Chapter Twelve
Coop
Coop Vale had never thought of pastries as a high-stakes negotiation.
Then Frankie Callahan approved them conditionally.
Muffins were risky.
Too cheerful.
Danishes had a decorative swirl situation Frankie would absolutely classify as suspicious.
Croissants felt like they belonged to people who said things like “mouthfeel” and “study abroad changed me.”
Cinnamon rolls were too emotional.
Bagels were banned.
Probably still.
Mrs. O’Malley stood behind the counter, coffee pot in hand, watching him with open delight.
“You planning to buy something or propose to the case?”
Coop looked up. “I’m evaluating.”
“You’ve been evaluating for six minutes.”
“It’s a delicate matter.”
“It’s breakfast.”
“That’s what someone with no strategic burden would say.”
Mrs. O’Malley’s smile widened. “This for the goalie?”
Coop’s brain stalled.
He had not said Frankie’s name.
He was sure.
Almost sure.
“Why would you assume that?”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been looking at a tray of plain scones like one of them might break your heart.”
He glanced back at the pastry case.
Plain scones.
Not too sweet.
Not messy.
Not cute.
Structurally sound.
Potentially acceptable.
Mrs. O’Malley grabbed a small paper bag before he answered. “Two?”
“One.”
She looked at him.
He sighed. “Two.”
“Thought so.”
“It’s not—”
“If you say logistics, I’ll charge you double.”
Coop closed his mouth.
Smart.
She bagged the scones, then poured two coffees without asking. One regular. One black.
He stared.
“You’re very alarming.”
“I own a diner near a college rink,” she said. “I know things before people know them about themselves.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“That sounds like breakfast.”
She set the coffees on the counter and leaned in slightly. “She’s a good one.”
Coop’s hand tightened around his wallet.
“I know.”
Mrs. O’Malley’s expression softened, but her voice stayed practical. “Good. Then don’t be stupid.”
He blinked. “That’s the advice?”
“It covers a lot.”
“Anything more specific?”
“Sure. Don’t make her softer to make yourself feel important.”
That landed hard enough to silence him.
Mrs. O’Malley slid the bag across the counter. “There. Specific.”
Coop looked down at the scones.
Then back at her.
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know.” She smiled faintly. “That’s why I said it before you needed it.”
He nodded once.
“Thanks.”
“And Vale?”
He paused.
“She likes black coffee because she likes fewer places for people to hide things.”
Coop went still.
Mrs. O’Malley turned to refill another customer’s mug like she had not just exposed three layers of a person with one sentence.
Fewer places for people to hide things.
Yeah.
That sounded like Frankie.
He carried the coffees and scones out into the cold morning with more care than the items warranted and reached the rink lobby at 6:43.
Frankie was already there.
Of course.
Today she was not alone.
Reese sat across from her, binder open, two colored pens tucked behind one ear.
Hayes stood nearby, holding a stack of printed board packets like he was guarding classified documents.
Wren leaned against the trophy-case hallway entrance, typing.
Dani sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop, because apparently chairs were optional in data work.
Birdie paced in a tight circle near the vending machines, muttering into her phone.
Asher’s voice came through faintly.
“—all I’m saying is if your chant has more than eight syllables, you’ve lost the student section.”
Birdie stopped pacing. “I did not ask for chant consultation.”
“You called me.”
“Accidentally.”
“For twelve minutes?”
“I have a sticky screen.”
“Sure.”
Coop approached the table.
Frankie looked up.
Her eyes went first to his face.
Then the coffees.
Then the paper bag.
Suspicion arrived immediately.
Good morning.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Approved pastry candidate.”
Reese’s brows lifted.
Hayes looked at Coop.
Wren’s typing paused.
Dani slowly looked up from the floor.
Birdie lowered her phone.
Asher’s voice said, “Did someone say pastry?”
Frankie stared at Coop like he had announced a fire drill in Latin.
“You brought public pastries?”
Coop considered the room.
The many witnesses.
The very dangerous team-wide interest.
“Apparently.”
“Poor execution.”
“I see that now.”
Birdie drifted closer. “What kind?”
Frankie pointed at her. “No.”
Birdie stopped.
“Plain scones,” Coop said, because it was too late to retreat.
Frankie’s expression shifted.
Not much.
Enough.
He had chosen correctly.
A dangerous amount of satisfaction moved through him.
He set the black coffee and paper bag beside her notebook, not too close.
“Approved?” he asked.
She opened the bag, looked inside, then closed it.
“Conditionally.”
Birdie gasped. “That’s basically marriage.”
Frankie lifted the black coffee.
Birdie stepped backward.
Reese pressed her lips together.
Hayes coughed.
Wren resumed typing with the intensity of a court stenographer.
Coop sat before his face could commit further crimes.
Frankie slid one scone out, broke it in half, and pushed the other half across the table toward him.
