Chapter Three
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had never trusted early people.
Early people were either anxious, overprepared, or trying to prove something.
She was early.
That was different.
She was a goalie.
Goalies arrived before the world got loud.
Goalies liked empty rinks, cold air, and the tiny slice of peace that existed before forwards started missing nets and calling it “finding their shot.”
At 6:42 the next morning, Frankie sat alone in the rink lobby with a black coffee, her tiny notebook, and a pen she had stolen from Martin Doyle’s office last season during a meeting that had gone too long.
It wrote beautifully.
Crime had benefits.
The lobby lights buzzed overhead. The trophy case along the far wall reflected her in pieces: dark hoodie, messy bun, tired eyes, coffee held like a weapon.
Outside the glass doors, the sky was still half-asleep.
Good.
She liked the world better before it started making requests.
The showcase plan sat open in front of her.
Hockey first.
Story second.
Ask third.
Claire had liked that.
Reese had liked that.
Wren had already turned it into something annoyingly good on a shared document titled: brOOKFIELD HOCKEY SHOWCASE: COMPETITIVE FUTURE PROPOSAL.
Frankie had renamed her own copy: DO NOT MAKE THIS STUPID.
More accurate.
She took a sip of coffee and reviewed her list.
Skills showcase.
Goalie challenge.
Mixed relay.
Donor reception.
Press boundary rules.
No surprise photos in the locker room.
No emotional wallpaper.
No speeches before hockey.
No Brenda saying “empowerment moment” within earshot of Birdie.
Possibly: no Birdie within earshot of Westbridge.
That one would be harder.
The front doors opened at 6:51.
Frankie did not look up.
She knew.
Of course she knew.
Cooper Vale entered like morning had personally sponsored him.
Navy Brookfield hoodie. Athletic pants. Damp curls. Two coffees in a cardboard carrier. A paper bag tucked under one arm. The silver A on his chest catching the lobby light because the universe had a flair for drama.
He stopped when he saw her.
“You’re early,” he said.
Frankie turned a page. “Seven means seven.”
“It’s 6:51.”
“You heard me.”
His mouth curved.
Barely.
He crossed the lobby but did not take the chair beside her. He sat across from her instead, sliding one of the coffees toward her with two fingers.
Frankie stared at it.
Then at him.
“No.”
“It’s black.”
“Suspicious.”
“No foam art.”
“Bare minimum.”
“No cinnamon. No emotional drizzle. No message written on the cup.”
She looked down.
The cup was plain.
Unfortunately.
“No intent?” she asked.
His eyes warmed. “Some intent.”
“Vale.”
“Caffeine-based cooperation.”
She should not have liked that answer.
She did not like that answer.
She accepted the coffee anyway because wasting coffee was immoral.
Coop took the paper bag from under his arm and set it between them.
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “If that contains a muffin, this meeting is over.”
“It contains two bagels.”
“Worse.”
“One is everything.”
She paused.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“I guessed,” he said.
“No, you didn’t.”
“No,” he admitted. “Birdie told Hayes, Hayes told me, and Nolan interrupted to say bagels are just bread tires.”
Frankie shut her eyes for one second.
The team needed fewer communication channels.
Coop pushed the bag closer. “Recovery snack. Not flirting.”
“Tribute economy is dead.”
“Right. Long live logistical carbohydrates.”
She opened the bag.
Everything bagel.
Toasted.
Cream cheese on the side.
Not already spread.
He had brought the cream cheese on the side.
Frankie stared at it.
This was a problem.
A man could be fought.
A man who understood condiment control was dangerous.
She removed the bagel and set half on a napkin. “You’re annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I have. From you.”
“Then retain it.”
“I’m trying.”
He opened his folder.
Frankie hated that his folder was organized.
Tabs.
Color-coded notes.
A printed copy of Wren’s campaign draft.
A pen clipped neatly along the top.
Blue ink.
Black ink.
A third pen in red.
“Why red?” she asked.
“For things we kill.”
She looked at him.
He looked back, very serious.
Frankie picked up her coffee. “Passable.”
His smile flickered.
Tiny victory for him.
Unacceptable.
They worked for eleven minutes without speaking.
That was the first thing she liked.
Coop did not fill quiet just to prove he could. He reviewed the schedule, made neat notes, circled time blocks, and tapped his pen twice against the page when he was thinking.
Only twice.
Never three.
Frankie could respect restraint.
She could not respect how aware she was of him.
The lobby was cold enough that her fingers curled around the coffee for warmth, but every time Coop shifted, some traitorous part of her noticed.
The length of his forearms when he pushed his sleeves up.
