The Goalie Grudge (The Spitfires #2)

Chapter One

Frankie

Frankie Callahan did not believe in omens.

She believed in angles.

Glove position.

Post seal.

Net traffic.

Protein intake.

The private, sacred order of her pre-practice routine, which began with her left skate and ended with exactly two taps of her stick against the right post.

That was not superstition.

That was structure.

There was a difference.

“Frankie,” Birdie Nguyen said from somewhere behind her, “why does your water bottle say DO NOT PERISH?”

Frankie tightened the strap on her pad.

“Instructional.”

“To the water bottle?”

“To me.”

Birdie appeared beside the bench, already half-dressed, hair escaping its tie like it had received a formal invitation to riot. “Do you need hydration encouragement?”

“No.”

“Emotional encouragement?”

“No.”

“A small shrine?”

Frankie looked at her.

Birdie nodded. “Too far. Respectfully withdrawing.”

“Better.”

Across the rink, the men’s team had already finished their morning slot. Which meant the ice still smelled like old tape, ambition, and whatever body spray Nolan had apparently purchased in bulk from a store called Regret.

The Spitfires were next.

Their slot.

Their ice.

Their written, equitable, Doyle-signed, Sutter-filed slot.

Frankie still did not trust it.

Permanent did not mean permanent until people stopped acting surprised when the women showed up to use what they had already won.

Reese Halloran stood near the boards with her binder tucked under one arm, talking to Coach Sutter and Claire Whitcomb from Advancement. Reese’s hair was twisted back. Her expression was calm in the way weather radar was calm right before it showed you the storm.

Hayes Madden stood a few feet away, not inside the circle.

Good.

He had learned.

Frankie respected a man who could be trained.

Unfortunately, the man beside him had not been trained at all.

Cooper Vale leaned against the boards with a paper coffee cup in one hand and a protein bar in the other, smiling like the world had personally invited him to be its emotional support golden retriever.

Frankie immediately looked away.

The damage was done.

“Tribute,” Coop called.

Birdie gasped. “The sacred economy continues.”

“It does not,” Frankie said.

Coop pushed off the boards and crossed the concrete toward her, bright-eyed and warm in a gray Brookfield hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower. He had the nerve to look rested. Cheerful, even.

At seven-fifteen in the morning.

Criminal behavior.

He held out the protein bar.

Frankie stared at it.

Then at him.

“No.”

His smile softened at the edges. “It’s the peanut butter one.”

A betrayal.

She liked the peanut butter one.

“That makes it worse.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Because I remembered?”

“Because now it has intent.”

Birdie made a delighted noise.

Frankie did not turn around. “Birdie.”

“I said nothing.”

“You breathed loudly.”

“I’m emotionally invested.”

“Become less.”

Coop’s smile widened, but he did not move closer. That was one of the problems with him. He had excellent boundary instincts. It made him much harder to resent.

He set the protein bar on the top of the boards near her water bottle.

“Unclaimed tribute,” he said. “No pressure.”

“Tribute has been abolished.”

“Temporarily suspended?”

“Dead.”

“Rest in protein.”

Birdie slapped a hand over her mouth.

Frankie picked up her blocker.

Coop’s gaze flicked to it. “That a threat?”

“Forecast.”

His laugh was quiet. Too pleased.

Annoying.

Reese glanced over from her meeting, eyes catching Frankie’s for half a second.

Frankie gave the smallest possible shake of her head.

No.

Whatever Reese thought she saw, she did not see it.

There was no it.

There was ice. There was practice. There was an upcoming game against Westbridge. There was the fact that the end-of-season review still sat over the program like a ceiling tile waiting to fall.

There was not Cooper Vale with his stupid coffee and stupid remembered peanut butter protein bar and stupid ability to stand close without crowding.

Frankie had rules.

The first one was simple.

Let nothing in.

Pucks.

Doubt.

People with dimples.

Especially people with dimples.

Coach Sutter blew her whistle once from the bench.

Every Spitfire on the ice snapped to attention.

“Good,” Sutter said.

Which, from her, meant either excellent work or prepare to die.

Possibly both.

Reese stepped onto the ice first.

Frankie followed, skates biting clean into the fresh cut. The moment her blades hit, the rink settled around her. Not quiet. Rinks were never quiet. But known.

The scrape.

The boards.

The hollow clap of sticks.

The low rumble of the old building trying its best.

She glided into her crease and tapped the left post once.

Right post twice.

Center.

Breath in.

Wall up.

Pucks were rude.

She stopped them.

Practice began with shooting drills, which was Sutter’s polite way of making Frankie regret being born with reflexes.

Dani came first, eyes focused, shot low blocker.

Frankie kicked it away.

Birdie came next, all chaos and grin, faking high before snapping toward the five-hole.

