Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
He held up both hands. “Car preparedness.”
A laugh cracked out of her.
Ugly and perfect.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She froze.
Coop froze.
The words sat between them.
Too close to other words.
Bigger words.
He looked like he wanted to stuff them back into his mouth and also like he could not regret them completely.
Frankie’s pulse became a stupid drum.
No, you don’t.
He was right.
That was the problem.
She did not hate him.
Not even a little.
Not even safely.
She looked down at her phone.
Then at the field outside.
Then at him.
“I don’t,” she said.
His breath caught.
She swallowed.
“Not at all.”
Coop’s face opened.
Soft.
Wrecked.
Too much.
Exactly enough.
Frankie’s heart was a puck dropped at center ice.
Not the words.
Not yet.
But the direction.
Clear.
He seemed to understand because he did not push.
Did not ask.
Did not grab the moment and make it perform.
He just nodded once, like she had handed him something fragile and he knew better than to hold it too tightly.
“Me neither,” he said.
Ridiculous.
Perfect.
She laughed under her breath.
“Bad sentence.”
“Very bad.”
“Accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Then acceptable.”
They sat in the quiet car until her pulse settled.
Her father did not reply.
Or if he did, she did not see it.
Indefinite mute.
Her hands stopped shaking.
Not because the text did not matter.
Because it did not own the night.
That was new.
Finally, Coop started the car.
“O’Malley’s?” he asked.
Frankie leaned back against the seat.
“Yes.”
“Victory meal?”
“Yes.”
“Date-included?”
She turned her head toward him.
His eyes flicked to her, then back to the road.
Careful.
Hopeful.
Golden retriever menace.
“Date-confirmed,” she said.
His smile came slowly.
No normal face.
None.
She let him have it.
For three seconds.
Then said, “Fix your face before Birdie sees.”
“Impossible.”
“She’ll cry.”
“She’ll cry anyway.”
“True.”
O’Malley’s was chaos when they arrived.
Predictable.
Expected.
Better.
The place was packed with Spitfires, men’s players, students, and enough pink foam fingers to count as structural decor. Mrs. O’Malley had put up another sign.
RUDE PUCKS. GOOD GOALIE.
Frankie stopped in the doorway.
Absolutely not.
Coop read the sign.
Then looked at Frankie.
He was trying so hard not to smile that she almost respected it.
Birdie spotted the sign, saw Frankie, and immediately burst into tears.
“There it is,” Frankie muttered.
Nolan rose from a chair, lifted both hands, and shouted, “PUCKS ARE RUDE!”
The diner answered, “SHE STOPS THEM!”
Frankie turned around.
Coop caught her hand.
“No escape.”
“I can still run.”
“In goalie legs?”
She glared.
He grinned.
“Bad chirp,” he said.
“Terrible.”
“Worth it.”
She let him pull her inside.
The room cheered.
Claire caught Reese near the counter before anyone could bury the night under syrup.
She held up her phone, eyes bright.
“Final release is greenlit,” Claire said. “Doyle just confirmed. We can announce the full line tomorrow.”
For a second, the diner noise softened around the words.
Not just recommended.
Released.
The game had not earned their existence.
But it had carried the last locked door open.
Reese pressed both hands to her face.
Birdie whispered, “In writing?”
Claire smiled. “In writing.”
Frankie hated it.
Loved it.
Both.
Mrs. O’Malley hugged her without warning.
Frankie froze.
Then, slowly, awkwardly, she hugged back.
The diner got suspiciously quiet.
Mrs. O’Malley pulled away first, eyes bright.
“Good game,” she said.
Frankie braced automatically.
Nothing else came.
No correction.
No but.
Just good game.
Frankie breathed.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. O’Malley patted her cheek once, then turned toward the kitchen. “Pancakes coming.”
“I didn’t order.”
“You won.”
That was apparently diner law.
Frankie found herself in the back booth with Coop beside her, Birdie on the other side, Reese and Hayes across, Dani and Wren squeezed in with them, Nolan and Tanner at the nearest table pretending not to listen and failing.
The noise rose again.
No pressure behind it.
Team.
Frankie’s phone stayed in her hoodie pocket.
Silent.
Indefinitely.
She ate pancakes she had not ordered.
Accepted extra bacon she did not request.
Listened to Birdie reenact her steal at the blue line with increasing exaggeration while Wren fact-checked with merciless precision.
Asher had texted Birdie after the game.
Birdie tried not to talk about it.
Failed.
“She said I finally used my speed for something other than chaos,” Birdie said, outraged.
Reese smiled. “That is almost a compliment.”
“It is an insult wearing compliment clothes.”
Dani laughed. “You’re going to text her back.”
“I already did.”
Wren looked heavenward.
Frankie pointed a fork at Birdie. “Book Three.”
Birdie gasped. “You too?”
Coop choked on water.
Frankie looked at him. “I learned from your face.”
He coughed harder.
Hayes patted his back, unhelpfully delighted.
The meal stretched late.
At some point, Reese stood on a chair because Birdie made her and thanked everyone for showing up, for backing the fire, for believing before the paperwork did.
Hayes stood near the chair like he would catch her if she fell, which she would not.
Then Sutter raised her coffee mug and said only, “Again.”
The whole team answered it.
“Again.”
Frankie did too.
Her voice steady.
Full.
After midnight, when the diner finally began thinning out, Frankie stepped outside for air.
The cold hit her face.
Good.
The street was quiet.
Inside, the team still laughed.
Coop came out a minute later.
Of course.
He did not ask if she was okay.
Progress.
He stood beside her, shoulder close but not touching.
Frankie looked at the empty sidewalk.
“I read the text,” she said.
“I figured.”
“I answered.”
“I know.”
“I muted him indefinitely.”
Coop turned his head.
She kept looking forward.
“I don’t know what that means long-term.”
“Okay.”
“I just know tomorrow doesn’t belong to him.”
“No.”
“Neither does tonight.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“Neither do I.”
Coop’s face changed.
The streetlight caught his eyes.
He swallowed.
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
She stepped closer.
“Ask.”
His voice was rougher when he said, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her on the sidewalk outside O’Malley’s, with the cold around them and the team noise behind them and the whole impossible night settling into her bones.
Not hidden.
Not for show.
The best kind.
When she pulled back, she looked at him for a long second.
The words were closer now.
Dangerously close.
His too.
Hers too.
Not yet.
Soon enough to scare her.
She touched the front of his jacket.
“Take me home after this,” she said.
His eyes softened.
“Always.”
She narrowed hers. “Not always. Tonight.”
He smiled.
“Tonight.”
“Better.”
They went back inside, hand in hand.
Birdie saw and started crying again.
Frankie let her.
Because for once, joy could be loud and nothing had to be corrected.