Chapter Nine #2
She sent it.
Then immediately locked the phone and dropped it in her lap like it had burned her.
Birdie made a tiny sound.
Frankie turned her head slowly.
“If you make this a moment, I will leave you in this parking lot.”
Birdie pressed her lips together.
Nodded.
Then whispered, “It’s already a moment.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
“Out.”
Birdie laughed once, but she reached for the door.
Before she got out, she paused. “I’m proud of you.”
“Out faster.”
“Going.”
Birdie climbed out and leaned back down. “No violins. But maybe one kazoo.”
“Birdie.”
“Gone.”
She shut the door and jogged toward the rec center entrance, texting as she went.
Probably Reese.
Possibly Wren.
Hopefully not a group chat titled FRANKIE FEELINGS EMERGENCY.
Frankie sat alone again.
But not for long.
That was the terrifying part.
She checked the rearview mirror.
Smoothed nothing.
Fixed nothing.
She was not in gear. Her hair was pulled back badly. Her face looked tired. Her hoodie had a coffee stain on one sleeve.
No mask.
No wall tall enough.
She almost texted never mind.
Her phone buzzed.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Parking lot?
She stared.
Then replied:
FRANKIE: Behind rec center.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Be there in three. No need to talk unless you want.
Frankie let the phone fall back into her lap.
Three minutes was too soon.
Three minutes was forever.
At two minutes and forty seconds, Coop appeared at the edge of the lot, moving fast but not running. Navy hoodie. Athletic shorts despite the cold because hockey boys had broken internal thermostats. Hair damp from lift or shower or general golden-retriever nonsense.
He slowed when he saw her car.
Right.
He did not rush the door.
Better.
He stopped a few feet from the driver’s side and held up both hands like, permission?
Frankie unlocked the doors.
He walked around and got into the passenger seat.
Birdie’s seat.
But different now.
He brought cold air with him and the clean smell of soap and rink.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Coop shut the door gently.
Then he looked straight ahead through the windshield, not at her.
“Hi,” he said.
Frankie’s fingers tightened around her phone.
“Hi.”
Huge conversation.
Exhausting.
He rested his hands loosely on his knees. “Do you need cover, or did Birdie handle it?”
“Probably badly.”
“Efficiently badly?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re covered.”
Silence.
Frankie stared at the rec center wall.
The crack in the brick was still there.
Obviously.
Cracks did not vanish because someone sat beside you.
They just looked less like the only thing in sight.
Coop did not ask about weather.
He did not ask about her father.
He did not ask why she had chosen company.
He just sat there.
Quiet.
Present.
Infuriatingly good at this.
After a while, Frankie said, “He saw the clip.”
Coop’s hands went still.
Not fists.
Progress.
“My dad,” she said.
“I figured.”
“He liked the glove save.”
Coop waited.
She laughed once without humor. “Then he broke down the goal.”
Coop’s jaw tightened.
Frankie saw it from the corner of her eye.
He did not hand the anger to her.
Useful.
“He said Westbridge will eat that alive,” she said.
The car went quiet.
Then Coop said, “That was a cruel thing to say.”
Not he’s wrong.
Not don’t listen to him.
Not you’re amazing.
Cruel.
A clean name.
Frankie’s eyes burned.
Absolutely not.
She blinked hard and stared at the windshield until the rec center blurred back into shape.
“He’s not wrong about the read.”
Coop’s voice stayed even. “Maybe not.”
That surprised her enough to look at him.
He was looking out the windshield too.
“You were late,” he said.
Frankie’s throat locked.
“And the puck deflected,” he continued. “And you won. And you made the high-glove save later because you adjusted. All of that is true.”
Frankie absorbed the words slowly.
All of that is true.
Not one truth turned into a weapon.
Several truths allowed to exist at the same time.
Her father had never been good at several truths.
There was good or not good.
Useful or expensive.
Strong or soft.
Start or backup.
Wall or failure.
Coop turned his head then.
Only halfway.
Enough that she could feel his attention without drowning in it.
“You don’t have to pretend the mistake wasn’t real for him to be cruel about it,” he said.
Frankie closed her eyes.
Bad idea.
The burn got worse.
She opened them quickly.
“You’re very annoying,” she said.
His mouth curved.
Tiny.
“I’ve been told.”
“You keep being reasonable in ways that make me want to commit property damage.”
“Symbolic or structural?”
Despite everything, a laugh broke out of her.
Small.
Ragged.
Real.
Coop’s smile warmed.
Not victorious.
Relieved.
That mattered.
“Birdie offered symbolic,” Frankie said.
“Good friend.”
“Terrible influence.”
“Both can be true.”
She looked at him.
He looked back.
The car was too small for the way the air changed.
