Chapter Six
Coop
Coop Vale was not stalking the Spitfires’ social media account.
He was monitoring public engagement.
There was a difference.
A thin one.
Possibly invisible.
Still.
He sat on the end of his bed with a half-finished sandwich balanced on one knee, his laptop open, his phone in his hand, and Wren Bell’s latest post playing for the seventeenth time.
Frankie’s glove save looked even better on video.
Live, it had been fast. A flash of black jersey, pink trim, white ice, and one furious glove snapping up like the puck had personally insulted her.
On replay, it was art.
Not pretty art.
Frankie would hate that.
It was work art.
Angles. Timing. Patience. Violence with excellent fundamentals.
The caption read:
READ THE ICE.
The clip had more comments than most Spitfires posts got on a weeknight.
Some were from fans.
Some were from Brookfield students.
Some were from men’s players being only mildly embarrassing.
Nolan had commented again.
FUTURE GHOST HAS REVIEWED THE SAVE AND FOUND IT RUDE TO PUCKS.
Birdie replied:
You are banned from media.
Nolan replied:
MEDIA FEARS TRUTH.
Wren had liked neither comment, which was basically censorship with taste.
Coop scrolled down.
There were good comments.
A lot of them.
That glove save was nasty.
Goalie clinic.
Spitfires are fun to watch.
Frankie Callahan is terrifying. Respectfully.
Then a newer one.
No profile photo.
No name he recognized.
Elmhurst isn’t Westbridge. Let’s see that against real shooters.
Coop stared at it.
His thumb hovered.
Do not engage with the rot.
Wren’s commandment had been clear.
Also probably legally sound.
Coop did not reply.
He screenshotted it and sent it to Wren.
Then he threw his phone onto the bed like it had betrayed him.
Across the room, Nolan looked up from the floor where he was stretching in a way that suggested either athletic recovery or a haunted puppet learning to walk.
“Was that a rage toss?”
“No.”
“Felt like a rage toss.”
“It was a controlled device relocation.”
Nolan nodded. “Captain language.”
“Alternate captain language.”
“Right. Diet captain.”
Coop pointed at him. “Do not call me that again.”
Nolan grinned. “Light captain?”
“No.”
“Captain-adjacent?”
“Nolan.”
“Vice captain of snacks?”
Coop looked at the ceiling.
This was his life.
A dorm room that smelled faintly of laundry, stick tape, and whatever body wash Nolan used that promised “mountain storm” but delivered “citrus linebacker.” A roommate who referred to himself as Future Ghost with no apparent shame.
A phone full of screenshots of anonymous cowards insulting a women’s hockey team because they had the emotional depth of wet cardboard.
And Frankie Callahan’s text thread, still sitting unanswered from last night.
Not unanswered.
Finished.
Different.
He had said, You stopped it.
She had not replied after that.
Which was fine.
Healthy.
Normal.
Frankie was not a person who sent excessive texts.
Frankie sent texts like she was rationing oxygen in a submarine.
He respected it.
He did.
He only checked the thread four times before bed and twice after waking because he was apparently becoming someone who needed supervision.
Nolan rolled onto his back and lifted both legs against the wall.
“Are you thinking about the goalie?”
Coop closed his laptop.
“No.”
Nolan turned his head.
Coop held his gaze.
Nolan waited.
Coop said, “Maybe.”
“Growth.”
“No.”
“Vulnerability.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Egg Council supports emotional honesty.”
“Egg Council has no jurisdiction.”
Nolan pointed at him from the floor. “That’s where you’re wrong. Breakfast is the foundation of civilization.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You have class in forty minutes.”
“I’m leaving emotionally.”
Nolan sat up. “Wait. Serious question.”
Coop braced himself.
That phrase from Nolan could mean anything from “Do ghosts need skate sharpening?” to “Could we run a penalty kill entirely with vibes?”
“What?”
Nolan’s grin faded.
Oh.
Actual serious.
“I know we joke,” he said, “but the forum stuff is getting mean.”
Coop’s hand tightened around the edge of his laptop.
“Yeah.”
“The Spitfires saw it?”
“Yeah.”
“Frankie?”
Coop looked toward the window.
Outside, campus was pale and cold under a flat winter sky. Students crossed the quad with hoods up, coffee in hand, shoulders hunched against wind.
“She saw it.”
Nolan swore under his breath.
No joke.
No bit.
Just anger.
That helped, oddly.
Nolan leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Is she okay?”
Coop almost said yes.
Because that was what people said when they did not know what else to offer.
Because Frankie had won.
Because she had made the glove save.
Because she had typed back.
