Chapter Ten #3
Birdie raised her banana. “To spite.”
“No,” Reese said.
Birdie lowered it.
Doyle gathered his papers. He paused near Frankie.
Coop went still.
So did half the room.
Doyle looked uncomfortable again, but less evasive this time.
“Callahan,” he said. “Good work.”
Frankie stared at him.
Doyle added, “Accurate work.”
That was better.
She nodded once. “Thank you.”
Doyle left.
Brenda followed.
Claire stayed long enough to squeeze Reese’s shoulder and tell Wren she was “terrifyingly useful,” which Wren accepted like tribute.
Sutter left without a word.
Which from Sutter meant either adequate or everyone would discover consequences later.
The room emptied slowly.
Birdie argued with Asher on the phone all the way down the hall, which was becoming less like rivalry and more like foreplay disguised as litigation.
Dani followed Wren to print the packet.
Reese and Hayes stopped by the door.
Reese looked at Frankie. “You okay?”
Frankie’s mouth flattened.
Reese corrected herself. “Bad question.”
“Yes,” Frankie said.
Reese blinked.
Frankie shrugged. “Still.”
Reese’s expression softened.
Hayes, wisely, said nothing.
They left.
Then it was just Coop and Frankie in the media room.
And the projected forum post still on the wall.
The circled photo.
The ugly sentence.
The cowardice enlarged in cold blue-white light.
Coop walked to the laptop and closed it.
The wall went blank.
Frankie let out a breath.
Small.
But he heard it.
He turned back.
She stood with her arms folded, looking at the blank wall now.
“You were good,” he said.
Her eyes flicked to him. “Do not.”
“I mean it as a fact.”
“You mean everything as a fact when you want to be annoying.”
“Also true.”
She looked away, but her shoulders had dropped by a fraction.
Coop stayed where he was.
No closer.
“Your dad called,” he said.
Her gaze snapped back.
He regretted it immediately.
Too far.
But she held his eyes and said, “Last night.”
“After the clip?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why the post hit harder?”
Her jaw worked.
He held up one hand. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.”
The silence stretched.
Then she said, “Yes.”
One word.
A door.
He nodded once.
The old Coop would have filled the space.
With comfort.
A joke.
Something warm.
This Coop, the one trying to be serious enough for what she handed him, did not.
Frankie rubbed both hands over her face.
Then dropped them.
“I hate that I cared.”
“Yeah.”
“I hate that one post and one phone call made me want to cut the station.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“That’s the thing.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“That you cared and kept it anyway.”
Frankie blinked.
Coop felt his pulse jump.
Not from fear.
From the danger of saying exactly what he meant.
“That’s not weakness,” he said. “That’s the work.”
Her face changed.
Tiny fracture.
Then gone.
But not gone enough.
She looked down at the table.
“You keep finding sentences,” she said.
“Good ones?”
“Unfortunately.”
He smiled faintly.
She did not.
Not this time.
When she looked back up, something in her expression made his smile fade.
The air shifted.
Not like the car yesterday.
Not soft.
Charged.
Tired.
Honest.
She took one step toward him.
Then another.
Coop’s breath slowed.
He did not move.
Could not.
Would not.
Frankie stopped an arm’s length away.
Close enough that he could see the faint flush high on her cheekbones.
Close enough to notice one loose strand of hair caught against her collar.
Close enough to understand exactly how much restraint cost.
“Company was the right option,” she said.
His throat went dry.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Careful.
Slow.
“Good.”
“Do not.”
His mouth curved, barely. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
For a second, she restrained smiled.
Then she looked at his mouth.
Coop went very still.
Every thought in his head disappeared except one.
Ask.
His voice came out low. “Frankie.”
Her eyes lifted.
He kept his hands at his sides.
“If you want me to stay exactly where I am, I will.”
She swallowed.
“And if I don’t?”
His heart hit once.
Hard.
“Then you tell me what you want.”
Her breath caught.
Not much.
Enough.
Frankie Callahan, who let nothing in, who stopped pucks and rot and grief and numbers and need at the door, looked at him like she had found the handle and hated that it fit her hand.
“I want,” she said, then stopped.
Coop waited.
He would have waited all day.
All season.
As long as it took.
Her voice dropped. “I want you to kiss me.”
Everything in him went bright and quiet.
He did not move yet.
“Are you sure?”
She gave him a look so Frankie it almost killed him.
“Vale.”
“I need the word.”
Her expression softened.
Barely.
But enough that he knew she understood why.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”
Coop stepped closer.
Slowly.
Giving her every second to change her mind.
She did not.
He lifted one hand, stopped just short of her face.
Another question.
