Chapter Twenty-One
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had not expected O’Malley’s to feel dangerous.
Rinks were dangerous.
Board rooms were dangerous.
Father texts were dangerous.
O’Malley’s was pancakes, bad coffee, cracked red vinyl booths, and Mrs. O’Malley moving through the diner like she had personally invented both breakfast and consequences.
But tonight, after the showcase, with Coop sitting across from Frankie in the back booth and looking at her like she had done something worth remembering, O’Malley’s was extremely dangerous.
Date-adjacent had become date.
Nobody had voted.
Nobody had filed paperwork.
But Frankie knew.
Coop knew.
Mrs. O’Malley absolutely knew, which made the situation worse.
She had taken one look at them walking in together, hands no longer joined but still emotionally suspicious, and said, “Back booth?”
Frankie had said, “Food.”
Mrs. O’Malley had said, “Back booth with food.”
Now Frankie sat with a menu she did not need because she always ordered the same thing after late rink nights, pretending she was not aware of Coop’s knee under the table.
Not touching hers.
Close.
Respectful.
Annoying.
“You’re staring at the menu like it has betrayed you,” Coop said.
Frankie did not look up. “Menus are too long.”
“This menu has six things.”
“Exactly. Too many.”
“You always get pancakes.”
“Don’t profile me.”
“You got pancakes the last four times I was here with you.”
“That is a data set, not a personality.”
Coop smiled.
She saw it from the edge of her menu.
Bad.
He had too many smiles.
Public smile.
Team smile.
Normal face attempt smile.
Kiss smile.
The soft one.
The soft one was becoming a problem.
Mrs. O’Malley appeared beside the booth with a coffee pot and the expression of a woman who had already written their future and was waiting for them to catch up.
“Pancakes?” she asked Frankie.
“Yes.”
“Extra bacon?”
Frankie hesitated.
Coop looked up. “Yes.”
Frankie turned to him.
He held her gaze. “You skated a showcase and saved an institution. Extra bacon.”
Mrs. O’Malley nodded. “Smart boy.”
“He is on probation,” Frankie said.
“Most boys are.” Mrs. O’Malley looked at Coop. “Burger?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fries?”
“Yes.”
“Pie?”
Coop glanced at Frankie.
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “Why are you looking at me?”
“Pastry governance.”
“Pie is not pastry.”
Mrs. O’Malley put a hand to her chest. “I raised you better than that.”
“You did not raise me.”
“I raised half the athletes in this town by carbohydrate.”
Frankie considered. “Fair.”
Mrs. O’Malley leaned down slightly. “Chocolate cream. Last slice.”
Coop looked at Frankie again.
Frankie sighed. “One slice. Two forks.”
Coop’s face did the thing.
Frankie pointed at him. “Do not.”
He pressed his lips together.
Mrs. O’Malley grinned. “Pie it is.”
She left.
Frankie set the menu down.
Coop was still trying not to smile.
“You’re failing,” she said.
“I know.”
“Badly.”
“I know.”
“Date-adjacent does not mean pie-related feelings.”
“Pretty sure it does.”
“No.”
“Strong disagreement.”
Frankie took a sip of coffee. It was worse than the coffee he brought her and better than almost everything else.
The diner hummed around them. Two older men argued quietly at the counter about a basketball game. A waitress refilled ketchup bottles near the register. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone dropped a pan and swore.
Normal life.
After a night like the showcase, normal life felt strange.
No applause.
No microphone.
No donors staring.
No students chanting.
No team wrapped around her in a hug she had pretended to hate and mostly survived.
Just a booth.
Coffee.
Coop.
Her phone, still muted, face down beside the napkin dispenser.
Coop’s eyes flicked to it once.
Only once.
She noticed anyway.
“Still muted,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“You thought about it.”
“Yes.”
“Moderate restraint.”
“High restraint.”
“Debatable.”
He leaned back, hands around his water glass. “How does it feel?”
“Muting him?”
“Tonight.”
Frankie looked toward the window.
The glass reflected the booth back at her.
Her hoodie.
Coop’s face.
Their plates not there yet.
The diner light softening everything without asking permission.
“It feels…” She stopped.
Words were slippery after big things.
Her body still held the station.
The microphone in her hand.
The way the crowd had gone quiet.
The way her father had not entered her head.
The chant.
The stick taps.
Coop’s nod.
Her team’s arms around her.
It felt like standing in a place she had built and realizing the door had not locked behind her.
“Loud,” she said.
Coop waited.
“And quiet.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Both?”
“Yes.”
“That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at him.
He was serious.
Of course.
He had a talent for taking her least polished sentences and treating them like they were complete.
Annoying.
“What about you?” she asked.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at his water glass.
His thumb moved over the condensation.
“I felt proud,” he said.
Frankie braced.
He looked up.
“Of the team,” he added. “Of Reese. Hayes. Claire. Wren. Dani. Birdie somehow not committing glitter crimes. Nolan avoiding eggs.”
