Chapter Fourteen #3
He turned slightly toward her.
“You can know he won’t give you the right thing and still want it,” he said.
Her jaw tightened.
“That’s not stupid.”
The hallway hummed around them.
Frankie stared at the trophy case.
For a second, he thought she would shut down.
Instead, she slid her phone into her hoodie pocket.
“He doesn’t get the station,” she said.
Coop waited.
“He doesn’t get the clip.”
“No.”
“He doesn’t get fine.”
Coop’s chest ached.
“No,” he said. “He doesn’t.”
Frankie looked at him then.
Eyes bright.
Fierce.
Not tears.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
“Fine is mine,” she said.
His breath caught.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”
She nodded once.
Like a decision.
Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the timing sheet he had given her earlier.
Breathe before invisible work.
She folded it smaller and tucked it into her notebook.
Coop watched.
She saw him watching.
“Don’t make it a moment.”
He smiled faintly. “Too late.”
Her eyes narrowed.
But she did not tell him to stop.
The side hallway was empty enough.
Not private enough.
Still, she stepped one inch closer.
Not touching.
Enough for him to understand.
“Can I ask?” he murmured.
Her mouth softened.
“Not here.”
He nodded immediately. “Okay.”
She looked at him for another second.
Then, because she was Frankie, she said, “Good restraint.”
He laughed.
“Low praise?”
“Moderate.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Obviously.”
Birdie burst through the lobby doors at a near-run, saw them, and skidded.
Frankie and Coop both stepped apart.
Again.
Birdie’s eyes widened.
Her mouth opened.
Frankie lifted one finger.
Birdie closed her mouth so hard her teeth clicked.
Wren entered behind her carrying a stack of flyers and stopped.
Looked at Birdie.
Looked at Frankie.
Looked at Coop.
Then said, “I don’t have time for whatever this is unless it affects media strategy.”
“It doesn’t,” Frankie said.
Wren’s eyes narrowed.
Coop said, “It doesn’t.”
Wren looked between them again.
“Hm,” she said.
Terrifying syllable.
Birdie vibrated silently.
Frankie grabbed the flyer stack from Wren. “Showcase work.”
Wren let her.
“For now,” Wren said.
Coop did not know whether that was about the flyers or him.
Probably both.
The rest of the afternoon became a blur of work.
Flyers went up.
Student-section messaging went out.
Claire confirmed four key donors would attend the showcase.
Doyle confirmed the board committee had requested the full packet after the preview, which Claire called “encouraging” and Reese called “not in writing yet.”
Sutter approved the final station with two words.
“Do it.”
Everyone took that as holy instruction.
By six, Coop was exhausted.
By six-thirty, he had answered too many emails.
By six-forty, he was standing outside the rink side entrance with two coffees and no pastry because sometimes restraint applied to baked goods too.
Frankie arrived at six-forty-eight.
Her eyes went to the coffee.
Then him.
“No pastry?”
“Building suspense.”
“Cruel.”
“Strategic.”
“Debatable.”
He handed her the black coffee.
Their fingers brushed.
This time, because no one else was outside, he let his pinkie catch hers for half a second before letting go.
Frankie looked down.
Then up.
“Ask,” she said.
He smiled.
“Can I hold your hand?”
She stared.
The question had surprised her.
Maybe she expected kiss.
Maybe he had too.
But after her father’s text, after fine is mine, after watching her reclaim one small word from someone who had used it badly, he did not want to jump to want.
He wanted to sit beside care.
Her throat moved.
Then she held out her hand.
He took it.
They stood under the side entrance light, holding coffee in one hand and each other with the other.
Frankie looked intensely annoyed by how peaceful it was.
Coop decided not to mention that.
“You can ask the other thing too,” she said.
His heart jumped.
He looked at her.
Her cheeks were pink.
From cold.
Probably.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me repeat it.”
He stepped closer, still holding her hand.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
This kiss was different again.
Less urgent.
More tired.
Comforting, except neither of them seemed to know what to do with comfort yet, so it came wrapped in heat and held breath and Frankie’s fingers tightening around his.
He kissed her slowly.
She let him.
Then kissed him back harder, like she objected to being comforted unless she could also make it a challenge.
God, he liked her.
Too much.
No.
Not too much.
A lot.
When they separated, she rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
One second.
Two.
Then she stepped back.
“Fine is mine,” she said.
Coop squeezed her hand once before letting go.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“And good,” she said.
He blinked.
“What?”
“Good is mine too.”
His chest went tight.
Frankie lifted her chin.
“Sutter can borrow it.”
Coop laughed softly.
“That seems fair.”
“And you.”
His laugh stopped.
She looked away, but not before he saw the color rise in her face.
“You can borrow it,” she said. “Sometimes.”
Coop had no idea how to respond to that without breaking every rule.
So he chose the safest truth.
“Thank you.”
Frankie nodded once.
Then took a sip of coffee like she had not just handed him something he would carry for years.
The rink door opened behind them.
Nolan stepped out.
Saw them.
Froze.
Coop and Frankie were not touching.
Barely.
Good.
Nolan looked from Coop to Frankie to the coffees.
Then, slowly, he whispered, “Weather.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed.
Nolan backed through the door.
“I perceived weather.”
The door shut.
Coop closed his eyes.
Frankie sighed.
“Team knows in four hours,” she said.
Coop opened his eyes.
“Generous.”
She looked at him.
Then, surprisingly, smiled.
Small.
Private.
Devastating.
“Come on, alternate dinner captain.”
He stared.
“That title was not approved.”
“It is now.”
She walked inside, leaving him under the light with coffee, cold air, and the deeply inconvenient fact that he had never been happier to lose control of his own title.
Coop followed.
Normal face impossible.
Completely.