Chapter Twenty-Five
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had a folder now.
Not Reese’s binder.
Nothing that intense.
Frankie respected the binder, but she did not aspire to become the binder.
Her folder was black, plain, and labeled in Wren’s handwriting because Wren did not trust Frankie to title things without making them sound like threats.
WESTbrIDGE PREP
Inside were three things.
One: shot maps.
Two: scouting notes.
Three: a printed copy of the approved two-year investment line.
Not because the funding would stop pucks.
It would not.
Money did not track backdoor passes.
Budget lines did not clear screens.
A written commitment—still waiting on its final release after Westbridge—would not catch a high glove shot if Frankie was late.
But the paper mattered.
It sat behind the hockey notes like structural steel.
Proof that the game mattered without being the only thing that mattered.
That was new.
Frankie sat in the team room two days before Westbridge and stared at the top shot map until the dots stopped looking like a swarm and started looking like information.
Westbridge loved low chaos.
Crashes net-front.
Second chances.
Cross-slot passes.
Screens with late sticks.
Their forwards did not just shoot.
They hunted rebounds.
Uncalled for.
Effective.
She respected it.
Hated it.
Both.
Birdie dropped into the chair beside her with the force of a minor avalanche.
“I have thoughts.”
Frankie did not look up. “Return them.”
“I cannot. They have receipts.”
“Worse.”
Birdie slid a printed page onto the table.
Frankie looked.
Westbridge roster notes.
Asher Reed’s profile was highlighted in pink.
Of course.
Frankie looked at Birdie.
Birdie looked back.
“She’s their assistant captain,” Birdie said.
“Yes.”
“She runs half their transition offense.”
“Yes.”
“She is annoying.”
“Yes.”
“She is also—” Birdie stopped.
Frankie waited.
Birdie made a face like she had bitten into a lemon and found wisdom inside.
“Good,” Birdie finished.
Frankie returned to the shot map. “Painful?”
“Extremely.”
“Useful?”
“Unfortunately.”
Birdie leaned back in her chair and groaned at the ceiling. “Why does she have to be good? It would be easier if she were just a menace with cheekbones.”
“She can be both.”
Birdie pointed at her. “That is not supportive.”
“It is accurate.”
“Accuracy is rude during emotional processing.”
“Then process elsewhere.”
Birdie leaned over the table again, dropping her voice. “She texted me.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
“No.”
“You don’t know what she said.”
“I know I don’t want to.”
“She said, ‘Tell your goalie to watch our weak-side crash.’”
Frankie opened her eyes.
Birdie looked smug and aggrieved.
Frankie held out her hand. “Phone.”
Birdie handed it over immediately.
The text was there.
ASHER: Tell your goalie to watch our weak-side crash. Or don’t. I enjoy rebounds.
Birdie’s reply:
BIRDIE: Tell your forwards to enjoy being emotionally denied.
Asher:
ASHER: Decorative threat.
Birdie:
BIRDIE: Funded pest.
Asher:
ASHER: See you Friday.
Frankie stared at the exchange.
Then at Birdie.
“You two are exhausting.”
Birdie took back the phone. “But tactically relevant.”
“Accidentally.”
“I will take accidental.”
Frankie pulled the Westbridge shot map closer and marked the weak-side crash zone.
Birdie watched.
Quiet for once.
Then said, “You’re not reading his messages?”
Frankie’s pen stopped.
There it was.
Not Asher.
Not Westbridge.
The other opponent.
The muted one.
“No,” Frankie said.
Birdie nodded slowly. “Still muted?”
“Yes.”
“Through game day?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Frankie looked at her.
Birdie held up both hands. “Birdie good. Supportive good. Not stolen good.”
Frankie went back to the map.
“It’ll do.”
Birdie sat with that for a few seconds.
A miracle.
Then she whispered, “Are you scared?”
Frankie almost said no.
Automatic.
Old.
Easy.
But the folder sat open.
The shot maps were real.
The funding letter was real.
Coop was real.
Her father’s silence was chosen, but it still had weight.
“Yes,” she said.
Birdie’s breath caught.
Frankie did not look at her.
“Not of Westbridge,” she said.
Then corrected herself.
“Some of Westbridge. They’re good.”
“They are.”
“I’m scared one early goal will bring all of it back.”
Birdie did not ask what all of it meant.
Good.
She knew enough.
Frankie tapped the weak-side crash mark with her pen.
“And I’m scared it won’t,” she said.
Birdie frowned. “What?”
Frankie hated that this was hard to explain.
“I know how to fight the old thing. The pen. The numbers. The voice. I hate it, but I know it.”
Birdie’s face softened.
Frankie kept her eyes on the paper.
“What if it’s quieter now?” she said. “What if I don’t know how to play without it?”
The team room went still around the question.
Birdie did not answer fast.
Good.
A fast answer would have been annoying.
Finally, Birdie said, “Then maybe you learn.”
Frankie looked at her.