Too enclosed.
Too quiet.
No rink noise.
No team.
No Birdie chaos.
Just Coop in the passenger seat, letting her be fine and hurt and not asking her to translate either into something more convenient.
Frankie looked away first.
“I skipped lift,” she said.
“Scandal.”
“Sutter knows.”
“I know.”
“Did she send you?”
“No.”
That answer came fast.
Certain.
“Good,” Frankie said.
Then, after a beat, “Why did you come?”
His fingers flexed once against his knee.
“You asked for company.”
“I could have meant anyone.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
Frankie’s mouth parted.
Then closed.
Rude.
Accurate.
Coop looked back through the windshield, like he had already said the honest thing and did not need applause for surviving it.
Frankie hated that.
Liked it.
Hated that.
She shifted in her seat.
“My dad kept notebooks,” she said.
Coop stayed still.
“I told you that.”
“Yeah.”
“He still does, I think. Maybe not physical ones anymore. But he knows numbers. Goals. Save percentage. Bad games. Good games, if there’s a flaw to mention.”
Her voice sounded far away.
Not emotional.
Just… tired.
“He thinks he made me better,” she said.
Coop’s voice was quiet. “Did he?”
Frankie looked at him sharply.
Most people would not ask that.
Most people would rush to no.
Clean.
Comforting.
Too simple.
Frankie leaned back against the seat.
“Yes,” she said finally. “And worse.”
Coop nodded.
Like he understood the answer did not cancel itself out.
Like maybe he understood families could do both.
“Yes and no is not allowed in my house,” she said.
His eyes flicked to her.
“In mine,” he said, “it’s more like no one says the no if the yes keeps everyone calm.”
Frankie studied him.
There it was.
His door.
Not wide.
Not locked.
Just visible.
“You said Mara had anxiety,” she said.
He blinked.
“I didn’t.”
“No,” Frankie said. “You didn’t.”
Coop stared at her for a second.
Then huffed a quiet laugh and looked down.
“Right. You’re good at looking.”
“Yes.”
His smile faded.
“My sister,” he said. “She had a rough year when we were in high school. Panic attacks. Couldn’t stay in school some days. My parents were scared. She was scared. Everyone was… not okay.”
Frankie listened.
No soft noises.
No sympathy face.
She knew better.
“I became easy,” Coop said. “Good grades. Good mood. No problems. Ate what Mom made. Went where Dad asked. Made Mara laugh when I could. If I was fine, that was one less thing.”
Frankie’s chest tightened.
Fine and hurt.
There it was again.
“Did it help?” she asked.
He smiled.
Not happy.
“Yes,” he said. “And worse.”
The words landed between them.
Mirror.
Not perfect.
Not the same.
Enough.
Frankie looked down at her phone.
No new calls.
That landed.
Her hands had stopped shaking.
Also good.
Maybe company was not useless.
Terrible development.
Coop leaned back against the seat. “Yesterday, I told my mom I wasn’t sure about Sunday dinner.”
Frankie looked at him.
He lifted one shoulder. “Tiny rebellion.”
“Did anyone perish?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
He laughed.
Then his expression softened. “Actually, it was fine.”
“That’s worse.”
“Very confusing.”
“Families should come with rink rules.”
“Or penalty boxes.”
Frankie considered. “Your father gets two minutes for calendar pressure.”
“My mother gets minor penalty for casserole-based guilt.”
“Mara?”
“Mara gets no penalty. She’s terrifying.”
“Respect.”
He smiled.
The car was warmer now. The windows had fogged slightly at the edges. Outside, a few students crossed the lot, laughing, bags bouncing against their hips.
Frankie should go inside.
Lift was probably half over.
Sutter would punish her later in some educational way.
She did not move.
Coop did not either.
After a long minute, he said, “Can I say one thing that might be annoying?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Say it.”
His smile flickered, then faded into something serious.
“Your dad can know hockey and still be wrong about you.”
Frankie’s breath caught.
She hated him.
A little.
For finding the sentence.
For saying it without dressing it up.
For not letting her father keep every useful thing he had taught her as proof that the damage was acceptable.
She looked down at her lap.
Her phone screen was dark.
Her hands were open.
“I know,” she said.
It came out too quiet.
Coop heard it anyway.
“Good,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Do not say good like Sutter.”
His mouth curved. “I can’t compete with Sutter.”
“No one can.”
“True.”
A knock hit the windshield.
Both of them flinched this time.
Birdie stood in front of the car, face pressed dramatically near the glass, hands cupped around her eyes.
Frankie closed her eyes.
“I’m going to kill her.”
Coop laughed so hard he had to look away.
Birdie waved.
Behind her, Reese stood with arms folded, trying not to smile. Hayes beside her looked openly amused. Nolan had somehow acquired a smoothie.
