Chapter Fifteen
Frankie
Frankie Callahan did not believe in omens.
She believed in patterns.
And the current pattern was terrible.
Birdie knew something.
Nolan had perceived weather.
Wren had said “hm” twice before lunch.
Reese had looked at Frankie once during film review, looked at Coop across the room, and then written something in the margin of her binder with the calm brutality of a captain collecting evidence.
The team did not know.
But the team was circling.
Sharks with hockey bags.
Frankie hated this.
Not Coop.
That was the problem.
She did not hate Coop.
She did not hate kissing him behind the rink or in service hallways or the way he asked before holding her hand like permission was not a formality, but the whole point.
She did not hate the coffee.
Or the scones.
Or his ridiculous texts.
Or the way he made good and fine feel like words she could take back.
She hated the exposure.
The sense that something private might become communal before she had figured out what it was.
The Spitfires loved loudly.
Even Wren, who loved like a surveillance system with boundaries.
Frankie appreciated that.
From a distance.
She did not want her team peering at her face and trying to guess whether kissing Cooper Vale had improved her emotional circulation.
It had.
Probably.
No.
Irrelevant.
She sat in the locker room before afternoon practice, staring at her open notebook without reading a single word.
Across the room, Birdie whispered something to Dani.
Dani looked over.
Frankie looked up.
Dani immediately looked back at her laptop.
Birdie became fascinated by her skate lace.
Suspicious.
Frankie closed the notebook.
Birdie flinched.
Enough.
“What?” Frankie asked.
Birdie looked up. “Nothing.”
“You whispered.”
“I often whisper.”
“You never whisper.”
“I’m developing mystery.”
“You’re developing symptoms.”
Wren, from the media table, said, “She’s developing restraint. It’s new and medically interesting.”
Birdie pointed at her. “I have been silent about many things.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed.
Birdie pressed her lips together.
No such luck.
Dani, poor gentle meadow with claws, tried to redirect. “The final showcase attendance push is tracking well.”
Frankie turned to her.
Useful topic.
Good Dani.
“How well?”
Dani brightened, relieved. “Student section reservations are at seventy-two percent capacity for our target block. Donor confirmations are steady. The social posts are outperforming our last two game-day campaigns by forty percent.”
“Forty-two,” Wren said.
Dani looked at her chart. “Forty-two.”
Birdie raised one finger. “A meaningful number.”
Frankie pointed at her. “No.”
“I didn’t even say why.”
“You were about to be annoying.”
“That is profiling.”
“That is experience.”
Reese entered before Birdie could respond, binder under one arm and captain face fully loaded.
“Team meeting before practice,” Reese said.
Everyone groaned.
“Not bad,” Reese added.
Everyone groaned differently.
Frankie stood, grabbed her water bottle, and followed the group toward the small team room.
Sutter was already there.
Which meant the meeting was real.
Claire stood beside her.
Which meant money.
Wren immediately straightened.
Dani opened her laptop.
Birdie whispered, “Bureaucracy with witnesses.”
Frankie sat in the back corner.
Habit.
Reese stood near the front.
Sutter leaned against the wall with her arms folded.
Claire smiled.
Frankie distrusted the smile.
Not because Claire was bad.
Because Advancement smiles always came with doors that might become traps.
“Good news first,” Claire said.
Birdie lifted a hand. “Why is there more?”
Claire’s smile tilted. “Because news has structure.”
“Threatening.”
Wren murmured, “Let her talk.”
Claire turned to the screen.
A slide appeared.
BOARD COMMITTEE UPDATE
Frankie’s stomach tightened.
The room went silent.
Claire did not dramatize it.
She knew better.
“The board committee has reviewed the packet from yesterday’s preview,” she said. “They have not voted on the full investment line yet, but they have approved moving the proposal forward with a favorable recommendation.”
For one second, no one reacted.
Processing.
Then Birdie whispered, “Does favorable mean good or fake good?”
Claire’s smile warmed. “In this case, real good.”
Noise broke.
Dani covered her mouth.
Wren exhaled sharply.
Reese closed her eyes for half a second.
Frankie’s fingers tightened around her water bottle.
Favorable recommendation.
Not final.
Not in writing.
But forward.
Forward mattered.
Claire held up one hand. “The full vote will happen after the showcase. Which means the showcase still matters. A lot.”
“Of course,” Birdie said. “Joy with conditions.”
“College athletics,” Wren said.
Claire continued. “But the board packet did what it needed to do. They understood the case. They understood the conference pressure. They understood the investment structure.”
Her eyes moved briefly to Frankie.
“And the Read the Ice explanation was specifically mentioned as clarifying the need for investment beyond visible game-day moments.”
The room turned toward Frankie.
Frankie hated everything.
She lifted her water bottle.
“Hydrate,” she said.
Birdie burst into tears.
Not dramatic tears.