Birdie swallowed. “Not in a cute way. Not in a montage way. In a terrifying, annoying, probably sled-push way.”
That sounded like Sutter.
Which meant it was probably right.
Frankie looked back at the map.
“I hate learning.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You hate being new at something.”
Frankie glared.
Birdie smiled sadly. “Me too.”
That landed somewhere unexpected.
Birdie, chaos engine, emotional kazoo, Asher-texting hazard, looking suddenly like someone who knew exactly what it meant to be bad at a thing you wanted.
“Is this about Reed?” Frankie asked.
Birdie’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Bad lie.”
“Terrible lie.”
“Yes.”
Birdie slumped in her chair. “She makes me feel stupid.”
Frankie blinked.
That was not the word she expected.
“Stupid?”
“Yes. Because she says something sharp and I want to say something sharper, but sometimes she’s right, and then I’m mad that she’s right, and then I think about her hair, which is completely irrelevant, and then I say raccoon things.”
Frankie stared.
Birdie covered her face. “Do not repeat that.”
“I don’t want custody of it.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Frankie looked at Asher’s profile again.
Then at Birdie.
“She texted you a useful scouting note.”
“Yes.”
“Wrapped in menace.”
“Yes.”
“You answered in kind.”
“Yes.”
Frankie nodded. “Sounds functional.”
Birdie dropped her hands. “That is not the word I wanted.”
“It’s the word you earned.”
Birdie groaned.
The team room door opened, and Reese stepped in with Wren and Dani behind her.
“Why does Birdie look emotionally concussed?” Reese asked.
“Asher,” Frankie said.
Birdie gasped. “Betrayal.”
Wren set her tablet on the table. “Expected.”
Dani patted Birdie’s shoulder. “We support your confusing rivalry.”
“It is not confusing,” Birdie said.
Everyone looked at her.
She sighed. “It is moderately confusing.”
Reese sat across from Frankie and pulled the Westbridge folder toward herself. “Weak-side crash?”
“Asher texted Birdie,” Frankie said.
Wren’s eyebrows lifted. “Useful.”
“Wrapped in menace,” Birdie said.
“Brand consistent.”
Frankie pointed to the shot map. “They overload strong side, then send the weak-side forward late. Rebounds here.” She tapped the crease edge. “If I kick it corner, fine. If I leave it here, problem.”
Dani leaned in. “We can adjust low support. If the weak-side crash is their habit, our weak-side defender has to read earlier.”
Reese nodded. “I’ll talk to Sutter.”
Wren looked at Frankie. “And the station line still applies.”
Frankie frowned. “What?”
“Control the second chance,” Wren said.
Frankie stared.
Wren lifted one shoulder. “Good language gets reused.”
“Everyone is stealing words.”
“Yes.”
Reese smiled faintly. “Because they work.”
Frankie looked down at the shot map.
Control the second chance.
The showcase had been teaching donors.
Now the game was teaching her.
Annoying symmetry.
Useful.
The rest of the afternoon was film, notes, and controlled dread.
Sutter joined halfway through and made them watch Westbridge’s last two power plays without pausing.
Then again with pauses.
Then again with Frankie calling the read before the puck moved.
“Screen,” Frankie said.
Sutter paused. “Why?”
“Forward turns hips too early. Shot is decoy.”
“Good.”
Next clip.
“Backdoor.”
“Why?”
“Point player’s head checks twice. Low forward drifts behind coverage. Goalie tracks puck and loses second option.”
Sutter paused.
The room stayed silent.
Frankie looked at the frame.
The goalie on the screen had bitten hard.
Puck across.
Goal.
A bad one?
An exposed one.
There was a difference.
Sutter said, “How do you beat it?”
“Call early. Trust weak-side defender. Don’t overpush.”
“And if the pass gets through?”
Frankie’s jaw tightened.
“Recover.”
Sutter waited.
Frankie inhaled.
“And if I don’t?”
The room got quiet.
Sutter’s eyes held hers.
“Again,” Frankie said.
Sutter nodded.
“Good.”
Frankie let the word land.
Hers.
Borrowed.
Shared.
Still hers.
By the time film ended, her brain was full and her body wanted ice. She had class she could not skip, two assignments she had ignored, and one boyfriend she had not seen since morning.
Boyfriend.
Still ridiculous.
Still true.
Her phone buzzed as she walked toward the hallway.
Coop.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: I am told Westbridge film has attempted murder vibes. Need anything?
Frankie looked back toward the team room.
Birdie was lying across two chairs while Dani explained weak-side support with a pen. Wren was typing. Reese was already emailing Sutter’s notes.
Frankie typed:
FRANKIE: Coffee. No advice. Possible walk.
His reply came immediately.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Understood. Coffee, silence, legs.
She stared at that.
Then typed:
FRANKIE: Bad phrasing.
Dots.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: I regret it deeply.
She smiled.
Small.
In public.
Two passing students looked alarmed.
Good.
Let them worry.
At six-fifty, Coop waited by the side entrance with coffee and no pastry.
Correct.