Chapter Twenty-Five #2
He wore a navy jacket, jeans, and a beanie pulled low over his curls. He looked tired. Not bad tired. Showcase aftermath tired. Family dinner survived tired. Dating Frankie Callahan tired, possibly.
She stopped in front of him.
“No pastry?”
“You asked for coffee, silence, legs.”
“Do not repeat the phrase.”
“I was quoting official correspondence.”
“Delete the correspondence.”
“Already burned.”
“Better.”
He handed her the black coffee.
She took it, fingers brushing his.
Then she took his hand.
No preamble.
No hallway scan.
His eyes softened, but he did not comment.
Good boyfriend.
Dangerous boyfriend.
They walked.
Campus was cold and quiet, the kind of early evening where windows glowed and sidewalks looked abandoned between classes. Frankie sipped coffee and let the silence stretch.
Coop kept pace beside her.
Not pushing.
Not fixing.
Just legs.
Unfortunately.
After a few minutes, she said, “I’m scared.”
His hand tightened once.
Then relaxed, like he had corrected himself.
“Of Westbridge?”
“Yes. No. Both.”
“Okay.”
“You’re very okay.”
“I’m trying to be.”
She looked at him.
His face was serious.
Not easy.
Not fog.
Just present.
She nodded and looked ahead.
“I’m scared one early goal brings back the old voice,” she said.
“Your dad’s?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I’m scared it won’t.”
Coop was quiet.
Good.
Then he said, “Because then you have to play without knowing what replaces it.”
Frankie stopped walking.
He stopped too.
The cold air moved between them.
She stared at him.
“How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Find the sentence.”
He looked down.
Almost embarrassed.
“I listen.”
That was worse than a clever answer.
Better.
Both.
Frankie looked toward the empty practice field beside the path.
The grass was winter-flat and silvered with frost.
“I don’t know who I am in net without fighting him,” she said.
Coop’s face changed.
Not pity.
Pain, maybe.
Held back.
Angry second.
Always.
“You’re still the goalie,” he said.
“That sounds too easy.”
“It’s not easy.”
“No.”
“But maybe he was never the reason you were good.”
The words hit too clean.
Frankie looked away.
Her throat tightened.
Coop did not rush to fill the silence.
After a while, she said, “He’ll say he was.”
“Probably.”
“He’ll believe it.”
“Maybe.”
“What if part of it is true?”
Coop stepped slightly closer, still holding her hand.
“Then that part can be true without giving him ownership of all of you.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
Rude sentence.
Excellent sentence.
Horrible boyfriend.
“Say worse things,” she muttered.
He laughed softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
The path was empty.
The air was cold.
Her coffee steamed between them.
“You can kiss me now,” she said.
His brows lifted.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her softly, right there on the path, one hand holding hers, the other warm at her waist.
It was not long.
It did not need to be.
Something in her chest settled anyway.
When he pulled back, he stayed close.
“Still scared?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Less alone?”
She hated him.
Loved—
Not yet.
Maybe.
The word flashed and she shoved it into a locker.
“Yes,” she said.
Coop’s face softened.
“Good.”
She did not correct it.
They started walking again.
After another block, Coop said, “Can I tell you something without making it about me?”
Frankie glanced at him. “Risky opener.”
“I know.”
“Proceed.”
He looked ahead. “I used to think being easy was what made me good for people.”
Frankie tightened her hand around his.
He continued. “Not consciously, maybe. But if I made things lighter, smoother, less complicated, then I was helping. And sometimes I was.”
“Yes.”
“But sometimes I was just making sure no one had to notice I needed anything.”
Frankie did not speak.
“I’m still figuring out who I am when I’m not doing that first,” he said.
That felt important.
A door of his own.
Frankie held it carefully.
“Scary?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“And quieter?”
He looked at her.
Then smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
She nodded.
“Maybe we’re both bad at new quiet.”
“Maybe.”
“We should practice.”
His smile warmed. “Is that an invitation?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“I won’t.”
“You almost did.”
“I recovered.”
“Moderately.”
They walked until the cold got sharper and the coffees got empty.
When they returned to the rink, the lobby was mostly dark except for the trophy case light.
The Fire We Built still stood there.
Now backed.
Still waiting for Westbridge.
Frankie stopped in front of it.
Coop stopped beside her.
She looked at the small photo.
Not luck. Work.
Maybe that was the answer.
Not father.
Not fear.
Work.
Team.
Read.
Again.
She pulled out her phone.
No alerts from Dad.
Muted held.
She slipped it away.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “I want extra film. Not panic film. Useful film.”
Coop nodded. “Who?”
“Sutter. Reese. Dani. Maybe you.”
His eyes lifted.
“Me?”
“You carry well on two-on-ones. You lie well.”
“Romantic.”
“Accurate.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Not as boyfriend.”
“As shooter?”
“And alternate captain.”
“Okay.”
She looked at him.
“And after, boyfriend.”
His face went so soft she almost regretted it.
Almost.
“Okay,” he said.
“You say okay too much.”
“I mean it every time.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
That was the good.
Both.
Frankie stepped closer and rested her forehead against his chest.
Not long.
Just enough.
He wrapped his arms around her, careful but sure.
The trophy case light reflected around them.
Proof.
Quiet.
Ours.
She did not know who she would be in net without fighting her father’s voice.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But she knew this.
When Westbridge came, she would not be empty in the crease.
She would have the read.
The work.
The team.
The quiet she chose.
And when the old voice tried to count what got through, Frankie would count something else.
Again.
Again.
Again.