Birdie tears.
Fast, offended, emotional.
“Oh my gosh,” Frankie said. “No.”
Birdie wiped at her face. “I’m fine.”
“You are leaking.”
“I support women.”
“You support tissues.”
Dani handed Birdie one.
Wren looked suspiciously damp-eyed and furious about it.
Reese came to stand in front of Frankie.
Frankie looked up.
Captain eyes.
Soft version.
Dangerous.
“That mattered,” Reese said.
Frankie’s throat tightened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Team effort.”
“Yes,” Reese said. “And you still mattered.”
Rude.
Deeply rude.
Frankie looked away.
“Do not make me emotionally visible in a team room.”
Birdie sobbed harder. “Too late.”
Wren said, “Nguyen, please become dignified.”
“I can’t. The goalie has growth.”
Frankie stood abruptly. “Practice.”
Sutter’s voice cut in. “Yes.”
Thank God.
Coach Sutter: emotional emergency exit.
Everyone moved toward the rink, still buzzing.
Frankie stayed at the back, trying to put her feelings into separate labeled boxes and lock them.
Forward recommendation.
Showcase still matters.
Read the Ice worked.
You still mattered.
Coop would be happy.
That last thought slipped through before she could stop it.
Coop would be happy for her.
Professionally.
Personally.
Probably with his whole stupid face.
Frankie’s chest warmed.
A problem.
She reached the rink tunnel and stopped.
Coop stood near the boards on the other side of the glass with Hayes and Nolan, waiting for men’s practice to start after theirs.
He looked up as if he felt her arrive.
Ridiculous.
Impossible.
Increasingly common.
His eyes asked a question.
Frankie nodded once.
Tiny.
Favorable.
She had not said the word.
Somehow he understood.
His face changed.
Not huge.
Not obvious.
But the pride hit anyway.
Rule three violation.
From across the rink.
Criminal.
Frankie pointed one finger at him through the glass.
Normal face.
Coop pressed his lips together.
Failed.
Nolan noticed.
Because Nolan was a disaster with eyes.
He looked from Coop to Frankie and whispered something to Hayes.
Hayes closed his eyes like a man accepting bad weather.
Frankie turned away before the men’s bench could become a crime scene.
Practice should have helped.
Usually, ice clarified everything.
Today, it sharpened all of it instead.
The good news sat in her chest like a live puck.
The showcase stakes rose.
The team skated with jump.
Reese moved like captain purpose had turned into rocket fuel.
Birdie chirped so much Sutter made her do a lap for “verbal excess.”
Dani played with quiet fire.
Wren nearly scored twice and looked offended both times the puck did not comply.
Frankie was good.
Not perfect.
Good.
She saw the puck cleanly.
Controlled rebounds.
Tracked screens.
Read bodies.
The second-chance drills that had tightened her chest yesterday now felt less like accusation and more like work.
Ugly work.
Useful work.
Her work.
Near the end of practice, Sutter called for a pressure sequence.
Six attackers.
Five defenders.
Empty net simulation.
Frankie in goal.
A chaos drill.
Everyone hated it.
Good.
Hate had uses.
The first sequence collapsed immediately.
Birdie overcommitted high.
Dani got tied up low.
Shot through screen.
Frankie absorbed it.
Whistle.
Again.
Second sequence.
Reese cleared the first rebound, but Elmhurst—no, not Elmhurst, practice attackers, Spitfires wearing different colors—cycled back.
Shot from the point.
Tip.
Pad save.
Loose puck.
Frankie pushed across and covered it.
Whistle.
Again.
Third sequence.
Reese called, “Left!”
Wren sealed.
Birdie backchecked like a menace.
Dani lifted a stick.
The shot came late.
High.
Frankie gloved it.
Clean.
The rink echoed with stick taps.
Sutter blew the whistle once.
“Good.”
Frankie breathed.
Yes.
Good.
The word stayed hers.
Mostly.
Practice ended, and the Spitfires came off the ice sweaty, loud, and alive.
Frankie stayed in the crease for two extra seconds.
Not to hide.
To look at it.
Blue paint.
Cut-up ice.
Her marks.
Her space.
Not empty.
Never empty, apparently.
Annoying.
She skated off.
Coop was still near the boards when she stepped into the tunnel.
Nolan had disappeared, possibly to commit chant-based offenses. Hayes was talking to Reese near the benches, their heads bent close but not too close.
Coop waited with a clipboard in his hand.
Legitimate.
Always with cover.
Frankie stopped in front of him.
“What?”
His smile was careful. “Claire texted.”
“Gossip.”
“Official update.”
“Still gossip.”
“Favorable recommendation.”
She looked at him.
His voice softened.
Not too much.
Just enough.
“That’s huge.”
Frankie adjusted her glove. “Not final.”
“No.”
“Not in writing.”
“Not yet.”
“Showcase still matters.”