Chapter Five #2
One was still one more than zero.
The puck dropped.
Elmhurst tried to steal momentum immediately, driving deep and throwing a shot from the point through traffic.
Frankie saw it late.
No such luck.
It hit her shoulder and popped loose in front.
Bodies crashed.
Sticks stabbed.
Someone fell across the crease.
Frankie dropped, twisted, and covered the puck with her glove while a skate blade flashed too close to her wrist.
Whistle.
Pain bit through her forearm.
She did not move.
A body shoved off her.
Birdie’s voice snapped, “Get out of her crease.”
An Elmhurst player said something Frankie couldn’t hear.
Birdie smiled.
That was bad.
Reese arrived before felony.
“Enough,” Reese said.
The ref separated them.
Frankie rose slowly.
Her arm throbbed.
Fine.
Everything was fine.
She had the puck.
That was the job.
The period ended with Brookfield down one.
In the tunnel, no one said the wrong thing.
That was team growth.
Birdie muttered about curses.
Dani apologized for the deflection.
Frankie said, “Don’t.”
Dani looked stricken.
Frankie hated feelings.
“It was a stick,” Frankie said. “Sticks exist.”
Dani blinked.
Then nodded.
Better.
In the locker room, Sutter did not shout.
Worse.
She stood in the center, arms folded, and said, “Again.”
The team stilled.
Sutter’s eyes moved around the room. “Again. You forecheck again. You backcheck again. You get one beat cleaner on the breakout. You stop letting Elmhurst make the boards smaller than they are. Again is the sport.”
Her gaze landed on Frankie.
“Again is also the crease.”
Frankie looked at the floor.
“Good goalies remember,” Sutter said. “Great goalies remember without worshipping.”
The room went very quiet.
Frankie’s jaw tightened.
Sutter blew her whistle once.
“Second period. Go.”
They went.
Again.
The second period was meaner.
Brookfield came out hard. Reese won the opening draw and sent Wren up the wall. Birdie crashed the net like she had been personally offended by physics. Dani buried the rebound at 2:13.
Tie game.
The bench exploded.
Frankie allowed herself one stick tap.
One.
No more.
Elmhurst answered with pressure.
Shot from the point.
Save.
Rebound.
Save.
Scramble.
Save.
Noise rose.
Frankie’s breathing evened.
That landed.
This was better.
No thinking.
Read.
Move.
Stop.
Again.
Halfway through the period, Birdie drew a penalty by getting cross-checked after saying something that probably deserved an HR meeting. Brookfield went on the power play.
Reese scored from the slot.
2–1.
The men’s section lost its mind.
Nolan threw toast.
Actual toast.
Why did he have toast?
Coop did not throw anything.
He stood with both hands on the boards, smiling wide now.
Proud.
Frankie looked away before he could catch her looking.
He caught her.
Of course he did.
His smile changed.
Softened.
Frankie immediately hated the entire sport.
The third period began with Brookfield still up 2–1.
Elmhurst pushed.
Hard.
They smelled the game slipping and got desperate.
Desperate teams shot from everywhere.
Frankie liked that.
Until she didn’t.
At 9:18, Elmhurst’s captain carried the puck wide, curled behind the net, and sent a blind pass into the slot.
Frankie tracked the first stick.
Miss.
Second stick.
Miss.
Third stick.
Tip.
The puck rose.
High glove.
Six thoughts happened at once.
Too fast.
Too high.
Screen.
Late.
One already in.
Six is a lot.
Coop will see.
That last thought made her furious.
Fury moved faster than fear.
Frankie snapped her glove up.
The puck hit leather.
Stayed.
For one perfect second, the entire rink froze.
Then the whistle blew.
The crowd erupted.
Frankie held the glove there longer than necessary.
Not for drama.
For proof.
To herself.
Mostly.
Birdie skated by and screamed, “FERAL WALL.”
Frankie lowered her glove.
“No.”
Reese laughed as she circled back.
Even Sutter’s mouth moved.
Tiny.
Dangerous.
With two minutes left, Elmhurst pulled their goalie.
Six-on-five.
The crease became traffic.
Bodies everywhere.
Shot.
Block.
Clear.
Not out.
Shot.
Save.
Rebound.
Chaos.
Frankie lost sight of the puck for half a breath.
Panic tried to enter.
She denied it.
Read the ice.
Not the noise.
There.
Loose puck near the hash marks.
Elmhurst stick winding.
Frankie pushed left, dropped, and sealed the lower net.