Wonderful.
A full audience.
Frankie rolled down the window two inches.
Birdie bent toward it. “This is a welfare check.”
“No.”
“Sutter says if you’re skipping lift, you owe her sled pushes tomorrow.”
Frankie grimaced.
Reasonable.
Horrible.
“Fine.”
Birdie’s eyes flicked to Coop.
Then back to Frankie.
Her smile softened into something dangerous.
“No violins,” Frankie warned.
Birdie zipped her lips.
Then whispered, “Tiny kazoo.”
Frankie rolled the window up.
Coop was still laughing quietly.
She pointed at him. “Stop.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.”
“Joy is hard to suppress.”
“Work harder.”
He pressed his lips together.
Failed again.
Frankie felt the corner of her own mouth move.
No.
The damage was done.
Coop saw it.
His laughter faded.
Not because it stopped being funny.
Because the smile threatening the corner of her mouth had become something else.
A small quiet thing inside the warm car.
A thing both of them noticed.
Outside, Birdie was now being physically steered away by Reese, still waving like Frankie had gone to war instead of sat in a parking lot.
The moment inside the car stayed.
Frankie looked at Coop.
He looked at her.
She thought, absurdly, that this would be an easy time to kiss him.
No.
Absolutely not.
Terrible idea.
Wrong chapter.
Wrong timing.
Wrong everything.
Still, the thought arrived fully formed.
What would happen if she leaned across the console and let him be the thing that got through on purpose?
Her heart punched once against her ribs.
Coop’s gaze dropped.
Not far.
Just to her mouth.
Then back to her eyes.
He saw the thought.
Or had his own.
The air went very still.
Frankie’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
Coop did not move closer.
Of course he didn’t.
He would not take an inch she had not handed him.
That should have made it easier.
It made it worse.
She swallowed.
“I should go inside,” she said.
His voice was rougher when he answered.
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved.
Then Coop opened the passenger door and stepped out into the cold.
Space.
Air.
Survival.
Frankie exhaled like she had been underwater.
He leaned down before closing the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “company was my favorite option.”
Then he shut the door.
Frankie stared at the place he had been.
Her heart had not returned to normal.
Rude.
Very rude.
She got out of the car a moment later.
Birdie, Reese, Hayes, and Nolan were all very interested in pretending they had not watched anything.
Badly.
Frankie ignored every single one of them.
Coop walked beside Hayes, hands in his hoodie pocket, not looking back.
Solid.
Polite.
Infuriating.
Reese fell into step beside Frankie as they headed toward the rec center.
“You okay?”
Frankie looked at her.
Reese lifted both hands. “I know. Bad question.”
Frankie looked ahead.
“Fine and hurt,” she said.
Reese was quiet for half a step.
Then she nodded. “That counts.”
Frankie’s throat tightened again.
Apparently that phrase had spread.
Or maybe the people who cared about her were all becoming equally inconvenient.
They walked inside.
Lift was mostly over, but Sutter stood near the racks with a stopwatch and the expression of a woman who had been waiting with educational consequences.
Frankie stopped in front of her.
“I skipped,” she said.
Sutter looked at her.
“Yes.”
“I’ll do sled pushes.”
“Yes.”
“I answered my father’s call.”
Sutter’s expression did not change.
But her eyes did.
“That explains the first two,” she said.
Frankie nodded once.
Sutter pointed toward the turf. “Tomorrow. Seven.”
Frankie almost laughed.
Of course.
Seven.
Everything important apparently happened at seven now.
“Good,” Sutter said.
Frankie looked at her.
Then, for once, she let herself hear it as more than command.
Good that you came back.
Good that you said the thing.
Good that the wall did not keep you in the car all night.
Maybe.
Or maybe Sutter only meant sled pushes.
Hard to tell.
Coach language was ninety percent weather.
Frankie joined the last ten minutes of lift.
Her legs burned.
Her shoulders ached.
Her phone stayed silent.
Across the room, Coop moved through his own workout with the men’s team, serious now, focused, no big smiles.
Once, he glanced over.
Just once.
Not a warning.
Not pushing.
Frankie gave him the smallest nod.
Answer.
His shoulders eased.
Then he went back to work.
Frankie picked up the next weight.
The day had not become easy.
Her father still existed.
Westbridge still waited.
The showcase still needed to turn proof into future.
A puck had gotten through yesterday.
A call had gotten through today.
And Cooper Vale had sat in her passenger seat like company was not a demand, but an offer she had been allowed to choose.
Frankie lifted.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The wall held differently now.
Not lower.
Not gone.
Just less lonely.
And when she caught Coop looking once more before the end of lift, she did not look away first.