Chapter Seven #3
“Coach—”
“Enough.”
Frankie’s jaw snapped shut.
Sutter’s eyes held hers from the bench.
“Good work,” Sutter said. “Off.”
Good work.
Not perfect work.
Frankie hated that distinction.
She skated to the bench and stepped off the ice. Her pulse was too fast. Her skin felt too tight. She pulled off her helmet and set it down harder than necessary.
Wren looked like she wanted to say something and had wisely decided life mattered.
Dani closed her laptop slowly.
Nolan approached in gear, careful for once. “That two-on-one was nasty.”
Frankie grabbed her water bottle.
“Not now.”
Nolan stopped.
Hurt flashed across his face.
Brief.
Gone.
He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
Regret hit immediately.
Frankie hated regret.
She especially hated regret when she had earned it.
She opened her mouth.
No words came.
Nolan skated off toward the opposite bench.
Great.
Now she had emotionally wounded Future Ghost.
Birdie was going to make a pamphlet.
Frankie stripped off her blocker and glove, movements sharp. Too sharp.
The rink emptied in fragments. Tanner left first. Dani and Wren headed toward the lobby to compare notes. Birdie lingered in the stands until Frankie looked at her, then pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then at Frankie like a tiny chaos lifeguard.
Frankie ignored her.
Eventually, only Coop remained near the bench, unwinding tape from the glass markers.
He did not look over.
That annoyed her.
It also helped.
Frankie sat on the bench and unlaced one skate.
Then stopped.
Her hands shook once.
She clenched them.
No.
Coop kept removing tape.
Slow.
Methodical.
Giving her the dignity of not being watched.
That was worse.
Finally, she said, “You can talk.”
He peeled off the blue tape square. “Can I?”
“No.”
His mouth curved faintly, but he still did not turn around.
Frankie stared at the floor.
“I snapped at Nolan.”
“Yeah.”
“He was trying to help.”
“Yeah.”
“I know.”
“I figured.”
She looked up. “Do not be gentle at me.”
Coop finally turned.
He stood a few feet away, tape looped around one hand, clipboard tucked under his arm. His face was serious.
Not pitying.
Not careful in the fragile way.
Just present.
“You got scored on during a drill designed to be hard,” he said.
Frankie’s throat tightened.
“I know.”
“And it still felt bad.”
Her fingers dug into the edge of the bench.
“I know.”
“It’s allowed to feel bad without becoming a prophecy.”
The word hit like a puck.
Clean.
Direct.
Painful because it was accurate.
Frankie looked away.
Coop stayed where he was.
He did not crowd.
Did not fix.
Did not make a joke.
The silence stretched long enough to become a place she could either leave or stand in.
She hated that he kept offering places.
“My dad used to count them,” she said.
The words came out before she could stop them.
Coop went very still.
Frankie stared at the concrete, pulse hammering.
No.
Absolutely no.
She should stop.
She could stop.
The wall could come down between sentence one and sentence two.
But Coop did not move.
Did not pounce.
Did not say, Your dad?
He waited.
The restraint was unfair.
Frankie swallowed.
“When I was a kid,” she said, voice flat because flat was survivable, “he kept a notebook. Goals against. Save percentage. Mistakes. Not in a helpful way. In a… kitchen table way.”
Coop’s hands tightened once around the tape.
Only once.
“After games?” he asked.
“After every game. Sometimes in the car.”
She could smell it suddenly.
Old coffee.
Car heater.
Wet gear in the back.
Her father’s pen clicking.
Not yelling.
Yelling would have been easier, maybe.
Yelling burned out.
Numbers stayed.
Two soft ones.
Bad angle.
Lost post.
Late glove.
Did you even see that pass?
“I was useful when the numbers were good,” Frankie said. “Expensive when they weren’t.”
Coop’s face changed.
Not with shock.
With anger.
Quiet.
Controlled.
She saw him choose not to hand it to her.
That worked.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Frankie shook her head. “Don’t.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not telling you for…”
She stopped.
For what?
Comfort?
Pity?
A tragic backstory sticker?
She hated all of that.
“I know,” Coop said.
Her eyes lifted.
“How?”
“Because you’re not a person who hands out pain to get applause.”
That almost broke something.
Not visibly.
But inside, a support beam shifted.
Frankie looked back down fast.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Okay.”
“You keep saying okay.”
“I mean it.”
“That’s the problem.”
He breathed out once.
Not a laugh.
Not quite.
She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.
Terrible idea.
Darkness made honesty easier.
“When the forum said six, I heard his pen.”
Coop did not speak.
The rink hummed around them.
Cold air moved across her damp hairline.
A skate blade clattered somewhere in the equipment room.
Frankie opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“It’s stupid.”
“No,” Coop said.
One word.
Firm.
Frankie’s throat worked.
“It was years ago.”
“Still no.”
“I’m fine.”
“I believe you.”
She looked at him sharply.
He held her gaze.
“I do,” he said. “I believe you can be fine and hurt at the same time.”
Frankie hated him a little for that.
Not really.
Maybe.
The wall had a door now, apparently, and Cooper Vale had the audacity to stand outside it with both hands visible, not knocking unless invited.
“I don’t like needing people,” she said.
The admission scraped.
Coop’s voice was quiet. “Me neither.”
Frankie blinked.
