Chapter Three #2
“No,” Frankie said immediately.
Birdie stopped. “You don’t even know why we’re here.”
“Your face brought props.”
Coop whispered, “That is apparently a universal tell.”
Wren lifted the laptop. “Asher Reed confirmed for the virtual meeting.”
Birdie dropped into the chair beside Frankie. “I’m calm.”
Frankie looked at her.
Birdie’s left eye twitched.
“Deeply calm,” Birdie said.
Wren set the laptop on the table. “She also sent over Westbridge’s preferred language for the showcase announcement.”
Frankie took one look at Wren’s face.
“How bad?”
Wren opened the laptop and read aloud. “‘Westbridge is excited to help elevate Brookfield’s emerging women’s hockey presence through collaborative visibility.’”
Birdie made a noise only dogs should have heard.
Coop leaned back slowly. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Frankie looked at him.
The warmth had gone out of his face again.
Still version.
Serious version.
Wren’s eyes flicked toward him with new interest.
Birdie pointed at the laptop. “Emerging. Emerging? We have been here. We did not crawl out of a decorative pond yesterday.”
Frankie said, “Do not insult ponds.”
“I’ll insult whoever I need to.”
Coop reached for the laptop, then stopped and looked at Wren. “May I?”
Wren slid it toward him. “Please commit edits.”
He read the paragraph once.
Then again.
Then he picked up the red pen before remembering the document was digital.
Frankie, despite herself, near smiled.
Coop caught it.
His mouth twitched.
Then he looked back at the screen and began typing.
“Brookfield and Westbridge will open conference play with a joint showcase highlighting competitive growth, program investment, and the future of women’s hockey in the region,” he read.
Wren leaned closer. “Better.”
Birdie frowned. “Not enough violence.”
“It’s press copy,” Wren said.
“Press can have teeth.”
Frankie reached over and typed one sentence under Coop’s.
Brookfield’s Spitfires enter the showcase following record attendance, donor growth, and a permanent equitable ice rotation secured earlier this season.
Coop looked at her.
Wren’s smile turned slow.
“Oh,” Wren said. “That has receipts.”
Frankie sat back. “Paper trail.”
Birdie placed a hand over her heart. “I love when you’re terrifying in complete sentences.”
“Don’t get attached.”
Wren sent the revised copy to Reese.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then Reese replied.
YES. Do not let anyone delete “secured.”
Frankie looked at Coop.
He nodded once.
Shared look.
Again.
Dangerous habit.
The laptop chimed.
A new message appeared from Brenda.
Asher can jump on now if helpful!
Birdie stood so fast her chair screeched backward.
“Absolutely not.”
Wren clicked before anyone could stop her.
“Wren,” Birdie hissed.
Wren calmly adjusted the screen. “Community engagement.”
“You snake.”
“Media menace,” Wren corrected.
The call opened.
For half a second, there was only a blurred ceiling.
Then a guy appeared on-screen in a crisp Westbridge quarter-zip, dark hair neat enough to be annoying, mouth curved in the kind of smile that announced it had won things and expected applause.
Asher Reed.
Frankie had never met him.
She disliked him immediately on Birdie’s behalf.
Asher’s eyes scanned the room through the screen and landed on Birdie.
His smile sharpened.
“Well,” Asher said. “If it isn’t decorative skating.”
Birdie leaned toward the laptop.
“If it isn’t a raccoon’s life coach.”
Coop’s hand covered his mouth.
Wren whispered, “Fantastic.”
Frankie drank coffee.
Asher’s eyebrows lifted. “Still entering zones like you’re being chased by bees?”
“Still chirping like you swallowed a podcast?”
“Still shooting from angles only your therapist understands?”
“Still using team funding as a personality?”
Asher smiled wider.
Birdie did too.
Oh, Frankie thought.
Oh no.
This was not just hate.
This was worse.
This was chemistry with knives.
Coop leaned toward Frankie, voice low enough only she could hear. “Book Three?”
Frankie looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You said words.”
“I regret them.”
“You should.”
On-screen, Asher finally dragged his attention away from Birdie. “So. Are we planning a showcase or a feelings circle?”
