Chapter Thirteen
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had underestimated the danger of being happy.
Not loud happy.
Not Birdie happy, which involved volume, hand gestures, and the threat of property damage.
Not Reese happy, which looked calm until you noticed Hayes Madden standing three feet away with the expression of a man who had been quietly remade by eye contact.
Frankie’s version was worse.
Stealth happy.
Private happy.
The kind that showed up as tiny operational failures.
She put her left skate on first, then forgot to tighten the top eyelet.
She walked into the locker room with her coffee and did not threaten Birdie until Birdie had already spoken for eight full seconds.
She wrote six-fifty in her notebook and underlined it twice before realizing she was smiling at a number.
Unacceptable.
Numbers were for save percentages, shot maps, and institutional funding.
Not boys.
Especially not boys with stupid hands and excellent patience and a silver A on their hoodies.
Frankie closed the notebook with more force than necessary.
Dani looked up from the next bench. “Notebook crime?”
“No.”
Birdie’s head appeared from inside her hoodie. She had gotten stuck halfway through, arms trapped, hair exploding out the neck hole.
“Did the notebook deserve it?”
“Yes,” Frankie said.
Birdie’s muffled voice floated through the fabric. “Most notebooks are innocent.”
“Not this one.”
Wren walked by, tugged Birdie’s hoodie down in one efficient motion, and kept going.
Birdie gasped into freedom. “Thank you. I saw the tunnel.”
“The light?” Dani asked.
“No. Snack machine.”
Frankie tightened her skate properly and stood.
Morning practice in thirty minutes.
Board preview survived.
Showcase in five days.
Westbridge in nine.
Kissing Cooper Vale in a service hallway: twice.
That last item was not relevant to practice.
Technically.
Her body disagreed.
Her mouth, specifically, had become very stupid about remembering.
She pulled on her practice jersey and grabbed her water bottle.
DO NOT PERISH.
Good advice.
She was trying.
Reese entered with her binder, already dressed, hair braided tight.
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look organized?”
Reese stopped. “Good morning to you too.”
“Suspicious.”
“I have a meeting after practice.”
“You always have meetings.”
“Yes, and today I am prepared for one.”
“Worse.”
Birdie flopped onto the bench. “I miss when we were underdogs with no paperwork.”
Wren did not look up from her phone. “No, you don’t.”
“I miss the aesthetic.”
“You miss committing chaos in hallways.”
“Also true.”
Reese opened her binder and pulled out a practice sheet. “Sutter wants clean exits, power-play pressure, and second-chance recovery.”
Frankie’s stomach tightened at the phrase.
Second chance.
Recovery.
The puck sliding under her pad in the drill.
Her father’s voice.
Westbridge will eat that alive.
Then Coop’s voice.
You can be fine and hurt at the same time.
Then the kiss.
No.
Not helpful.
Actually, unhelpfully helpful.
Frankie reached for her helmet.
Reese’s gaze caught hers.
“Okay?” Reese asked.
Frankie stared.
Reese sighed. “Bad question.”
“Yes.”
“Better question?”
“No.”
Reese’s mouth moved like she was trying not to smile.
Frankie did not appreciate being emotionally managed by captains before practice.
Or ever.
Sutter’s whistle shrieked from the hallway.
Every Spitfire moved.
Useful.
No one had time to perceive Frankie’s face if they were all trying to survive.
On the ice, things made more sense.
The air was cold.
The rink lights were harsh.
The crease was clear.
Frankie tapped left post once.
Right post twice.
Center.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Read.
Not wall.
Read.
She hated that the word helped.
The first drill was clean breakouts under pressure. Reese controlled the middle. Dani supported low. Wren cut sharp through the lane. Birdie came in too hot, as usual, and nearly collided with the boards while insisting she had done it for “visual intimidation.”
Sutter said, “Again.”
Birdie said, “With more dignity?”
Sutter stared.
Birdie nodded. “Without.”
The second drill moved into rebound control.
Of course.
Frankie set herself.
Shot from the point.
Kick to corner.
Solid.
Shot through traffic.
Absorb.
For once, yes.
Low shot from Reese.
Pad angle wrong by half an inch.
Rebound popped into the slot.
Birdie buried it.
“Sorry,” Birdie said immediately.
Frankie reset. “No.”
“It was right there.”
“Obviously.”
“I didn’t celebrate.”
“You breathed victoriously.”
“I contain competitive air.”
“Again,” Sutter called.
Frankie reset.
Shot.
Rebound.
Correction.
Save.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The repetition was not punishment.
It was proof of adjustment.
Sutter’s lesson.
Let information in.
Reject rot.
Frankie did not think about her father.
Much.
She did not think about Coop watching from the men’s bench during the last ten minutes of practice.
Mostly.
She noticed him anyway.
He was there with Hayes and Nolan, waiting for their team’s ice slot, leaning against the boards with a clipboard under one arm.
No big smile.
No wave.