The focused crease between his brows. The way his face changed when he wasn’t performing cheerful for a room.
Still.
Sharp.
Present.
He looked less like sunshine then.
More like the thing underneath it.
The part that had seen Doyle’s announcement coming before anyone said the words.
The part Frankie did not know what to do with.
“Goalie challenge,” Coop said, breaking the silence.
“No.”
He glanced up. “That’s the whole answer?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t pitched it yet.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is being unfairly profiled.”
“Your face brought props.”
He looked down at his folder.
A corner of a diagram peeked out.
Frankie pointed. “See?”
He pulled the paper free with a sigh. “It’s not a prop. It’s a concept sketch.”
“Worse.”
He slid it across the table.
Frankie did not want to look.
She looked.
The diagram showed a goalie skills station: rapid-fire shots from three angles, rebound control targets, screen challenge, final breakaway.
It was…
Fine.
Good, actually.
Annoyingly clean.
“This is stupid,” she said.
Coop leaned back. “Which part?”
“The part where it will work.”
His laugh came out quiet.
Frankie ignored the warmth in it.
“The goalie challenge matters,” he said. “People understand goals. They don’t always understand saves. We make them understand.”
Frankie’s fingers stilled on the page.
People understand goals.
They did.
Goals got replays.
Goals got noise.
Goals got names screamed from benches and captions under photos and boys slamming into glass like they had personally saved a kingdom.
Saves got relief.
Then everyone moved on.
Unless the save did not happen.
Then the whole rink remembered exactly who had failed.
Coop’s voice softened. “Frankie.”
She hated that he knew when her head went somewhere else.
“Hm.”
“I’m not trying to put you on display.”
“Showcase,” she said. “Display is implied.”
“Not like that.”
She looked at him.
He had both hands flat on the table now, palms down, like he was keeping himself from reaching for the wrong answer.
Good.
He should keep doing that.
“I want them to see what the position costs,” he said. “That’s all.”
Frankie’s throat went oddly tight.
Annoying.
She looked back at the diagram. “They won’t.”
“They might.”
“No. They’ll clap when I stop things. They’ll groan if I don’t. They’ll call it exciting. They’ll forget it took years to make one save look accidental.”
Coop did not answer quickly.
That was the second thing she liked.
He had terrible timing in most ways. Excellent timing in that one.
Finally, he said, “Then we build the station so they can’t miss the work.”
Frankie stared at him.
He slid the paper back and took out the red pen.
“Tell me what’s wrong with it.”
She should have given him one thing.
A polite thing.
A normal thing.
Instead, she took the pen from his hand and began destroying his diagram.
“Too much time between shots. A real sequence doesn’t let you reset fully.”
He leaned closer. “Okay.”
“This angle is wrong if you want them to see rebound control.”
“Show me.”
She drew over the line.
His shoulder came nearer.
Not touching.
Near.
“The screen challenge needs two players, not one. One screen is a demonstration. Two is a problem.”
“Got it.”
“And no final breakaway.”
He looked up. “Why?”
“Because breakaways turn goalies into carnival games.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Smart.
She continued. “Make the final station a two-on-one recovery. Force the shooter to choose. Force the goalie to read. Then make the crowd see the read before the shot.”
Coop’s eyes were on her face now, not the paper.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Your nothing has a face.”
“It’s just good.”
“Yes. That is generally why I said it.”
“No, I mean—” He stopped.
Frankie waited.
His jaw flexed once.
Then he said, “I like watching you know things.”
The lobby got too quiet.
Frankie looked down at the paper.
Mistake.
That had been a mistake.
Not his words.
Her reaction.
Because something inside her had shifted at the sentence, small and unwanted.
I like watching you know things.
Not watching her stop pucks.
Not watching her win.
Not watching her be useful in the one narrow way people knew how to praise a goalie.
Watching her know things.
Frankie uncapped the red pen again.
Violently.
“That sounds like flirting.”
“It is not tribute.”
“Not the rule.”
“I know.”
“You’re bad at rules.”
“I’m actually very good at rules.”
“You bend them.”
“Only within rules.”
Her pen froze.
Protected phrase.
Book One echo.
Reese and Hayes had ruined the whole team with language.
Frankie looked at him over the top of the diagram.
Coop’s smile was softer now.
Careful.
Like he knew he had stepped onto thin ice and was willing to stand there anyway.
Frankie hated that most.
She liked that most.
Terrible combination.
The lobby doors opened again, saving her from whatever foolish thing she might have said next.
Unfortunately, the person who came through was Birdie.
With Wren.
And a laptop.
And the expression of a woman prepared to commit acts of diplomacy under protest.