There was a moment.
A tiny one.
Private, somehow, despite the fact that everyone in the rink lobby had become invested in pastry law.
Coop picked up the half.
“Thank you.”
“It’s too much pastry for one person.”
“Of course.”
“Logistics.”
“Absolutely.”
Their eyes met.
Frankie looked away first, but slower than she used to.
Progress.
Also danger.
Reese cleared her throat. “As much as I support… breakfast governance, we need to review the board preview sequence one more time.”
“Thank God,” Frankie muttered.
Birdie leaned toward Wren. “Breakfast governance.”
Wren said, “Already written down.”
Frankie looked pained.
Coop ate the scone to avoid smiling.
It was dry in the way good scones were dry, which meant it demanded coffee and did not apologize for itself.
Frankie seemed to approve.
She ate her half in tiny, efficient bites while reading the packet.
He tried not to watch.
Failed.
Wren noticed.
Of course she did.
Her eyes narrowed.
Coop looked at the board packet like it contained urgent truth.
Which it did.
Mostly.
Claire arrived at 6:58 in a camel coat, tablet in hand, moving with the crisp energy of someone who had already had two meetings, one donor call, and no patience for weak language.
“Good,” she said. “Everyone’s here.”
Birdie held up her phone. “Asher is unfortunately also here.”
Asher said, “You keep calling me.”
“Sticky screen.”
“Medical issue.”
“Personality issue.”
Claire did not blink. “Asher, since you are here, do you have anything useful to add before we go into the preview?”
“Yes,” Asher said.
Birdie glared at the phone.
Asher continued, “Do not let the board turn Westbridge into an excuse to underfund Brookfield.”
That quieted the lobby.
Asher’s voice lost its tease. “A lot of schools do this. They see a better-funded program and decide they can either overspend to catch up or step back because catching up is hard. Your argument has to be that the conference getting stronger is exactly why Brookfield has to invest now. Not someday. Not after another review. Now.”
Claire’s expression sharpened.
Reese wrote something.
Dani typed.
Wren looked like she wanted to dislike the point but could not.
Frankie said, “Useful menace.”
Asher laughed. “That may be the nicest thing anyone at Brookfield has said about me.”
Birdie snatched the phone closer. “Do not bond with my goalie.”
Frankie looked at Birdie.
“My goalie?”
Birdie froze.
Then pointed at the phone. “Your fault.”
Asher’s voice turned delighted. “Your goalie?”
Birdie hung up.
The lobby went silent.
Then Nolan walked in wearing a sweatshirt that read FUND THE FIRE and carrying a poster tube.
“Why is everyone staring like a felony was avoided?”
“No reason,” Reese said quickly.
Nolan looked disappointed. “Shame.”
Coop leaned back in his chair. “What’s in the tube?”
“Student-section signage.”
Frankie went very still.
“Approved signage?” she asked.
Nolan placed the tube on the table and slowly slid it toward Wren. “Pending.”
Wren opened it.
Pulled out the first poster.
brOOKFIELD BUILT DIFFERENT
Fine.
Second.
READ THE ICE
Good.
Third.
FUND WOMEN’S HOCKEY, COWARDS
Claire closed her eyes.
Frankie pointed at it. “No.”
Nolan looked offended. “It has urgency.”
“It has lawsuit texture,” Wren said.
“Cowards is not legally actionable.”
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “It is donor-hostile.”
Birdie whispered, “But emotionally accurate.”
Reese said, “No cowards.”
Nolan nodded gravely. “The cowards will know in their hearts.”
Coop took the poster and rolled it back up before Claire could age visibly.
The door to the administrative wing opened.
Doyle appeared with Brenda at his side.
Everyone straightened in small ways.
Frankie’s hand closed around her coffee.
Coop saw it.
He kept his eyes on the packet.
Doyle looked at the assembled group, the coffees, the scone bag, Nolan’s poster tube, and then the board packets.
“Good morning,” he said.
No throat clearing.
Improvement.
Claire stepped forward. “We’re ready.”
Doyle nodded. “Board members arrive in fifteen. We’ll meet in the executive conference room first, then walk them past the display and into the rink for the station preview.”
His eyes flicked to Frankie.
Not nervously.
Carefully.
“Callahan, you’re still comfortable presenting?”
Frankie lifted her chin. “Yes.”
Coop felt the word in his chest.
Doyle nodded. “Good.”
Sutter appeared behind him.
“Do not rush the second paragraph,” she said.
Frankie’s mouth flattened. “Yes, Coach.”
“And breathe.”
“I breathe regularly.”
“Debatable.”
Birdie whispered, “Medical burn.”
Frankie ignored her.
The fifteen minutes before the board preview moved both too fast and too slowly.
Reese reviewed her opening.
Hayes checked the men’s support numbers.
Dani updated one final chart.