Chapter Eight
Coop
Coop Vale did not sleep well.
This was annoying because sleep had always been one of his better talents.
Some people had slap shots.
Some people had academic discipline.
Some people had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a private notebook full of goalie secrets.
Coop had sleep.
Usually.
Last night, he had stared at his ceiling until the dark became familiar, thinking about four words Frankie had texted him.
Fine and hurt.
He had read them at least twelve times.
Not because he enjoyed that she was hurt.
Because she had trusted him with the honest version.
That felt important.
Not big-important in the way romance movies made everything dramatic and backlit.
Small-important.
The kind of important you held carefully because dropping it would change the shape of things.
At 6:20, he gave up on sleep and got dressed.
At 6:31, he stood in line at the campus coffee cart behind a girl arguing with the barista about oat milk.
At 6:39, he ordered one black coffee, one regular coffee, and no pastries.
Because pastry consent mattered.
Apparently.
At 6:47, he reached the rink lobby.
Frankie was already there.
Of course.
Same table.
Same hoodie.
Same black coffee from somewhere else already in front of her.
His steps slowed.
She looked up.
Her eyes flicked to the coffee in his hand.
Then to his face.
“I brought one,” she said.
He looked at the cup in front of her.
Then at the black coffee in his carrier.
“You brought your own?”
“No.”
A beat.
“I brought yours.”
Coop stopped breathing like a normal person.
Frankie looked immediately irritated with herself.
Enough.
At least one of them was staying consistent.
She nudged the second cup across the table with two fingers.
“Regular. No weird syrup. O’Malley’s had the good lids.”
The good lids.
She knew he liked the lids that didn’t leak.
That was unfair.
That was unsportsmanlike.
That was possibly illegal in several emotional jurisdictions.
Coop sat carefully across from her and set his coffee carrier down.
“You brought me coffee.”
“Observation skills. Good.”
“You got here early to bring me coffee.”
“Bad interpretation.”
“Frankie.”
“Hydration-adjacent.”
“That’s your answer for everything.”
“It’s a strong answer.”
He picked up the cup she’d brought him.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
He had the ridiculous urge to keep it forever, which was disgusting. Also impractical. Also probably a sign he needed to get a grip.
“Thank you,” he said.
Frankie looked down at her notebook. “It’s coffee.”
“It’s good coffee.”
“It was available.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do not make it a moment.”
The moment had passed.
He took a sip instead of saying that.
It was exactly how he drank it.
Not too sweet.
Not burned.
A little cream.
She had either guessed perfectly or asked someone.
Both options were dangerous.
He set the cup down.
Frankie had already opened the showcase packet.
Work, then.
Fine.
He could do work.
Work was safer than staring at a coffee cup like it had just told him it loved him.
“We need to tighten the station timing,” she said.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Time exists.”
“Yesterday it was fake.”
“Yesterday had different facts.”
“Fair.”
She slid a marked-up copy of the event flow toward him. “Read the Ice runs too long if we let donors ask questions between sequences.”
Coop scanned her notes.
Her handwriting was small, sharp, and aggressively efficient.
He liked it.
He liked everything.
Huge problem.
“We can do questions after the third sequence,” he said. “Not between.”
“Good.”
“You’re saying that more.”
“Don’t get attached.”
“Too late.”
Her pen stopped.
Coop froze.
That had come out lightly.
Mostly.
But the words sat there with too much truth under them.
Frankie’s eyes lifted.
For one long second, neither of them moved.
Then she said, “To the approval?”
He could have taken the escape route.
Should have.
He didn’t.
“Sure,” he said.
Her gaze sharpened.
Not angry.
Alert.
Coop held her eyes, heart doing something unnecessarily loud in his chest.
He did not smile.
Did not make it easy.
Did not say anything else.
The lobby hummed around them. A door opened somewhere down the hall. The vending machine clicked. The ice plant rumbled through the walls.
Frankie looked away first.
Not fast.
Not like defeat.
Like choosing the next breath.
“Questions after the third sequence,” she said.
“Right.”
His voice was steady.
Miracle.
They worked.
For fifteen clean minutes, they were exactly what the showcase needed them to be. Efficient. Focused. Useful.
Frankie cut fluff from the donor script.
Coop adjusted player rotations.
She added a visual cue for rebound control.
He added a captain transition so Reese and Hayes could speak from opposite sides of the ice, equal spacing, no one centered over the other.
Frankie noticed.
“Good,” she said.
This time, she did not tell him not to get attached.
He chose not to die of it.
At 7:08, Reese arrived with Hayes and Claire.