No public weirdness.
Rule-following.
Annoying.
Hot.
No.
Professional.
Frankie stopped a shot with her blocker and sent it to the glass hard enough to make Birdie yelp.
“Rude puck,” Birdie said.
Frankie reset.
Practice ended with a scrimmage sequence.
The final play broke ugly.
Dani lost an edge.
Wren recovered late.
Birdie overcommitted.
Reese tried to seal the lane, but the puck squirted through traffic and came straight at Frankie with two bodies crashing down.
No time to think.
Read.
Stick angle.
Screen.
Second chance coming.
Frankie dropped.
First shot hit pad.
She pushed the rebound right, away from the slot, into the corner where Reese could reach it.
Whistle.
Sutter’s voice cut across the rink. “Good.”
Frankie stayed down for half a beat.
Not from exhaustion.
From the word.
Good.
This time, she believed it.
A little.
She stood, sprayed ice from her crease, and skated off as the men’s team moved toward the bench.
Nolan banged his stick on the boards. “Rebound control! Future Ghost salutes!”
Frankie pointed at him. “No ghost talk near my crease.”
Nolan put a hand to his chest. “Your crease has boundaries. Respect.”
Hayes gave Reese a quiet look as she passed. Reese’s mouth softened and then immediately became captain face again.
Good.
Disgusting.
Coop stood a step behind Hayes, letting the traffic move.
Frankie tried to pass without looking.
Failed.
Their eyes met.
His face did the smallest thing.
Not a smile.
Not public.
Just warmth.
There.
For her.
Frankie’s chest went stupid.
She kept walking.
“Callahan,” he said.
She stopped.
Slowly.
Public.
Team.
Rules.
“What?”
He held out a folded sheet of paper. “Updated Read the Ice timing. Claire asked for your review.”
Frankie took it.
Their fingers did not touch.
Because he was being careful.
Because they had rules.
Because he was a menace with restraint.
She looked at the sheet.
It was legitimate.
Actually legitimate.
Clean timing.
Ninety-second intro.
Three sequences.
No questions until after.
A note at the bottom in Coop’s handwriting:
Breathe before invisible work.
Frankie stared at it.
Sutter’s note.
Remembered.
Useful.
Soft part of the day, not out loud.
Her throat tightened.
She folded the paper once.
“Acceptable,” she said.
Coop’s mouth twitched.
“Moderate praise?”
“Low.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Obviously.”
She walked away before the exchange could grow teeth.
Behind her, Birdie made a noise.
Frankie did not turn.
“Nguyen.”
“I am a silent meadow.”
“That’s Dani.”
Dani, from the bench, said, “I do not claim this.”
Birdie sighed. “No one lets me grow.”
In the locker room, the team moved around the morning routine with the loose energy of a good practice.
Skates came off. Showers started. Wren posted the final display teaser with Claire’s approved language.
Dani updated the board packet stats. Reese answered two emails while untying her skates, which Frankie found both impressive and unhealthy.
Frankie sat on the bench and unfolded Coop’s timing sheet again.
Breathe before invisible work.
She traced the line once with her eyes.
Not her finger.
She had dignity.
Some.
Birdie dropped beside her.
Frankie folded the paper immediately.
Birdie looked at the paper.
Then at Frankie.
Then at the paper.
“No,” Frankie said.
Birdie held up both hands. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You inhaled gossip.”
“I breathe through my instincts.”
“Stop.”
Birdie tilted her head. “Are you okay with this?”
Frankie frowned. “With what?”
Birdie looked around the room, then lowered her voice. “Whatever this is. With Coop.”
Frankie’s whole body went still.
Birdie saw.
Of course.
No point lying.
Not to Birdie.
Not anymore.
“I don’t know,” Frankie said.
Birdie’s expression softened, but she kept her voice light. “That’s an answer.”
“It’s a bad one.”
“It’s an honest one.”
“Everyone keeps rewarding honesty. It’s suspicious.”
“Because you keep using it like a controlled substance.”
Frankie stared at him.
Birdie smiled. “Tiny doses. Medical supervision.”
Frankie almost laughed.
Almost.
Then the laughter disappeared.
“What if it makes me worse?” she asked.
Birdie’s face changed.
Still soft.
More careful.
“At hockey?”
“At everything.”
Birdie was quiet for once.
The locker room noise moved around them.
Water running.
Tape ripping.
Dani asking Wren whether a chart title needed a verb.
Reese saying yes, because Reese believed titles should work.
Birdie leaned her shoulder lightly against Frankie’s.
A rare touch.
Small enough to refuse.
Frankie did not move away.
“If he makes you worse,” Birdie said, “we feed him to Sutter.”
Frankie breathed out.
“Symbolically?”
Birdie paused. “Sure.”
“Birdie.”
“Fine. Yes. Symbolically.”
Frankie stared at the floor.
Birdie’s voice gentled further. “But he hasn’t, has he?”
No.
He had not.