Frankie leaned toward the laptop.
Asher’s eyes moved to her.
Frankie smiled.
Small.
Unkind.
“Depends,” Frankie said. “Can Westbridge handle both?”
Asher blinked.
Birdie gasped.
Wren made a note.
Coop stared at Frankie like she had just done something heroic.
Ridiculous.
Asher recovered fast. “You must be Callahan.”
Frankie said nothing.
“I’ve seen your tape.”
“Unfortunate for you.”
Asher’s smile became real for half a second. “You’re good.”
Frankie stared at him.
Compliments from rivals were traps until proven otherwise.
“So is Westbridge,” Asher continued. “Which is why this showcase can’t feel like Brookfield begging to be taken seriously.”
The table went quiet.
Frankie did not like Asher.
But that sentence had teeth in the right direction.
Wren tilted her head. “Go on.”
Asher shrugged. “If your department frames this like charity, everyone smells blood. If they frame it like rivalry, people buy tickets.”
Birdie narrowed her eyes. “I hate that he’s right.”
“Growth for you,” Asher said.
“Choke on a rink fry.”
“Cute.”
“Derivative.”
Asher laughed.
Actually laughed.
Birdie went still.
Wren looked delighted in a contained, dangerous way.
Frankie did not have enough coffee for this.
Coop shifted beside her. “Then we agree on hockey first. Rivalry language, not rescue language. Competitive stakes. Both programs looking strong.”
Asher glanced at him. “You’re Vale?”
“Coop.”
“Alternate captain.”
“That’s me.”
“Golden boy?”
Frankie’s head turned before she could stop it.
Coop’s face did not change much.
But she saw it.
A flicker.
A tiny tightening around the eyes.
Asher probably did not mean anything by it. Maybe he did. Maybe Westbridge treated personality like scouting material.
Either way, Frankie’s hand moved before her brain approved the action.
She reached over and tapped the silver A on Coop’s chest with the back of her knuckle.
“Alternate captain,” she said. “Not decoration.”
The room went quiet again.
Coop did not move.
Frankie realized what she had done.
Touched him.
In front of people.
Not a big touch.
Barely anything.
Still.
Her knuckle remembered the warmth of his hoodie.
Awful.
Coop looked at her.
Not smiling.
Not teasing.
Just looking.
Like something had landed.
Frankie pulled her hand back and picked up her coffee.
Already done.
Everything was already stupid.
Asher watched them through the laptop screen, his smile slow and too knowing.
“Got it,” she said. “Not decoration.”
Birdie leaned in. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“Your face.”
“Specific.”
“I’ll get specific.”
Wren muted the laptop.
Asher’s mouth kept moving silently.
Birdie turned to Wren. “Rude.”
“Necessary.”
Coop cleared his throat, but there was color high on his cheekbones now.
Frankie refused to look at it.
She had a meeting to survive.
A program to help save.
A rival school to outmaneuver.
A wall to maintain.
She had no time for the soft, startled look Cooper Vale gave her when she defended him without thinking.
No time at all.
Wren unmuted the laptop.
Asher’s voice came back mid-sentence. “—and if Brookfield wants the showcase to land, you need a clean visual hook. Something donors understand in five seconds.”
Frankie said, “Hockey.”
Asher said, “Try again.”
Birdie hissed.
Coop leaned forward. “The wall versus the wave.”
Frankie looked at him.
He looked at the screen, but his voice had changed. Lower. More certain.
“Brookfield’s identity is resilience,” he said. “Westbridge is the incoming powerhouse. Bigger funding, bigger reputation, bigger machine. Fine. Let that be the story. The wave comes in. The wall holds.”
Frankie’s chest went strange.
The wall holds.
Asher was quiet.
Wren was typing fast.
Birdie’s anger dimmed into reluctant fascination.
Frankie studied Coop’s profile.
This was the version people missed when they stopped at sunshine.
This was the alternate captain.
The one who saw the room.
The one who knew where the pressure point was and pressed gently until the shape appeared.
He looked at Frankie then.
“Only if you’re okay with that language,” he said.
Because of course he did.