That she had not expected.
He looked away then, toward the ice. The still version of him appeared, but this time it did not feel like something under the sunshine.
It felt like tired.
“I’m good at being needed,” he said. “Not as good at needing back.”
Frankie studied him.
The silver A on his hoodie caught the rink light.
Alternate captain.
Not decoration.
“What do you need?” she asked.
He laughed once, soft and surprised.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“That question from you feels like being hit by a clean check.”
“Answer.”
His smile faded slowly.
He looked down at the tape in his hand. “Sometimes I need people to let me not be easy.”
Frankie did not know what to do with that.
She understood it anyway.
Maybe too much.
“Then don’t be,” she said.
His eyes came back to hers.
Simple answer.
Hard thing.
The air between them changed.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
It warmed in the cold rink, which was probably physically impossible and therefore offensive.
Frankie stood.
Coop did not move.
She stepped closer.
One step.
Then stopped.
Still enough space.
Barely.
“I’m going to apologize to Nolan,” she said.
Coop’s mouth curved. “Good.”
“Do not say it like Sutter.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You did.”
“I’ll work on it.”
She glanced toward the tunnel, then back at him.
“Also,” she said, “the drill worked.”
His eyes softened. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Annoyingly.”
“I’ll take annoyingly.”
“You often do.”
“True.”
She should leave.
The air had too many things in it now.
Words she had said.
Words he had said.
Her father’s pen.
His need not to be easy.
The puck in the net.
The station that was hers.
The wall with its traitorous door.
Frankie picked up her helmet.
Coop stepped back first, clearing the path.
Always.
That got her more than it should.
She paused beside him.
“Vale.”
“Yeah?”
“If I tell you things, don’t become weird.”
His smile was very small. “Define weird.”
“Pity. Overprotection. Big speeches. Unapproved pastries.”
“Unapproved pastries?”
“You seem capable.”
“I’ll seek pastry consent.”
“Do that.”
He nodded.
Then, more serious, “I won’t make it weird.”
She believed him.
That was the problem.
Frankie walked toward the tunnel before belief could show on her face.
She found Nolan near the equipment room, already half out of his gear and attempting to balance three pucks on top of a helmet.
He saw her and froze.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“For the red light prop.”
He winced. “Too much?”
“Obviously.”
“Yeah. I had a whole goal-horn idea too, but Hayes said no.”
“Hayes saved your life.”
“I should thank him.”
“You should.”
A pause.
Nolan looked at her carefully. “Is that the whole trouble?”
Frankie stared at the pucks on the helmet.
Then at him.
“No.”
Nolan waited.
She hated that everyone was learning to wait.
“I snapped at you,” she said. “You were helping. I was…”
Words.
Disastrous.
She chose the least awful ones.
“In my head.”
Nolan’s expression softened.
“No worries.”
“Do not dismiss my apology. It was difficult.”
He nodded solemnly. “Apology accepted with full ceremonial weight.”
“Better.”
“Future Ghost forgives.”
“Worse.”
He grinned.
Then nudged one of the pucks on the helmet. It fell immediately and bounced across the floor.
They both watched it roll.
Nolan sighed. “The future is unstable.”
Frankie faint curve of a smiled.
Almost.
By the time she left the rink, the sky had gone dark and the parking lot lights glowed against a thin skin of frost.
She pulled her hoodie tighter and walked toward her car.
Her phone buzzed.
For one awful second, she thought it might be her father again.
It wasn’t.
Coop.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Nolan says apology accepted with full ceremonial weight.
Frankie stopped beside her car.
Of course Nolan had reported immediately.
FRANKIE: He should not have phone access.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Agreed.
A pause.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: You okay?
Frankie stared at the question.
Two words.
A door.
She could say yes.
Easy.
Expected.
A lie with clean edges.
Instead, she typed:
FRANKIE: Fine and hurt.
The bubbles appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: That counts.
Frankie’s chest tightened.
She typed:
FRANKIE: As what?
His reply came after a moment.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: An honest answer.
The cold air bit her fingers.
She held the phone with both hands.
An honest answer.
She did not know what to do with that.
So she did the only thing she could.
She made it smaller.
FRANKIE: Do not become proud.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Privately pleased?
She shook her head.
Traitor mouth almost smiling again.
FRANKIE: Briefly.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Understood.
Another message came.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Also the drill worked because your edits were good.
Frankie looked back at the rink.
At the cold light through the glass.
At the place where she had let a puck in during practice and somehow not died of it.
At the place where she had said her father used to count them.
Then she typed:
FRANKIE: The station is mine.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Yeah. It is.
She read that twice.
Then locked her phone and got into the car.
For once, she did not turn on music.
She sat in the quiet with both hands on the wheel and let the day exist without organizing it into a verdict.
A puck had gone in.
She had apologized.
Nolan had survived.
The drill had worked.
Her father’s pen was not in the car.
Coop knew one of the ugliest things and had not tried to make it pretty.
Fine and hurt.
That counted.
Frankie started the engine.
The windshield fogged at the edges.
She waited for it to clear, because driving blind was stupid and she had enough problems.
Then she pulled out of the lot and headed home, carrying the strange, terrifying knowledge that not everything that got through had to become a goal against.
Some things got through because she had opened her glove.
Some things, apparently, were saves.