Frankie relaxed by a fraction.
Then he said, “And you.”
There it was.
Rule three’s ghost rattling a chain.
Frankie looked at him.
Coop did not smile.
Did not soften it.
Did not make it smaller.
“I know,” he said. “Almost-dead rule.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yeah.”
She held his gaze.
The word pride used to make her suspicious.
Pride was a ledge.
A setup.
A thing someone gave right before explaining how far she still had to fall.
From Coop, it felt different.
Not a grade.
Not a trap.
A hand held out.
She could take it or not.
Tonight, maybe she could.
“Thank you,” she said.
His expression shifted.
That soft one.
Problem.
She picked up her coffee to survive it.
Their food arrived, saving them from eye contact that had become too much for public dining.
Pancakes.
Extra bacon.
Burger.
Fries.
One slice of chocolate cream pie set in the center like a dare.
Frankie stared at it.
Coop picked up a fork.
“Consent to share?”
She rolled her eyes. “You ordered it.”
“Still.”
“Yes.”
He took a bite.
His face changed.
Frankie paused with her pancake fork halfway to her mouth.
“What?”
“That is excellent pie.”
“Of course it is.”
“You haven’t tasted it.”
“Mrs. O’Malley made it.”
“Fair.”
Frankie took a bite.
Unfortunately, it was excellent.
Coop watched her.
“Acceptable?” he asked.
“Structurally unsound.”
“It’s cream pie.”
“Exactly.”
“But flavor?”
She took another bite.
“High.”
His smile turned triumphant.
“Do not become smug.”
“Too late.”
“I can revoke pie privileges.”
“You approved one slice.”
“I control future slices.”
“I respect the committee.”
“Good.”
They ate.
For a while, they were just hungry.
That helped.
Hunger was simple.
The showcase had taken more out of her than she realized. Her body wanted carbs, salt, sugar, and silence. Coop let the quiet stretch without filling it, occasionally stealing fries from his own plate like they might escape.
Halfway through her pancakes, Frankie’s phone lit.
No sound.
Muted.
Still, she saw the screen flash.
Her father.
A call.
Her stomach tightened, but the reaction was smaller now.
A wave against the boards.
Not a puck in the net.
Coop saw the light but did not look at the name.
Frankie watched the call ring silently.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then it stopped.
Voicemail.
A small red dot appeared.
She breathed in.
Her fork rested in her hand.
Coop waited.
Not angry first.
Not even second yet.
Just there.
Frankie picked up the phone.
Her thumb hovered over voicemail.
Not tonight.
She swiped left.
Deleted.
The red dot disappeared.
Her hand shook once.
Then stilled.
Coop’s voice was low. “What do you need?”
Frankie looked at the empty voicemail space.
Then at him.
“Pie.”
He pushed the plate toward her immediately.
She took a bite.
The chocolate cream was cold and sweet and ridiculous.
She swallowed.
“Better.”
His mouth curved.
“Excellent emergency protocol.”
“Temporary.”
“I’ll document it.”
“Do not.”
He took a fry and looked down, but she could see the anger in his jaw now.
Second.
Held.
She appreciated the timing.
She appreciated him.
Dangerous.
True.
After a minute, Coop said, “Mara asked about you.”
Frankie’s head lifted.
“Why?”
“Because I told her your name.”
Frankie stared. “You told your sister?”
“I said I might.”
“Yes. Might is a word people use before not doing things.”
“I did it.”
She absorbed that.
Not bad.
Not exactly.
More like a door opening in a house she had never visited.
“What did you say?”
“That I’m seeing someone. Her name is Frankie. She’s the goalie.”
“And?”
“And that you’re scary and good.”
Frankie set down her fork.
“Scary?”
“In an excellent way.”
“Hmm.”
“And good.”
She looked at him.
He looked back.
“Your good,” he said.
The correction landed.
She let it.
“What did she say?”
“She asked if you could defeat me in single combat.”
Frankie blinked.
Then smiled before she could stop herself.
“Easily.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Good.”
“She also said if you’re mean to me, she’ll haunt you.”
Frankie considered.
“I respect that.”
“She thought you might.”
“Smart sister.”
“Terrifying sister.”
“Both.”
Coop took a sip of water. “I told my mom too.”
Frankie’s shoulders tightened despite herself.
He noticed.
“No details,” he said. “Just that I’m seeing someone, it’s new, it’s private, and I’m not bringing you Sunday.”
Her body settled.
Private.
Useful.
“What did she say?”
“That she’s happy for me and will try to be normal.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow.
“Is she capable?”
“Unknown.”
“Best wishes.”
“She asked if you’re kind to me.”
Frankie looked down at her plate.
Kind.
The word felt strange.
She did not think of herself as kind.
Dani was kind.
Reese was kind under command.
Birdie was kind like a golden retriever holding a knife.