Chapter Five
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had rules for game days.
Not superstitions.
Rules.
Superstitions were for people who believed the universe cared whether they wore lucky socks.
The universe did not care.
The universe was busy.
Rules were different. Rules created order.
Rules made the body understand what the brain already knew.
Left skate first. Right skate second. Tape inspected but not retaped unless damaged.
Water bottle filled to the black line. Protein bar in the bag, unopened, because game-day food required options, not chaos.
No new music.
No unnecessary talking.
No letting Birdie choose the pregame playlist after the incident with the sea shanty remix.
No checking anonymous forums.
That last one had been added at 8:03 that morning after Wren sent a team-wide message that said, in all caps, DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THE ROT. SCREENSHOTS GO TO ME. FEELINGS GO TO A HUMAN. CRIMES GO NOWHERE.
Frankie respected the format.
She also ignored the spirit of it exactly once.
At 8:17, she checked.
Because she was human.
Regrettably.
The forum post had multiplied.
Not everywhere. Not explosively. But enough.
Enough for people to add comments.
Enough for someone to say Westbridge was going to expose Brookfield’s “cute little underdog story.”
Enough for someone else to ask whether the Spitfires’ goalie could handle real shooters.
Enough for six to appear again.
Six goals.
Six past them.
Six like a number could become a prediction if enough cowards typed it.
Frankie closed the page.
Then deleted the browser history on her phone like the phone was a witness.
By eleven, her stomach had become a fist.
By one, she had sharpened three pencils she did not need.
By three, Birdie had looked at her across the locker room and said, “You’re doing the statue thing.”
Frankie had said, “I am a statue.”
Birdie had pointed at her. “Statues don’t blink like they’re planning arson.”
“Bad statues.”
“Frankie.”
“No crimes.”
“Good start.”
Now, at 5:42, she stood alone in the tunnel behind the rink, half-dressed in gear, staring at the closed door to the ice.
Brookfield versus Westbridge was not until the showcase.
Tonight was only a conference game against Elmhurst.
Only.
A word invented by people who did not understand how pressure worked.
Tonight did not have donors in the stands.
No official showcase.
No Westbridge assistant captain chirping through a laptop.
No Doyle in a golf polo pretending not to count ticket scans.
Probably.
But the forum post had made everything feel like a test.
Every shot.
Every shift.
Every rebound.
Six was a lot.
Frankie rolled her shoulders inside her chest protector and breathed through her nose.
In.
Out.
Wall up.
Pucks were rude.
She stopped them.
The door behind her opened.
She did not turn.
“Callahan,” Reese said.
Captain voice.
Not friend voice.
Good.
Friend voice would have been worse.
Frankie adjusted the cuff of her blocker. “Halloran.”
Reese came to stand beside her in the tunnel, stick in one hand, helmet tucked under her arm. Her brown eyes caught the light, gold flecks bright even in the dim.
Annoying captain magic.
For a moment, they both looked toward the ice.
The sounds came through the door in pieces. Skates. Pucks. Fans. The men’s team somewhere in the lower bowl, making noise because apparently support required volume and terrible rhythm.
Reese said, “You checked.”
Frankie’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Frankie.”
“Yes.”
Reese nodded once, like she had expected the truth and was not interested in scolding it.
That made Frankie’s chest hurt more than scolding would have.
“I did too,” Reese said.
Frankie looked at her.
Reese’s mouth was flat. “Wren yelled at me.”
“Good.”
“I deserved it.”
“Yes.”
Reese leaned her shoulder against the wall. “It was ugly.”
Frankie looked away.
There was that word again.
Ugly.
Coop had said it first.
Not strategic.
Not unfortunate.
Not an opportunity to clarify value.
Ugly.
Frankie hated that the word helped.
She hated that he had known it would.
Reese studied her for a second. “You don’t have to turn this into proof.”
Frankie laughed once.
No humor.
“All games are proof.”
“No. Games are games.”
“Says the captain.”
“Says the captain who spent most of last semester trying to turn ice time into a courtroom exhibit.”
Frankie had nothing for that.
Rude when people used self-awareness against you.
Reese’s voice gentled by one degree. “You can want to win without making every puck a verdict.”
Frankie adjusted her glove.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too fast.
Too sure.
Frankie disliked being cared about by confident people.
It left less room to argue.
Reese stepped in front of her, forcing Frankie to look at her.
Uncalled for.
Captain behavior.
“Listen to me,” Reese said. “If one gets through, we keep playing. If two get through, we keep playing. If six get through—”
Frankie’s body locked.
Reese saw it.
Good.
She was supposed to see it.
“If six get through,” Reese continued, quieter but firmer, “we still do not become less of a team.”
Frankie’s throat burned.
Unacceptable.
“Don’t.”
“I’m saying it now so you don’t have to invent it alone later.”
