Chapter Ten
Coop
Coop Vale had learned three things by seven the next morning.
One, sled pushes were not a punishment.
They were a philosophy.
Two, Coach Sutter believed in philosophy with consequences.
Three, Frankie Callahan looked murderous before breakfast and somehow more beautiful for it, which suggested Coop’s self-preservation instincts had left campus and were not returning.
He stood near the edge of the turf with Hayes and Nolan, pretending to review the updated showcase rotation sheet while Frankie drove the weighted sled down the lane with the expression of a woman personally moving an institution out of her way.
Her shoulders were low.
Her legs powered.
Her jaw was set.
Sweat darkened the collar of her black Spitfires shirt.
Birdie jogged beside her, chanting, “Consequences. Consequences. Consequences,” until Sutter pointed one finger and Birdie immediately found religion and silence.
Frankie reached the end of the lane and stopped.
The sled scraped to a halt.
She straightened slowly, breathing hard, hands on hips.
Sutter checked the stopwatch.
“Again,” she said.
Frankie looked at the sled.
Then at Sutter.
Then turned the sled around.
No argument.
Coop’s chest did something complicated.
Respect, mostly.
And worry.
And the leftover memory of sitting in her car yesterday while she said her father could make her better and worse in the same breath.
Hayes leaned toward him. “Your face is doing something.”
Coop did not look away from the rotation sheet. “My face is reading.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s deeply literate.”
Nolan peered over Coop’s shoulder. “The sheet says I’m not on goalie station.”
“That’s correct.”
“I am useful.”
“You are on student-section noise coordination.”
“Because I am beloved.”
“Because you are loud and cannot be trusted near props.”
Nolan nodded solemnly. “Both can be true.”
Hayes looked toward the turf. “Sutter’s going hard.”
“Frankie skipped lift.”
“Yeah.”
“She told Sutter why.”
Hayes glanced at him. “She told you that?”
Coop folded the paper.
Not sharply.
Carefully.
“She told me some things.”
Hayes did not push.
For once, yes.
Then he said, “How are you doing with that?”
Coop finally looked at him.
“With what?”
“With her telling you some things.”
The easy answer waited.
Fine.
That worked.
Normal.
He had a whole drawer full of those answers.
Instead, he watched Frankie push the sled again, slower this time but still steady, Birdie now silently jogging beside her with exaggerated moral support hands.
“I don’t want to drop them,” Coop said.
Hayes’s expression softened.
Not teasing.
Friend.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
Coop looked back at the sheet.
That should have helped.
It did.
A little.
Nolan, apparently sensing a sincere moment and experiencing an allergic reaction, raised his hand.
“I also know you.”
Coop sighed. “Please don’t.”
“You are dependable, emotionally absorbent, and bad at pretending not to like scary women.”
Hayes choked on a laugh.
Coop closed his eyes.
Nolan continued, “I say this with love and goalie-adjacent respect.”
“You are not goalie-adjacent.”
“I wore pads yesterday.”
“You were weather.”
Nolan pointed at him. “Weather matters.”
Across the turf, Frankie finished the last sled push and stood bent forward, hands braced on her thighs, breathing hard.
Sutter said something to her.
Frankie nodded once.
Then Sutter’s gaze flicked across the room.
To Coop.
He straightened automatically.
Sutter’s face gave nothing away.
Frankie turned her head too.
Their eyes met.
For one second, the weight room noise faded under the memory of yesterday’s car.
Company was my favorite option.
He had said that.
Out loud.
To her face.
And then he had walked away before he did something deeply stupid and potentially excellent.
Frankie’s gaze held his.
Longer than usual.
Not soft.
Not exactly.
But open in a way that made the air leave his lungs.
Then Birdie stepped into Frankie’s line of sight and waved both hands like an airport marshal guiding gossip to the runway.
Frankie shoved her lightly.
Birdie staggered theatrically.
Moment over.
Coop looked down at his rotation sheet and discovered he had creased the corner.
So much for not dropping things.
At eight, the teams scattered toward showers, class, and whatever spiritual crisis Nolan had scheduled next.
Coop headed toward Coach Landry’s office with the finalized men’s availability list, but he only made it halfway down the hall before his phone buzzed.
His mother.
MOM: Sunday update? Dad is making chili. Mara says pie is still required if you come late.
Coop stopped beside the trophy case.
The display was half-built now.
Wren had somehow gotten facilities to unlock the case, Claire had approved temporary placement, and the old dusty participation plaques had been moved to what Wren called “historically appropriate storage,” which might have meant a closet.
The top shelf held a clean dark backing panel.
White letters across the center:
THE FIRE WE BUILT
Underneath, placeholders waited for stats, photos, and timeline cards.
Small.
Off-center.
