personally.
“Absolutely not,” she said.
Reese blinked. “You know her?”
Birdie sat back like the chair had betrayed her. “Know is a strong word.”
Wren’s gaze sharpened. “Interesting.”
“No.”
Frankie looked at her. “Explain.”
Birdie folded her arms. “She plays left wing for Westbridge. She chirps like she was raised by wolves with Wi-Fi. Last summer development camp, she called my zone entries ‘decorative skating.’”
Coop winced.
Nolan whispered, “Devastating.”
Birdie pointed at him. “Thank you.”
Reese’s brows lifted. “And?”
“And what?”
“That cannot be the whole story.”
Birdie’s chin lifted. “She also said my shot selection had the emotional stability of a raccoon in a gift shop.”
Silence.
Then Hayes coughed.
Coop looked at the ceiling.
Frankie said, “Accurate imagery.”
Birdie gasped. “Betrayal.”
“I didn’t say accurate assessment.”
“Better.”
Frankie took a sip of coffee.
The room settled, but Coop noticed Wren watching Birdie now. Reese too.
Book Three seed, if life had chapters.
Which it did not.
Probably.
Brenda cleared her throat. “Asher will attend the next planning session virtually.”
Birdie smiled.
It was not a happy smile.
“Fantastic,” she said. “I love diplomacy.”
Frankie muttered, “No, you don’t.”
“I can grow.”