Chapter Twelve #3
Doyle explained the two-year line item like he had believed in it all along, which was mildly irritating but useful.
Then it was over.
The board members left with Claire.
Doyle and Brenda followed.
Sutter spoke briefly with Landry.
Reese exhaled for what might have been the first time in an hour.
Birdie, who had been waiting just outside the rink doors, burst in.
“Did we win bureaucracy?”
Reese laughed. “We survived the preview.”
“That sounds like bureaucracy winning.”
Hayes wrapped one arm lightly around Reese’s shoulders.
“Not today,” he said.
Reese leaned into him for exactly one second, then stepped back because the team was present and she had limits.
Frankie watched them.
Coop watched Frankie watch them.
Her expression was not wistful.
Not exactly.
More like a person studying evidence and deciding what it proved.
Birdie launched herself at Frankie next. “You were terrifying.”
Frankie took one step back. “No.”
“Professionally terrifying.”
“No.”
“Hotly terrifying.”
Frankie’s eyes snapped to Coop.
Coop looked at the ceiling.
Bad choice.
Too obvious.
Birdie’s head turned slowly.
Reese said, “Birdie.”
Birdie’s smile spread.
Frankie pointed at her. “Choose life.”
Birdie pressed both lips together, physically shaking with restraint.
Nolan appeared with a poster that said BACK THE FIRE and had somehow acquired twelve signatures already.
“Student section is mobilizing,” he announced.
Wren narrowed her eyes. “Why does that smell like marker and eggs?”
Nolan hid the poster behind his back. “No reason.”
Frankie rubbed her forehead.
Coop laughed before he could stop himself.
The release hit the room all at once.
People talked.
Moved.
Breathed.
Claire returned briefly to tell them the packet would go to the full board committee that afternoon and that early reactions were “productive,” which in Advancement language apparently meant no one had set the proposal on fire.
Good enough.
Eventually, the group scattered.
Reese and Hayes left for captain meetings.
Dani and Wren went to update the digital packet.
Birdie chased Nolan down the hallway after seeing the back of his poster, which apparently read NO EGG LEFT BEHIND.
Sutter and Landry disappeared into the coaches’ offices.
Frankie stayed at the boards.
Looking at the ice.
Coop stayed too.
Not beside her at first.
A few feet away.
She knew he was there.
He knew she knew.
That seemed to be a pattern now.
Finally, she said, “Your face was weird during the preview.”
He stepped closer.
“Professionally?”
“No.”
“Smile-related?”
“Pride-related.”
“That is harder to control.”
“Try.”
“I did.”
She looked at him then.
Her face was tired, but alive in a way that made his chest hurt.
“I added a line,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“We are not asking Brookfield to fund a highlight.”
“That line was good.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
She pointed at him. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked sentence-proud.”
“I was sentence-proud.”
“Internally.”
“Mostly.”
She shook her head.
But her mouth was soft.
Not quite smiling.
Enough.
Coop lowered his voice. “You were incredible.”
Her eyes flicked toward the hallway.
No one was close.
Still, rules.
He added, “Professionally.”
Frankie looked back at him.
“Good correction.”
“I’m learning.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then he said, “Can I ask something?”
Her gaze sharpened.
Not fear.
Awareness.
“Here?”
“No.” He nodded toward the service hallway beside the equipment room. “There.”
Frankie stared at him.
He let the question stand.
No pressure.
No step closer.
After a second, she turned and walked toward the hallway.
He followed, heart suddenly loud enough to qualify as a chant.
The service hall was quiet and dim, lined with storage doors and old rubber mats. Not romantic. Which was probably good.
Frankie stopped near the far wall and turned to face him.
“Ask,” she said.
Coop took one slow breath.
“Can I kiss you?”
Her throat moved.
The air shifted.
There it was again.
The door.
The choice.
Frankie stepped closer.
Not all the way.
Enough.
“Yes,” she said.
This time, she kissed him first.
Not carefully.
Not like yesterday’s first touch.
This was Frankie after a board preview, after holding a room, after deleting voicemails and standing in front of the work without flinching.
She caught his hoodie in one fist and pulled him down to her.
Coop’s hands found her waist, still light, still asking even as his mouth answered hers.
She pressed closer.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
The kiss was slower than the first one and somehow more dangerous.
Less surprise.
More choice.
He could feel her breathing.
The small sound she made when his thumb brushed the edge of her hoodie.
The way she leaned in, then steadied herself like wanting had physical consequences.
Coop broke the kiss before either of them forgot where they were.
Barely.
Frankie’s forehead rested against his chest for half a second.
Only half.
Then she lifted her head and glared at him.
“That was also fine.”
He smiled, breathless.
“Moderate?”
“Conditionally approved.”
“Good.”
“Do not say good.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
She looked at his mouth.
He nearly groaned.
“Frankie.”
“What?”
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to ask again.”
Color rose in her cheeks.
She did not look away.
“Then ask.”
His entire world narrowed.
“Can I kiss you again?”
“Yes.”
He did.
This one was shorter because he was not a saint and they were in a service hallway with a showcase to save.
But it was enough to make leaving difficult.
Enough to make Frankie’s hand linger on his hoodie after they separated.
Enough to make her close her eyes once before opening them and rebuilding her face into something like composure.
“We need another rule,” she said.
He laughed softly. “Okay.”
“No kissing before meetings.”
“Agreed.”
“No kissing immediately after administrative victories.”
“That seems targeted.”
“It is.”
“Define immediately.”
“Vale.”
“Right. Sorry.”
She stepped back, smoothing her hoodie like it had done something wrong.
He let his hands fall to his sides, though they objected.
Frankie pointed at him. “Normal face.”
He tried.
She stared.
“Worse,” she said.
“I’m doing my best.”
“Do better.”
“I need a minute.”
Her mouth curved.
A real smile.
Small.
Private.
Devastating.
Then she walked past him toward the rink.
At the hallway entrance, she looked back.
“Coffee tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Seven?”
“No.”
He blinked.
His smile sharpened.
“Six-fifty,” she said. “You’re always early anyway.”
Then she disappeared.
Coop leaned back against the wall and looked up at the ceiling.
He had survived the board preview.
Possibly.
He had not survived Frankie Callahan smiling at him.
Definitely.
His phone buzzed.
Hayes.
HAYES: Where are you?
Coop stared at the screen.
Then typed:
COOP: Service hallway.
Hayes replied:
HAYES: Alone?
Coop looked toward the empty hall.
Then typed:
COOP: Now, yes.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
HAYES: Your face better be normal.
Coop laughed under his breath.
No chance.
Again.