Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Coop’s pulse kicked, but he kept going.
“She’s really good,” Coop said. “The numbers are part of that. But they’re not the whole thing.”
His father’s expression shifted.
Not offended.
Surprised, maybe.
Then thoughtful.
“Fair,” he said slowly. “I meant it as respect.”
“I know.”
And he did know.
That was why he could keep his voice calm.
“But I’d rather start with the person.”
Mara stared at him like he had just done a magic trick.
His mother’s eyes were suspiciously shiny.
His father nodded once.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me about the person.”
Coop’s throat tightened.
There.
A door.
Not perfect.
Open.
He looked down at his bowl, then back up.
“She’s smart,” he said. “Sharper than anyone in the room and usually right before people are ready for it. She’s funny, but you have to survive the delivery. She’s loyal. Private. Very serious about coffee. She makes people better without letting them get lazy.”
Mara’s mouth softened.
His mother smiled.
His father listened.
Actually listened.
“And she’s kind,” Coop said. “In her way.”
His mother reached for her water glass like she needed something to do with her hands.
Mara mouthed, Good.
Coop looked at his sister and almost laughed.
His father nodded again. “She sounds formidable.”
Coop smiled.
“She is.”
The dinner did not become perfect.
His mother asked two questions, not one.
Coop allowed it because the second was, “Does she have people looking out for her?” and that one mattered.
“Yes,” he said. “A whole team.”
His father asked whether Westbridge’s forecheck was as aggressive as advertised, and Coop answered without letting the conversation turn into Frankie’s flaws.
Mara stole the best piece of apple pie and then slid him the second-best piece without comment.
The world did not end.
Again.
After dinner, Coop helped clear plates.
His mother stood beside him at the sink, rinsing bowls.
“I really am happy for you,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“I’ll probably be too much sometimes.”
He smiled. “Probably.”
She bumped him lightly with her shoulder. “Rude.”
“Honest.”
“I can work with honest.”
He looked at her.
Could she?
Maybe.
Maybe if he gave her a chance.
“I need this to stay mine for a while,” he said.
Her hands stilled in the sink.
He kept his eyes on the bowl he was drying.
“I want to tell you things. I do. But not everything right away. And not before I know what it is.”
His mother was quiet for long enough that he got nervous.
Then she said, “Okay.”
He looked at her.
Her eyes were damp now, but her smile was steady.
“I can do that,” she said. “I may need reminders.”
He breathed out.
“Okay.”
“You get to have things that are yours,” she said.
The words hit harder than he expected.
His throat tightened.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She kissed his cheek quickly, then turned back to the sink like she was giving him privacy from her own emotion.
Kind.
In her way.
When Coop left at eight-thirty, Mara walked him to the door.
“Not bad,” she said.
“High praise.”
“Moderate.”
He smiled.
She leaned against the doorframe. “You were less foggy.”
“Charming fog?”
“Light mist at most.”
“Progress.”
“Tell Frankie I approve based on current evidence.”
“She’ll be relieved.”
“She should be. I’m selective.”
He stepped onto the porch.
Mara’s teasing faded.
“You looked happy when you talked about her.”
He swallowed.
“I am.”
“Good.”
He pointed at her. “Everyone stole that word.”
“It’s a strong word.”
“That’s what Reese said.”
“Reese sounds smart.”
“She is.”
“Terrifying women everywhere,” Mara said.
“You have no idea.”
He hugged her.
She tolerated it for three seconds, then shoved him.
“Go text your goalie.”
“No new nicknames.”
Mara’s eyes widened. “Oh, she has rules.”
“So many.”
“I love her.”
“You haven’t met her.”
“Technicality.”
Coop drove back to campus with a strange lightness in his chest.
Not because everything was solved.
Nothing was solved.
His family would still ask imperfect questions.
His mother would still have question face.
His father would still default to hockey language.
Mara would still be Mara.
But he had said a thing.
Not the whole thing.
And no one had made him regret it.
He parked outside the rink because he had promised to drop off the leftover showcase badges Wren needed tomorrow. The building was mostly dark, but one light glowed near the trophy case.
Of course.
Frankie stood there.
Hands in her hoodie pocket.
Hair loose around her shoulders.
Looking at The Fire We Built like it might answer something.
Coop grabbed the badge box and went inside.
The door clicked behind him.
She turned.
“You survived,” she said.
“I did.”
“Pie?”
“Approved by Dad. Stolen by Mara.”
“Expected.”
“She approves of you.”
Frankie blinked. “Why?”
“Current evidence.”
“Hm.”
“She also says you have rules.”
“I do.”
“She respected that.”
“Smart.”
He stopped beside her and set the badge box on the table.
The concourse was empty.
Quiet.
Their reflection looked back at them in the trophy glass.
Not hidden.
Not performing.
Just there.
“How was dinner?” Frankie asked.
“Revealing.”
“Worse?”
“Better than expected.”
She nodded.
“Did you say a thing?”
“I did.”
“Whole thing?”
“No.”
Her eyes warmed.
“Good.”
His chest tightened.
“Mine?”
“Yours.”
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
At the girl who had handed him the sentence he needed before he walked into his family house.
At the goalie who muted her father but not her feelings.
At the person he was seeing.
Dating.
Wanting.
Building something with.
“Can I ask?” he said.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
Then back to his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
She met him halfway.
The kiss was quiet and slow in the dim hallway, with the trophy case beside them and the empty rink beyond the doors.
Not urgent.
Not hidden.
Not a secret.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his chest for one breath.
Then two.
Then she said, “You smell like chili.”
Coop laughed so hard she had to step back.
“Moment ruined,” he said.
“Accurate.”
“My mom made chili.”
“Clearly.”
“I brought you something.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If it’s chili—”
“Pie.”
She paused.
Then said, “Approved.”
He reached into the badge box and pulled out the wrapped slice Mara had packed with a note taped on top.
FOR FRANKIE. CURRENT EVIDENCE FAVORABLE. —MARA
Frankie stared at it.
Then at Coop.
“Your sister is weird.”
“Yes.”
“I like her.”
“She likes you.”
“Current evidence?”
“Favorable.”
Frankie took the pie carefully.
Like it mattered.
Because maybe it did.
She looked back at the display.
“The board vote is tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Westbridge after that.”
“Yeah.”
“My father is still muted.”
“Good.”
She glanced at him.
“Mine.”
“Yours.”
She slid the pie into her bag with more care than pie usually received.
Then she reached for his hand.
Not a finger.
Not hidden.
Her whole hand.
He took it.
“Walk me to my car?” she asked.
His heart did the now-familiar impossible thing.
“Always.”
They walked down the quiet hallway together, past the posters and the dim rink lights and the proof of what the Spitfires had built.
Tomorrow, the board would decide what came next.
Westbridge would test the work.
Families would still be complicated.
Fathers would still be weather.
But tonight, Frankie’s hand was in his.
And when they reached her car, she kissed him once more without making him ask.
Then looked immediately offended by her own choice.
“Exception,” she said.
Coop smiled.
“Noted.”
“Do not become smug.”
“Too late.”
She got into her car with Mara’s pie in her bag and drove away.
Coop stood in the lot until her taillights disappeared.
Then he looked back at the rink.
The fire was still inside.
Waiting.