Unfair.

Frankie dropped and sealed it.

“Boo,” Birdie said as she passed behind the net.

“Improve.”

“Support women.”

“I am. By denying you.”

Wren fired from the left circle, clean and mean. Frankie caught it in her glove.

The puck smacked leather.

Good sound.

Best sound.

The drill moved faster.

Shot.

Save.

Reset.

Shot.

Save.

Reset.

Her body knew the work. Her brain could go blessedly blank inside it. That was the gift of the crease. Everyone else saw panic. Frankie saw math.

Angles did not care how anyone felt.

Angles did not ask if she had slept.

Angles did not bring her peanut butter protein bars and look proud of themselves for remembering.

A whistle cut through the drill.

Frankie straightened.

At the boards, Martin Doyle had arrived.

Golf polo.

Clipboard.

Institutional caution with shoes.

Claire Whitcomb stood beside him now, her expression polite enough to qualify as protective gear.

Reese skated in from center ice. Hayes stepped closer to the boards but did not interrupt.

Coop had gone still.

Frankie noticed because the sunshine disappeared.

Not fully. Not dramatically. But the warmth in his face tucked itself away, leaving something sharper underneath.

Alternate captain, Frankie thought.

Not just golden retriever.

Dangerous room.

He felt it too.

Sutter’s mouth flattened.

“Again?” Birdie whispered as she coasted near Frankie’s crease. “We already did the fairness boss battle.”

Frankie watched Doyle shift his clipboard from one hand to the other.

“New boss.”

“I hate sequels.”

“You’re in one.”

Birdie blinked. “That was oddly profound.”

“No.”

“It kind of was.”

“Don’t spread that.”

Doyle cleared his throat.

Nothing good had ever followed Martin Doyle clearing his throat.

“Coach Sutter,” he said, “could we borrow the team for a few minutes after practice?”

Sutter stared at him.

A lesser man would have melted.

Doyle did not melt, but he did develop the facial expression of a man who had suddenly remembered an appointment somewhere else.

“In writing?” Sutter asked.

“It’s only a conversation.”

“In writing.”

Claire’s mouth twitched.

Doyle exhaled. “There will be a memo.”

“Good.”

Frankie heard Reese mutter, “We love a memo.”

Hayes murmured, “Do we?”

“No,” Reese said. “But we respect a paper trail.”

Coop’s gaze moved from Doyle to Reese to Frankie.

It landed on her for one second too long.

Question, not pressure.

Frankie looked away.

Practice resumed, but the ice had changed.

Everyone felt it.

Shots went wide. Passes got sloppy. Birdie missed an easy one and swore with the creativity of a pirate raised by librarians.

“Again,” Sutter called.

They went again.

And again.

By the time Frankie got to the locker room, sweat cooled under her gear and the back of her neck prickled with the kind of dread she preferred to punch in the mouth.

The team gathered half-dressed and tense.

Reese stood at the front.

Sutter leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded, whistle resting against her jacket like a threat.

Doyle had brought Brenda Kline with him.

That was never a sign of peace.

Claire stood on his other side.

That helped.

A little.

Doyle began with, “First, I want to reiterate how pleased the department has been with the response to the pilot arrangement.”

Frankie looked at Dani.

Dani looked at Wren.

Wren looked at Birdie.

Birdie mouthed, We’re doomed.

Reese said, “Thank you.”

Her voice was captain calm.

Frankie recognized the blade under it.

Doyle nodded. “Attendance has been strong. The Fuel the Fire campaign exceeded early projections. The student-media engagement has been, ah, robust.”

Wren lifted one finger. “Accurate.”

Brenda smiled too brightly. “Very robust.”

“So,” Doyle continued, “this is not a negative conversation.”

Sutter said, “Interesting opening.”

Doyle glanced at her.

Sutter did not blink.

He returned to the room. “There have been developments at the conference level.”

The room went quieter.

Frankie felt it in her ribs.

Not fear.

Preparation.

“Westbridge has accepted an invitation to join the conference next season,” Doyle said. “Their women’s program is fully funded, nationally ranked, and aggressively expanding recruitment.”

Birdie whispered, “Boo. Hiss. Capitalism.”

Dani elbowed her.

Doyle continued, “This changes the competitive landscape. It also changes how the board will evaluate resource allocation going forward.”

There it was.

The puck no one saw until it was already past the circle.

Reese’s chin lifted. “Meaning?”

Claire stepped in smoothly. “Meaning some board members are excited by what Brookfield has built this year.”

“Some,” Frankie said.

Every head turned toward her.

She had not meant to say it out loud.

Possibly.

Doyle’s smile tightened. “There are always multiple perspectives.”

“Fiscal realities,” Frankie said.

Birdie coughed into her sleeve.