The shot hit her pad.
Rebound kicked wide.
Reese got there first and banked it off the boards.
Birdie chased like a woman powered by vengeance and bad ideas.
Empty net.
Goal.
3–1.
The rink detonated.
Birdie slid on one knee and nearly crashed into the boards.
Wren covered her face.
Dani screamed.
Reese threw both arms up.
Frankie stayed in her crease.
Because goalies did not celebrate until the clock was dead.
Fifty-one seconds.
Forty.
Thirty.
Elmhurst tried again.
Frankie swallowed one last point shot into her chest and held it.
Whistle.
Twelve seconds.
Faceoff.
Puck drop.
Tie-up.
Clear.
Horn.
Win.
Frankie exhaled.
The team hit her first.
Not literally.
Almost.
Birdie threw both arms around her pads. Dani collided with her side. Reese tapped her helmet. Wren said, “Your glove save is going to ruin the internet.”
“No candid stills,” Frankie said automatically.
Wren smiled. “Video isn’t stills.”
“Wren.”
“I’ll be ethical.”
“No.”
“Ethical-ish.”
They lined up for handshakes.
Elmhurst’s captain told Frankie, “Nice glove.”
Frankie nodded.
Compliments from opponents after a win were slightly less suspicious.
Slightly.
When she came off the ice, the men’s team was still by the boards.
Hayes bumped Reese’s shoulder as she passed, careful and proud.
Reese’s face warmed.
Steady.
No drama.
Solid.
Frankie tried to slip by.
A hand appeared near the hallway wall.
Not touching her.
Holding something.
A protein bar.
Peanut butter.
Frankie stopped.
Slowly, she turned her masked face toward Coop.
He stood a step back, leaving space, expression bright but not teasing. The silver A on his hoodie caught the rink light.
“Recovery snack,” he said.
Frankie stared at him through the cage.
Her heartbeat had not settled yet.
Maybe from the game.
Probably from the game.
“What did I say about tribute?” she asked.
His smile edged in. “It’s not tribute.”
“What is it?”
“Respectful carbohydrates.”
Behind him, Nolan whispered, “That’s beautiful.”
Hayes elbowed him.
Frankie removed her glove and took the protein bar.
Their fingers did not touch.
She noticed.
Then immediately wished she had not.
Coop’s gaze dipped to the bar, then back to her. “Nice glove save.”
“Which one?”
His smile widened.
Dangerous.
“The rude one.”
Despite herself, Frankie almost laughed.
Almost.
She tucked the protein bar into the chest of her gear. “Pucks are rude.”
“You stop them.”
The words landed differently from him.
Not because they were new.
Because he said them like he understood the sentence was not a joke.
Not entirely.
Frankie looked away.
The hallway was crowded. Players. Coaches. Staff. Noise bouncing off concrete. Too many witnesses for whatever her face might do if she kept looking at him.
“Six did not happen,” Coop said quietly.
Her eyes snapped back.
He was not smiling now.
The noise around them blurred.
Frankie’s fingers tightened around her stick.
“No,” she said.
“Three-one happened.”
“Yes.”
“Win happened.”
“Yes.”
“And one bad bounce happened.”
She looked at him.
He held up one hand. “Not fixing. Naming.”
That made it worse.
Better.
She hated that he knew the difference.
Frankie swallowed once.
“Acceptable,” she said.
His expression softened.
She should have left.
Instead, she said, “Thank you.”
A tiny sentence.
Barely anything.
Still, Coop went very still.
Like she had handed him something fragile and he understood not to close his fist around it.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Birdie appeared between them like chaos with skates.
“Frankie, Wren wants approval to post your glove save with the caption ‘THE WALL HAS TEETH.’ I said too aggressive. She said not aggressive enough. Reese said ask you. I say democracy is failing.”
Frankie looked at Birdie.
Then at Coop.
His mouth twitched.
She said, “Read the Ice.”
Birdie blinked. “What?”
“Caption.”
Birdie’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, that’s colder.”
Coop nodded solemnly. “It is.”
“Fine,” Birdie said. “I’ll tell the media goblin.”
She disappeared.
Frankie shifted her stick to her other hand.
The moment was over.
Good.
Moments were dangerous.
Coop stepped back first.
Also good.
Infuriating.
“I’ll see you at seven,” he said.
Frankie frowned. “Tomorrow?”
“Unless you cancel.”
She should cancel.
