Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Her gaze dropped to his hand on the table.
For a second, he thought she would take it.
Instead, she looked back at the phone.
“If I read them, it becomes his day too.”
Coop’s chest tightened.
“Yeah.”
“This is not his day.”
“No.”
“It’s ours.”
The word hit him so hard he forgot how to reply.
Ours.
Not mine.
Not team only.
Ours.
Frankie seemed to realize what she had said a second after he did.
Her face closed halfway.
He moved fast.
Not physically.
Verbally.
Careful.
“Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “It is.”
She studied him.
Maybe checking whether he would make it too big.
He did not.
Even though inside, he was absolutely making it enormous.
Frankie nodded once.
Then slid the phone into her hoodie pocket.
Decision made.
Good.
Hers.
Mrs. O’Malley appeared with a small paper bag.
Frankie stared. “No.”
Mrs. O’Malley set it on the table anyway. “Leftover pie.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t ask if you asked.”
Coop looked into the bag.
Two slices.
Mrs. O’Malley winked at him.
He coughed.
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “You are meddling.”
“Yes,” Mrs. O’Malley said.
“Openly?”
“I’m too old for covert.”
Coop smiled.
Frankie picked up the bag like it had personally inconvenienced her.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. O’Malley patted her shoulder once.
Frankie froze.
Mrs. O’Malley did not linger.
Smart woman.
She walked away.
Frankie stared down at the bag.
Coop said softly, “You okay?”
Bad question.
But sometimes bad questions were the available ones.
Frankie looked at him.
“Yes,” she said.
Then, after a beat, “Actually.”
His heart warmed.
“Good.”
“Mine.”
“Yours.”
They left the diner at the same time Reese and Hayes did.
Outside, the afternoon had gone gray and cold, with low clouds pressing over the street.
Birdie stood near the curb, phone tucked against her ear, saying, “No, Mom, in writing means real. Yes, I cried. That is not the headline.”
Wren and Dani walked ahead, shoulders touching.
Nolan and Tanner argued about foam finger storage near the crosswalk.
Reese held the approval folder against her chest with one arm and Hayes’s hand with the other.
Frankie slipped her hand into Coop’s.
No hesitation.
Public.
Team.
Ours.
Coop held on.
They walked toward the rink lot together because Frankie’s car was still there and Coop had badge boxes to return.
Halfway there, Frankie said, “Westbridge is in three days.”
“Yeah.”
“Today doesn’t win that game.”
“No.”
“Funding doesn’t stop shots.”
“No.”
“Attention doesn’t stop them either.”
“No.”
She nodded, like she was putting the truths in order.
“But structure helps,” he said.
She glanced at him.
“Support helps,” he added. “Rest helps. Nutrition. Film. Not having your father in your phone before puck drop. All of it.”
Her mouth moved.
Almost.
“Good list.”
“Yours?”
“Shared.”
Shared.
He liked that too much.
At the rink, the lobby was mostly empty again.
The trophy case waited.
The Fire We Built.
Now backed by a folder Reese refused to put down for more than thirty seconds.
Frankie stopped in front of the display.
Coop stopped with her.
She pulled out her phone again.
For a second, he thought she might check the messages.
Instead, she opened the camera.
Lifted it.
And took a photo of the display.
Coop stayed silent.
She lowered the phone and looked at the picture.
Her small off-center glove save.
The timeline.
The station line.
The team proof.
She typed something.
Then hesitated.
He looked away to give her privacy.
Not secrecy.
A moment later, his phone buzzed.
Frankie had sent him the photo.
Under it, one word.
Ours.
Coop stared at it.
The hallway blurred for a second.
He blinked hard because he was not going to cry in front of a trophy case.
Frankie looked at him.
“Your face,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Don’t make it too much.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I am, but privately.”
Her eyes softened.
The quiet between them changed.
He wanted to say three words.
They were suddenly there, bright and terrifying and too soon only because the week was already so heavy with important things.
Not because he did not mean them.
Because meaning something did not always make right now the right time to hand it over.
Say a thing without handing over the whole thing.
So he said a thing.
“This matters to me.”
Frankie’s breath caught.
Her hand tightened in his.
“Me too,” she said.
That was enough.
More than enough.
For now.
Then Nolan shouted from the end of the hall, “WHO LEFT A FOAM FINGER IN THE BATHROOM?”
Wren’s voice followed. “If it was you, confess before I check cameras.”
Birdie yelled, “Why are there cameras in the bathroom?”
“There are cameras near the hallway, Nguyen. Use your brain.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
Coop laughed.
The moment did not break.
It folded itself into the rest of them.
Into noise.
Team.
Funding.
Pie.
Ours.
Later that night, after he dropped Frankie at her car and returned the badge boxes, Coop sat alone in his dorm room and called Mara.
She answered on the second ring.
“Did the board do the thing?”
“They did the thing.”
“Good.”
“Frankie says everyone stole that word.”
“Frankie is correct.”
He smiled.
“Mara?”
“Hmm?”
“I think I’m in trouble.”
A pause.
Then his sister’s voice softened.
“The good kind?”
Coop looked at the photo Frankie had sent him.
The Fire We Built.
Ours.
“Yeah,” he said. “The good kind.”
Mara was quiet for a second.
Then said, “Don’t be dumb.”
He laughed.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Frankie would have liked that.
“I will.”
After they hung up, he lay back on his bed and looked at the ceiling.
Westbridge waited.
Frankie’s father waited in a muted phone.
The board approval was real but not magic.
There would still be games, pressure, bad bounces, sharp words, and days when old patterns came back with teeth.
But today, something had been written down.
The program’s future.
Frankie’s boundary.
Their small, careful ours.
Coop closed his eyes with his phone still in his hand and the photo still open.
For once, easy was not the goal.
Real was better.