Frankie answered by leaning into his palm.
Barely.
Enough.
Her skin was warm under his hand.
His thumb brushed her cheek once, and her eyes fluttered in a way that made his chest ache.
Then he kissed her.
Soft at first.
Careful.
Not because he didn’t want more.
Because he did.
Too much.
Because she mattered more than the wanting.
Frankie froze for half a second.
Then her hand caught the front of his hoodie.
Not gentle.
Frankie did not do gentle.
She pulled him closer and kissed him back like she had been angry at the idea of wanting this and had decided anger could be useful.
Coop made a sound low in his throat before he could stop it.
She heard.
Of course she did.
Her fingers tightened in his hoodie.
The kiss deepened.
Slow-burn.
Not soft anymore.
Not rushed either.
Just warm and charged and so full of yes that Coop forgot the media room, the forum, the showcase, the whole cold world beyond the door.
Frankie’s other hand rose to his shoulder.
He kept one hand at her cheek, the other at her waist, light enough to leave, steady enough to say he wouldn’t unless she asked.
She made a small, frustrated sound and stepped closer.
That nearly ended him.
He broke the kiss first because if he didn’t, he was going to lose the plot, the room, and possibly his entire moral framework.
He rested his forehead near hers, not quite touching until she leaned the last inch.
Of course.
Her choice.
Always.
They stood there breathing in the quiet.
The blank projection wall behind them.
The closed laptop.
The ugly post hidden.
Not gone.
Hidden.
For now.
Frankie’s fingers were still twisted in his hoodie.
Her eyes opened slowly.
She looked almost offended.
Coop smiled.
Small.
Helpless.
“Hi,” he said.
She stared at him.
Then whispered, “Do not be adorable right now.”
His smile widened.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
“I will.”
She did not let go.
Neither did he.
After a second, she said, “That was…”
He waited.
“Fine,” she said.
Coop laughed.
He could not help it.
Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth betrayed her.
Almost smile.
There.
“Fine?” he asked.
“Don’t get attached.”
“Too late.”
This time, she did not look away.
The words landed between them, no longer accidental.
No longer easy to pretend into another shape.
Frankie’s face went serious.
So did his.
“I mean it,” he said.
“I know.”
He believed her.
And that made the moment bigger.
Scarier.
Better.
She released his hoodie slowly, like her fingers had to be negotiated with.
Then she stepped back.
Air returned between them.
Not enough.
Too much.
She looked toward the door.
“We need rules,” she said.
Coop leaned back against the table because his knees were maybe not entirely trustworthy.
“Okay.”
“Do not say okay like you’re happy about rules.”
“I love rules.”
“You bend rules.”
“Within rules.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled.
She pointed at him. “Rule one. No telling the team.”
“Agreed.”
“Rule two. No being weird in meetings.”
“Define weird.”
“Smiling like that.”
He tried to stop.
Failed.
“Working on it.”
“Work faster.”
“Yes.”
“Rule three. No making me the soft part of your day out loud.”
His chest tightened.
That one was not funny.
Not only.
He nodded. “Okay.”
She looked at him, testing.
He meant it.
She saw that.
“Rule four,” she said. “This does not change the showcase.”
“No.”
“Or the station.”
“No.”
“Or the work.”
“No.”
A pause.
Then he said, “Rule five?”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“I get to ask before kissing you again.”
Color rose in her cheeks.
Tiny.
Beautiful.
“You always have to ask.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He waited.
Her mouth curved.
Barely.
“But yes,” she said.
Coop’s brain stalled.
Frankie turned toward the door, all controlled movements and pink cheeks and absolute menace.
“Seven tomorrow,” she said.
He stared. “For planning?”
She looked back.
For once, the smile she refused to finish became real enough to hurt him.
“For coffee.”
Then she left.
Coop stayed in the media room alone, one hand braced on the table, heart somewhere in his throat.
The room was silent.
The laptop was closed.
The world outside kept moving.
He touched his mouth once, then immediately dropped his hand because he was not sixteen and this was not a movie.
Except it felt like something had shifted so completely that normal physics should have noticed.
His phone buzzed.
Hayes.
HAYES: You alive? Meeting ended ten minutes ago.
Coop stared at the message.
Then typed:
COOP: Yes.
Deleted it.
Typed:
COOP: Fine.
Deleted that too because the word had become sacred and Frankie would probably haunt him.
Finally, he typed:
COOP: Delayed. Legitimate logistics.
Hayes replied:
HAYES: Uh-huh.
Then:
HAYES: Your face better be normal when you come out.
Coop looked toward the door Frankie had exited through.
He smiled despite himself.
No chance.