Chapter Twenty-Three
Frankie
Frankie Callahan did not sleep much.
This was not Coop’s fault.
Mostly.
Part of it was his fault because he had brought her pie from his family dinner with a note from his sister that said current evidence favorable, and Frankie had stared at it for eight minutes before eating the entire slice standing at her kitchen counter.
Like a normal person.
A normal person who had kissed her boyfriend beside a trophy case, accepted pie from his sister, and then gone home to lie awake thinking about board votes, Westbridge shot maps, and the way Coop smelled like chili when she kissed him.
Ridiculous.
But the bigger reason she did not sleep was the board vote.
Today.
The showcase had done what it needed to do.
Claire had said that three times, which meant she was either confident or trying to manifest donor behavior through repetition.
Reese had made a checklist. Wren had already drafted two announcement paths: one celebratory, one “measured institutional progress with continued advocacy,” which Frankie understood to mean if they got lowballed, Wren would turn disappointment into a weapon with fonts.
Dani had updated the numbers.
Birdie had cried over the updated numbers.
Nolan had attempted to create a foam-finger arch near the trophy case and been escorted away by Hayes.
The work was done.
Mostly.
Now adults would sit in a room and decide whether to put enough money behind that work for it to become structure.
Frankie hated waiting.
Waiting was goalie purgatory.
You saw the rush forming.
You read the shoulders.
You tracked the danger.
And then the puck still had to come.
She arrived at the rink at 6:31 because apparently dating Coop had infected her punctuality and made it worse.
The trophy case hallway was empty.
The Fire We Built display still glowed under the lights, quieter now without the showcase crowd around it. One foam finger had been tucked at the base of the table beside the donor packets.
Frankie suspected Nolan.
Or Birdie.
Or both, which was usually how disasters became lore.
She stopped in front of the case and looked at her off-center photo.
Still there.
Still small.
Still not unbearable.
Progress had become irritatingly persistent.
Her phone sat heavy in her hoodie pocket.
Her father was still muted.
She had checked twice.
Not because she wanted messages.
Because she wanted to verify the quiet was something she had chosen and not something waiting to ambush her.
Muted.
Through Westbridge day.
Decision intact.
Good.
Mine.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
She knew the rhythm now.
Not because she was sentimental.
Because goalies recognized patterns.
Coop stopped beside her at 6:47 with two coffees and a paper bag.
“Too early,” she said.
“You’re here first.”
“Observation.”
“Concern.”
“Bad.”
“Accepted.”
He handed her the black coffee.
Their fingers brushed.
Normal now.
Not less meaningful.
Just less shocking to her nervous system, which she appreciated.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“Approved pastry candidate.”
“On board vote day?”
“I thought the stakes required structural reinforcement.”
“That’s almost clever.”
“I’ll take almost.”
She opened the bag.
Two plain muffins.
Not giant.
Not frosted.
No nonsense.
“Source?”
“O’Malley.”
“Approved source.”
“She called them emotionally stable muffins.”
Frankie stared at him.
“I questioned it too,” he said.
“She’s getting bold.”
“She owns a diner near a rink and has seen too much.”
Frankie broke one muffin in half and handed him the other piece.
“Emotionally stable?” he asked.
She took a bite.
Considered.
“Moderately.”
“Good.”
“Mine?”
“Yours.”
The word settled between them.
Warm.
Quiet.
A good start to a bad waiting day.
Coop leaned one shoulder against the wall beside the case. “How are you feeling?”
Frankie looked at him.
He held up one hand. “Actual question. Not asking you to be okay.”
She took another bite of muffin to buy time.
How was she feeling?
Terrible question.
Useful question.
Her body had too much energy and nowhere to put it.
Her brain kept cycling through possible board outcomes.
Her hands wanted gloves. Her feet wanted ice.
Her chest wanted the vote to already be done, preferably in writing, preferably with a multi-year line item and no cheerful administrative trapdoors.
Also, she wanted Coop to kiss her.
That was not relevant.
Probably.
“Like the puck hasn’t dropped,” she said.
His expression softened.
“Yeah.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
“Waiting is fake labor.”
“Emotional cardio.”
She looked at him.
He smiled slightly.
“Too Nolan?” he asked.
“Too accurate.”
“Worse.”
“Yes.”
He sipped his coffee.
She watched him for half a second.
Then looked back at the display.
“Your dinner was okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You said a thing.”
“I did.”
“Your mother?”
“Tried to be normal.”
“Successful?”
“Enough.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
She realized too late she had said it without specifying category.
“Mine,” she added.
His smile warmed.
“Yes.”
“What did your father ask?”
Coop’s thumb moved against his coffee cup.
“Save percentage.”
Frankie went still.
Coop saw immediately.
“I told him I’m trying not to talk about you like a stat line.”