Frankie stared past her shoulder at the door.
The wall inside her rose higher.
Safe.
Hard.
Useful.
Reese let the silence sit.
Then she said, “Also, if six get through, Birdie will try to avenge you by fighting someone with her mouth.”
Frankie exhaled.
Almost a laugh.
“Her mouth would lose.”
“Eventually.”
“She has stamina.”
“Exactly.”
The door opened again, and Birdie’s head appeared.
“Are we doing emotional tunnel time?” she asked. “Because I have a statement prepared.”
Frankie pointed at the door. “Leave.”
Birdie stepped fully in. “Rude to my statement.”
“No statements.”
“It’s short.”
“No.”
“It has three parts.”
“Birdie.”
Birdie held up one finger. “Part one: anonymous sports forum people are fungus.”
Reese sighed.
Frankie waited.
Birdie held up a second finger. “Part two: you are terrifying in net.”
Third finger. “Part three: if you spiral, I will sit on you emotionally.”
Frankie looked at Reese.
Reese said, “That one may need editing.”
Birdie shrugged. “Feelings are a draft.”
Frankie should not have felt better.
She did.
A little.
That was inconvenient.
From beyond the door, Coach Sutter’s whistle cut once through the noise.
Time.
Reese slid her helmet on.
Birdie bounced on her skates, all restless fury and loyalty.
Frankie put on her mask.
The world narrowed.
Right.
She liked the mask.
People thought it hid her.
It did not.
It focused everything.
Reese tapped her stick once against Frankie’s pad. “Team first.”
Birdie tapped the other pad. “Not team only.”
Frankie closed her glove around air.
Fine.
She could carry that.
For one game.
Maybe.
They stepped onto the ice.
The rink hit her all at once.
Lights.
Noise.
Cold.
Elmhurst in green jerseys across the red line.
Brookfield fans behind the glass.
A pocket of men’s team players near the student section, already loud enough to qualify as structural damage.
Hayes stood at the front of them, arms folded, captain-serious.
Nolan wore a foam crown.
No one knew why.
Coop stood beside Hayes.
No crown.
Thank God.
Navy Brookfield hoodie. Silver A on his chest. Hands wrapped around the top of the boards.
He found her almost immediately.
Of course he did.
His expression changed when their eyes met.
Not big.
Not dramatic.
Just there.
I see you.
Frankie looked away first.
Naturally.
No.
She grimaced inside the mask.
Watch-list violation.
She was spiraling enough to irritate herself.
The anthem played.
The starters lined up.
Frankie tapped the left post once.
Right post twice.
Center.
Breathe.
Wall up.
The puck dropped.
Elmhurst came fast.
Not Westbridge fast, probably. But fast enough. They pushed hard on the forecheck, threw bodies toward the slot, tested Brookfield’s breakout with ugly pressure and uglier elbows.
Frankie liked ugly hockey better than pretty hockey.
Pretty hockey wanted applause.
Ugly hockey told the truth.
First shot came from the right circle.
Easy angle.
Frankie turned it aside.
Second shot came through traffic.
She tracked it through two bodies and kicked it to the corner.
Third shot was a dump-in that bounced wrong off the boards and tried to become a problem.
Pucks were rude.
Frankie smothered it before it could get ideas.
Whistle.
Reset.
“Good,” Sutter called from the bench.
Frankie did not look over.
Praise was not a save.
The first period settled into a grinding rhythm. Brookfield had possession in bursts. Elmhurst clogged lanes. Birdie chirped someone so effectively that the girl spent the next shift trying to hit her and missed the puck twice.
Useful.
Dani won a board battle that should have required paperwork.
Wren nearly scored from the left circle.
Reese controlled the middle like the puck owed her rent.
Frankie stopped eight shots.
Nine.
Ten.
The tenth stung the palm of her glove.
Useful.
Pain was clear.
Then, with forty-two seconds left in the period, Elmhurst gained the zone on a broken change.
Two-on-one.
Frankie read the carrier.
Left hand.
Eyes on pass.
Stick angle said shot.
Liar.
Frankie held.
The pass came across.
Dani dove to take away the lane.
The puck clipped her stick.
Changed direction.
Not much.
Enough.
Frankie pushed.
Late.
The puck slid under her pad.
Behind her.
Red light.
Noise.
The world tilted for half a second.
One.
Not six.
One.
Still.
Her crease went silent in her head.
Elmhurst celebrated.
Brookfield circled back.
Reese arrived first.
“Bad bounce,” she said.
Frankie scraped her crease.
“No.”
“Frankie.”
“Mine.”
Reese’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
The ref skated by.
The whistle blew them back to center.
Frankie reset.
Left post.
Right post.
Center.
Her chest felt tight.
One was not six.
One was survivable.
One was normal.