At 7:09, Wren appeared with Dani and a tablet.
At 7:10, Birdie came in backward, arguing with someone on her phone.
“No, Asher, I am not afraid of Westbridge’s neutral-zone trap. I am afraid of your school colors being used near my eyes before breakfast.”
Everyone stopped.
Birdie looked up.
The phone was on speaker.
Asher Reed’s voice came through, dry and amused. “Your fear sounds personal.”
“It is. Your gold is aggressive.”
“It’s champagne.”
“It’s beige with money.”
Wren’s eyes lit with professional interest.
Frankie reached for her coffee. “Mute her or leave.”
Birdie pointed at the phone. “She called the showcase flow ‘cute.’”
Asher said, “I said it was cute that you color-coded emotional stakes.”
“That was Wren,” Birdie said.
Wren took the phone. “Thank you for noticing.”
Asher paused.
Then, with immediate recalibration, “The media deck is clean.”
Wren’s face did not change, but Coop saw the compliment land.
Birdie saw it too.
“Oh no,” Birdie whispered. “He’s spreading.”
Asher laughed.
Frankie looked at Coop, expression flat.
Coop looked back.
Book Three, he mouthed silently.
Frankie’s eyes narrowed.
Do not, she mouthed back.
He tried not to smile.
Failed.
Claire cleared her throat with the polite authority of a woman who had raised money from wealthy people and therefore feared nothing. “Good morning. Since Asher is apparently with us, let’s use the time. We need final alignment before the board preview.”
That changed the room.
Board preview.
The words landed heavier than event flow or station timing.
Reese set her binder on the table.
Hayes took the chair beside her but angled slightly away, giving her the center of her own space.
Frankie noticed.
Coop noticed Frankie noticing.
That was becoming a whole chain of noticing.
Claire opened her tablet. “The showcase itself is not the vote. But the preview determines which donors and board members walk into the event already inclined to support the ask.”
“What ask exactly?” Reese said.
Claire looked at Doyle’s empty office door down the hall, then back at them.
“A multi-year women’s hockey investment line,” she said. “Not just annual discretionary support. A planned budget commitment for recruiting, travel, nutrition, and media operations.”
The room went quiet.
Even Birdie.
Frankie’s pen stilled.
Coop felt the size of it.
Book One had won ice.
Written ice.
A real win.
But this?
This was future.
Not scraps.
Not emergency fundraising.
Not everyone dragging proof behind them like a sled.
A line item meant planned-for.
A program the department expected to exist.
Reese’s voice was steady. “How many years?”
“Three is the target,” Claire said. “Two is more likely. One with review is Doyle’s safe version.”
Sutter would hate that.
Frankie said, “One with review is not investment. It’s a leash.”
Claire’s mouth curved. “That is exactly why I need you all not to say that in the board preview.”
Birdie raised her hand.
“No,” Claire said.
Birdie lowered it. “You didn’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I did.”
Asher’s voice came from the phone. “For what it’s worth, Westbridge got its line item after a rivalry weekend with ticket numbers attached.”
Everyone looked at the phone.
Birdie frowned. “I hate when you’re useful.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Don’t coach me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You would dare.”
“True.”
Reese leaned toward the phone. “What ticket numbers?”
Asher hesitated.
Interesting.
Coop sat forward.
Asher said, “First weekend? Just over eight hundred average attendance. But the important number was student turnout. Administration likes donors. Boards like optics. Students give them optics.”
Wren’s fingers flew over her tablet.
Dani looked up. “If we build student turnout into the dashboard separately from total attendance, we can show growth in campus engagement, not just event hype.”
Claire nodded. “Good.”
Frankie tapped her pen once. “Student section needs a reason to care before donors arrive.”
“Rivalry,” Hayes said.
“Noise,” Nolan said, appearing from nowhere with a breakfast sandwich in hand.
Everyone stared.
Nolan looked around. “Was I not invited?”
“No,” five people said.
He nodded. “Understood. I came anyway.”
Frankie’s gaze dropped to the sandwich. “Is that eggs?”
Nolan clutched it defensively. “Personal use.”
“Keep it that way.”
Coop waved him in because Nolan had already breached the perimeter and pretending otherwise wasted time.
Nolan sat beside Hayes.
Hayes looked pained.
Nolan whispered, “I bring vibes.”
Hayes whispered back, “Bring silence.”
Claire, with admirable resilience, continued. “Student turnout matters. Rivalry framing matters. The hockey must deliver. But the board preview needs one more thing.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“A face.”
“No,” Frankie said immediately.
Claire looked at her. “I didn’t say yours.”
“You meant mine.”