Her throat tightened.
“He listened?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“He asked me about the person.”
Frankie looked down at her coffee.
The person.
Not the goalie.
Not the numbers.
Not the flaws.
The person.
That should not feel revolutionary.
It did.
“What did you say?”
Coop did not answer right away.
Good.
Careful.
“I said you’re smart. Funny if people survive it. Loyal. Honest. The best goalie I know. Serious about coffee integrity. You make people better without letting them get lazy.”
Frankie stared at the muffin bag because looking at him was impossible.
“That’s too many compliments.”
“I left out scary.”
“You told Mara scary.”
“Mara respects scary.”
“Smart.”
“Terrifying.”
“Both.”
He shifted closer by half an inch.
Not touching.
Just there.
“I also told them you hate being turned into a story, so I wouldn’t do that.”
Her eyes lifted.
Coop’s face was open.
No performance.
No golden-boy shine.
Just him.
The one who asked.
The one who waited.
The one who understood that being known did not mean being handed over.
“Good,” she said.
This time, she did not correct it.
His expression changed.
Like the word landed exactly where she aimed.
Footsteps sounded from the lobby entrance.
Frankie stepped back automatically.
Not far.
But enough.
Coop did not look offended.
Good.
Reese appeared with Hayes beside her, both holding coffees and wearing board-vote faces.
Reese’s eyes went to the muffin bag.
Then to Frankie.
Then to Coop.
“Morning,” she said.
“Captain,” Frankie said.
Hayes looked at Coop. “You look less like Sunday dinner killed you.”
“Light mist,” Coop said.
Frankie frowned. “What?”
“Mara said I was less charming fog.”
Frankie looked at Hayes.
Hayes nodded solemnly. “Accurate family assessment.”
Reese’s mouth curved. “I’d like Mara.”
“She sent Frankie pie,” Coop said.
Frankie lifted her chin. “Current evidence favorable.”
Reese smiled.
Too soft.
Frankie pointed at her. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled family-adjacent.”
Hayes choked on coffee.
Coop looked delighted.
Frankie glared at both of them.
Then Birdie burst into the hallway holding a clipboard upside down and a bagel in her mouth.
Wren followed behind her with Dani, looking like she had already said no several times before 7 a.m.
Birdie removed the bagel. “Board vote day.”
Frankie looked at the clipboard. “Why do you have that?”
“Leadership.”
“It’s upside down.”
“Adaptive leadership.”
Wren took the clipboard from her and flipped it. “She stole my volunteer schedule.”
“Borrowed.”
“Stole.”
“Borrowed with urgency.”
Dani smiled apologetically. “She needed something to hold.”
Frankie understood that.
Unfortunately.
Birdie looked at the trophy case.
Then at Frankie.
Then at Coop.
Then at the muffin bag.
Her eyes filled.
“No,” Frankie said immediately.
Birdie inhaled.
“Nguyen.”
“I’m not crying about the muffins.”
“No one thought you were.”
“I’m crying about the whole thing.”
“Worse.”
Birdie pressed the bagel to her chest. “Today could be huge.”
“Yes.”
“And terrifying.”
“Yes.”
“And we have emotionally stable muffins.”
Frankie closed her eyes. “I’m going to the ice.”
Sutter’s voice came from behind them. “No.”
Everyone turned.
Coach Sutter stood in the hallway with her whistle around her neck and a clipboard under one arm.
Of course.
She had probably grown out of the wall.
Frankie straightened. “Coach.”
“No extra ice before the board call,” Sutter said.
Frankie frowned. “I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
Accurate.
Sutter looked at the group. “Team meeting. Ten minutes.”
Birdie whispered, “Bureaucracy part two.”
Sutter’s eyes moved to her.
Birdie stood straighter. “Respectfully.”
“Bring the bagel,” Sutter said.
Birdie looked confused. “As evidence?”
“As food.”
“Oh.”
The team meeting was not in the team room.
It was in the stands.
Sutter made them sit together in the lower section, facing the ice.
No slides.
No packets.
No Claire.
No Doyle.
Just the Spitfires, their coach, and the empty rink.
Frankie sat between Reese and Birdie.
Coop and the men’s team were not part of this meeting.
Good.
This needed to be theirs.
Sutter stood on the concrete below them, arms folded.
“The board votes at eleven,” she said.
No preamble.
No emotional warmup.
Bless her.
“You will not sit around refreshing your phones until then.”
Birdie slowly lowered her phone.
Sutter waited.
Birdie put it in her pocket.
“Good.”
Frankie did not check whether her own phone was in her pocket.
It was.
Muted.
Heavy.
Sutter continued. “Whatever happens at eleven, the work remains. If they approve the full line, the work remains. If they approve less than we want, the work remains. If they delay, the work remains.”