Exactly where Frankie had allowed it, there was a printed still of her glove save.
Not huge.
Not decorative.
Proof.
Coop stared at it while his phone warmed in his hand.
Sunday.
Family dinner.
Chili.
Pie.
No pressure but yes pressure.
He loved Sunday dinner.
Sometimes.
He loved the noise of it. His mom putting extra bowls on the table even when everyone said they weren’t hungry.
His dad asking about hockey through questions that sounded like weather reports.
Mara stealing the best seat, the soft blanket, the last roll, and somehow making everyone feel lucky to be robbed.
But lately, every Sunday felt like putting on a version of himself that had fit once and now rubbed raw at the seams.
Easy son.
Good mood.
No trouble.
Bring pie.
Make everyone laugh.
Don’t mention the fact that he was tired.
Don’t mention the showcase.
Don’t mention Frankie, because if he did, his mother would see his face and immediately start planning emotional seating charts.
He typed:
COOP: I can come late. Showcase work first. I’ll bring pie.
He stared at it.
Then deleted I’ll bring pie.
Typed it again.
Deleted it.
Absurd.
He was a college hockey player standing in a hallway, negotiating with a dessert.
Finally, he typed:
COOP: I can come late. I may not stay long.
His thumb hovered over send.
It felt too blunt.
Too ungrateful.
Too much like asking for space.
He sent it before he could polish himself smaller.
The reply did not come immediately.
His stomach tightened.
Ridiculous.
He was twenty-one.
He could say he might not stay long.
The phone buzzed.
MOM: Okay, honey. Come when you can. We’ll save chili. No pressure on staying. Love you.
He stared at the words.
No collapse.
Again.
No one had stopped loving him because he had been mildly inconvenient.
The relief felt embarrassing.
Behind him, a voice said, “Did the trophy case text you?”
Coop turned.
Frankie stood a few feet away, hair damp from the shower, black hoodie zipped to her chin, backpack over one shoulder. Her face was tired, but less locked than it had been at the start of sled pushes.
He put his phone away. “Family.”
Her eyes shifted.
Understanding.
Too quick.
“Weather?”
“Light rain.”
“Good visibility?”
“Better than expected.”
Her mouth not-quite smiled.
Not fully.
Still enough to make his morning rearrange around it.
She stepped beside him and looked at the case.
“Wren works fast,” she said.
“Wren scares people efficiently.”
“Useful trait.”
“Terrifying trait.”
“Both.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, not touching.
The hallway hummed with distant traffic. Somewhere near the locker rooms, Birdie laughed too loudly. Sutter’s whistle cut once through the rink doors like punctuation.
Frankie nodded at the empty card spaces in the case. “Dani needs updated numbers.”
“I’ll send men’s side attendance support.”
“Student-section turnout?”
“Nolan is creating a chant plan.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“It might be.”
“Stop him.”
“I have tried.”
“Try with consequences.”
“I’ll tell Sutter.”
“Better.”
Coop glanced at her.
She was looking at the glove-save photo, but her expression was not the hard, braced look he expected.
It was… considering.
“Still okay with the photo?” he asked.
“No.”
He started to apologize.
Then she added, “But okay enough.”
He smiled carefully. “That counts.”
Her eyes cut to him.
He held up one hand. “Borrowed phrase.”
“Return it.”
“No.”
“Vale.”
“It’s useful.”
She looked back at the case.
Her voice shifted quieter. “I told Birdie about my dad.”
Coop went still.
He did not look at her too fast.
“Yeah?”
“She climbed into my car.”
“That tracks.”
“She offered symbolic crime.”
“Also tracks.”
Frankie’s mouth moved.
There.
Almost a smile.
“She said the crease isn’t empty.”
Coop absorbed that.
The crease isn’t empty.
Good.
Birdie, of all chaotic people, had found the cleanest line.
“She’s right,” he said.
“I know.”
That was new.
Not maybe.
Not fine.
I know.
Coop let the silence hold it.
Frankie adjusted the strap of her backpack. “I hate that he’s right.”
“That also tracks.”
“I also told Sutter.”
“About your dad?”
“Some. Enough.”
“And?”
“She gave me sled pushes.”
Coop fought a smile.
Frankie saw.
“Do not look amused by my suffering.”
“I’m not.”
“You are internally delighted.”
“Only by your resilience.”
“Gross.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Not entirely.”
This time, she did smile.
Small.
Fast.
A real one, maybe.
Coop’s brain went briefly offline.
He understood, in that moment, how people skated directly into open-ice hits.
Worth it, probably.
Then Frankie’s phone buzzed.
Her smile disappeared.
Coop’s body reacted before he could stop it, but he managed not to look at the screen.
Progress.
Frankie looked.
Her face went flat.
“Dad?” Coop asked quietly.