Because he remembered the wall was not just a catchy line.
Because he made room for her no even after building the perfect yes.
Frankie swallowed.
Once.
“Fine,” she said.
His eyes softened.
“Fine,” he repeated.
Birdie groaned. “I hate when fine has subtext.”
“It doesn’t,” Frankie said.
Wren did not look up from the laptop. “It does.”
“It has so much subtext,” Birdie said.
Coop’s mouth did that restrained smile again.
Frankie kicked him under the table.
Lightly.
Mostly.
He startled, then looked at her with open delight.
Mistake.
Mistake, mistake, mistake.
She looked away.
Asher’s voice floated from the laptop. “I don’t know what just happened there, but I support the violence.”
Birdie pointed at the screen. “You support nothing.”
“I support entertainment.”
“Be silent, Reed.”
“Make me, Nguyen.”
Wren muted the laptop again.
Birdie exhaled. “Thank you.”
Frankie put both hands around her coffee and stared at the showcase notes until the letters stopped threatening to rearrange themselves into Cooper Vale’s face.
The meeting continued.
They built the outline.
Hockey first.
Skills challenge.
Goalie station renamed The Wall Holds because everyone had apparently decided Frankie’s life was communal property.
Mixed relay.
Westbridge head-to-head.
Short remarks.
Donor reception.
Recruiting table.
Merch booth.
Student media coverage with pre-approved boundaries.
A closing ask for a multi-year women’s hockey investment line.
In writing.
Always in writing.
By the time Asher signed off after one final insult toward Birdie’s “decorative skating empire,” the lobby had filled with athletes heading toward morning classes and rink staff rolling carts toward the concessions area.
Normal noise returned.
The safe kind.
The meeting broke apart.
Wren left first, already texting Reese.
Birdie followed while muttering, “Make me, Nguyen,” under her breath like she was trying to decide whether to be offended or impressed.
Frankie began stacking papers.
Coop helped.
Their hands reached for the same sheet.
Stopped.
Not touching this time.
Somehow worse.
He let her take it.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Frankie knew what he meant.
The A.
Not decoration.
She shrugged. “It was accurate.”
“It mattered.”
She looked at the paper.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m trying very hard not to.”
“Try harder.”
“I will.”
She nodded once.
That should have ended it.
It did not.
Coop gathered his folder, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I think people see more than the saves.”
Frankie’s throat closed around a laugh that was not funny.
“They don’t.”
“I do.”
She looked up.
He was not smiling.
Not even close.
He stood across from her in the cold lobby with his organized folder and his too-soft eyes and his alternate captain letter on his chest, and he said it like a fact.
Not a move.
Not a line.
A fact.
Frankie’s first instinct was to deflect.
Threaten.
Bite.
Throw him into the nearest penalty box and leave him there with a granola bar.
Instead, she said nothing.
Because if she opened her mouth, something true might escape.
Coop seemed to understand that, too.
He tapped his folder once against the table.
“I’ll send the updated flow to Claire and Reese,” he said.
“Copy me.”
“Always.”
Always.
Awful word.
Soft word.
Dangerous word.
Frankie zipped her hoodie to her chin. “Seven tomorrow?”
“If you want.”
She almost corrected him.
Seven means seven.
But he had said if you want.
Door open.
No pressure.
She looked toward the rink entrance, where the ice waited behind closed doors.
The wall held.
For now.
“Seven,” she said.
Coop nodded.
Frankie walked away before her face could betray her.
At the rink doors, she glanced back once.
A mistake.
He was still there, watching her leave.
Not like she was a shot.
Not like she was a challenge.
Like she was someone worth waiting for.
Frankie pushed through the doors into the cold.
The ice smell hit first.
Clean.
Sharp.
Known.
She breathed it in and held it until her lungs hurt.
Then she stepped toward the tunnel.
Tomorrow at seven, Cooper Vale would be early.
He would bring coffee.
Probably not foam art.
Probably some new form of unflirting tribute.
And Frankie would sit across from him and pretend the wall had not developed its first visible crack.
Because pucks were rude.
People were worse.
And Coop Vale was becoming the worst kind of dangerous.
Patient.