She had earned sleep. Silence. Ice packs. A shower long enough to become steam with thoughts.
But the showcase still needed work.
The program still needed proof.
And Coop Vale had said ugly first.
Named the bad bounce.
Brought respectful carbohydrates.
Stood close without crowding.
The wall, traitorous thing, did not rise as fast this time.
“Seven,” she said.
His smile came slow.
Warm.
Not too much.
Still too much.
“Seven.”
Frankie walked away before he could see her smile that barely started.
In the locker room, she peeled off her gear piece by piece. The protein bar fell out of her chest protector and landed on the bench.
Birdie saw it immediately.
Because of course.
“Oh my gosh.”
“No.”
“Is that post-game tribute?”
“No.”
“Respectful carbohydrates?”
Frankie stared at him.
Birdie clutched her towel to her chest. “He’s learning your language.”
Frankie picked up the protein bar and put it in her bag.
“He’s bringing snacks.”
“Frankie.”
“Hydration-adjacent.”
“Frankie.”
“Don’t say my name like it has violins.”
Birdie sat beside her, softer now.
Still Birdie.
But softer.
“You looked better after,” she said.
Frankie unlaced her skate.
“After what?”
“After he talked to you.”
Frankie kept her eyes on the lace.
“That’s not a thing.”
“Okay.”
“It isn’t.”
“Okay.”
Frankie pulled the lace too hard.
Birdie did not push.
Rude again.
Everybody was learning restraint, and it was making them impossible.
After the shower, after Sutter’s clipped postgame praise, after Reese reminded everyone that one win was good and three clean breakouts in the third were better, Frankie stepped out into the cold night behind the rink.
Her hair was damp.
Her bag was heavy.
Her body ached in twelve specific locations.
The air smelled like snow that had not decided whether to commit.
She checked her phone.
One text from Wren with the approved clip.
Caption:
READ THE ICE.
The video showed the high-glove save.
Frankie watched it once.
Only once.
Okay.
Twice.
Then she saw the comments.
Most were good.
Some were loud.
Birdie had commented thirteen flame emojis and one brick wall.
Nolan had commented, FUTURE GHOST APPROVES.
Hayes had commented, Huge.
Reese had commented, That’s our goalie.
Then Coop.
Not decoration. Not luck. Work.
Frankie stared at the words until the cold bit through her hoodie.
Not decoration.
He had taken her defense of him and handed it back to her.
No.
Not handed.
Held up.
Like proof.
Her chest did something complicated.
Frankie locked her phone.
Then unlocked it.
Then locked it again.
Ridiculous.
She started walking toward the parking lot.
Halfway there, her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
No.
Not unknown.
Coop.
She had added him for showcase logistics yesterday and named him VALE - PROBABLY EARLY.
The text read:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Good win. Get actual food. Protein bars are not dinner.
Frankie stared.
Then typed:
FRANKIE: You are not the dinner police.
His reply came fast.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Correct. I’m alternate dinner captain.
She stopped walking.
Against her will, a laugh escaped.
Small.
Visible.
Terrible.
She typed:
FRANKIE: That title has not been approved.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: I’ll submit it in writing.
Frankie looked back at the rink.
At the lights.
At the doors.
At the place where the wall held because the team did too.
Then she typed:
FRANKIE: Seven means seven.
A pause.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: I know.
Another message followed.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Nice save, Frankie.
She should not answer.
The conversation was complete.
Safe.
Done.
She stood in the parking lot with cold fingers and tired legs and the strange, dangerous ache of being seen after a win and after the part that still hurt.
Then she typed:
FRANKIE: The puck was rude.
His answer came almost instantly.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: You stopped it.
Frankie held the phone for a long second.
The wall did not fall.
That would be ridiculous.
Walls did not fall because of one game, one snack, one boy with too much sincerity and an alternate captain letter on his chest.
But something in it shifted.
A crack.
A gate.
A place where sound could get through.
Frankie slid the phone into her pocket and walked to her car.
Tomorrow at seven, Cooper Vale would be early.
She would pretend that did not matter.
He would probably bring coffee.
She would accept it because wasting coffee was immoral.
And neither of them would mention that tonight, for one brief second in a crowded rink hallway, she had let him stand close enough to name the thing she was afraid of.
Not fix it.
Name it.
Frankie opened her car door and tossed her bag inside.
Then she looked once more at the glowing rink behind her.
Six had not happened.
A win had.
The wall had held.
And, unfortunately, someone was starting to notice the person behind it.