Because she had shown up at the rink this morning at 6:58 with wet hair, black coffee already in hand, and had said, “You’re late,” even though he was two minutes early.
But he remembered the corridor.
Six is a lot.
He remembered her face when she said it.
He shook his head once. “I don’t know.”
Nolan nodded.
For once, he did not push.
“Cool,” Nolan said.
Coop looked at him.
“Not cool,” Nolan clarified. “Bad cool. Situation cool. Like, cool, I will make sure the men’s team doesn’t act like idiots about it.”
Coop blinked.
That was not what he had expected.
Nolan shrugged. “We’re loud. Sometimes loud becomes stupid. I can redirect.”
“Through breakfast?”
“Through fear.”
“Nolan.”
“Fine. Through breakfast and fear.”
Coop breathed out a laugh.
It loosened something.
A little.
“Thanks,” he said.
Nolan saluted from the floor. “Future Ghost serves the crease.”
“Don’t say that near Frankie.”
“I want to live.”
“Good instinct.”
Coop left for class ten minutes later with his sandwich wrapped in a napkin, his laptop in his bag, and his phone buzzing before he reached the stairwell.
Wren.
WREN: Got the screenshot. Do not respond.WREN: This is me assuming you’re thinking about responding because men with hero complexes all get the same facial expression through text.WREN: Do not prove my thesis.
Coop stopped on the landing.
He typed:
COOP: I screenshotted and did not respond.
Wren answered immediately.
WREN: That works.
Then:
WREN: Tell Nolan no food-based counter-campaigns.
Coop glanced back toward the dorm room door.
He typed:
COOP: Too late conceptually. Not operationally.
WREN: I hate men’s hockey.
COOP: Fair.
He put his phone away and headed to class.
For thirty-seven minutes, he tried to listen to a lecture about organizational behavior and only absorbed three things:
One, groups resisted change when status felt threatened.
Two, informal narratives could undermine formal structures.
Three, he was in deep trouble because every example the professor gave made him think about Brookfield Athletics, the showcase, and Frankie Callahan’s face when someone used the wrong kind of praise.
By the time class ended, he had written exactly one useful note in the margin of his notebook.
Change the room before asking them to believe the argument.
He stared at it.
Then circled it.
Twice.
After class, he found Hayes in the athletic center lobby with a protein shake in one hand and Reese Halloran’s binder under his other arm.
Coop stopped.
Hayes looked down at the binder.
Then back up.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’re carrying Reese’s binder.”
Hayes tightened his grip. “She had a call with Claire.”
“So you’re binder support.”
“I’m secure in my masculinity.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You smiled.”
“I was emotionally moved.”
Hayes narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Deeply.”
Hayes shifted the binder under his arm. “Frankie would respect proper document care.”
Coop stared at him.
Hayes stared back.
Then both of them laughed.
It was stupid.
Necessary.
Coop leaned against the wall beside him. “How’s Reese?”
“Annoyed.”
“By?”
“Doyle, anonymous forums, Brenda’s phrase ‘community energy lens,’ the fact that Westbridge has a paid content team, and me breathing too close to the binder.”
“Reasonable list.”
“She’s also worried about Frankie.”
Coop’s smile faded.
“Yeah.”
Hayes studied him for a second. “You okay?”
Coop almost said yes.
Again.
The word sat ready on his tongue.
Easy.
Automatic.
Expected.
Instead, he looked through the lobby windows at the rink doors across the hall.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“Which part?”
“The part where they win and still have to prove the win means something.”
Hayes’s jaw tightened.
“Yeah.”
“And I don’t like that people can take one goal against and turn it into a referendum on whether the whole program should exist.”
“Yeah.”
“And I don’t like that Frankie thinks it can’t matter because if it matters, she can’t do her job.”
Hayes was quiet.
Coop realized too late how much he had said.
Too specific.
Too Frankie.
Hayes did not smirk.
Good friend.
Occasionally.
Instead, he leaned back beside Coop and said, “Reese was like that.”
Coop looked at him.
“Different version,” Hayes said. “But close. If she let herself feel every insult, every unfair slot, every ‘be grateful,’ she thought it would slow her down. So she turned everything into a plan.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Yeah.”
“What helped?”
Hayes’s mouth tipped wryly. “Mostly me shutting up.”
Coop laughed once.
“Helpful.”
“No, seriously. I kept wanting to fix the problem because I hated watching it hurt her. But sometimes fixing too fast sounds like you don’t trust them to survive it.”
Coop absorbed that.
Slowly.
Hayes looked over at him. “Frankie doesn’t need you to be less angry.”
“I know.”
“She also doesn’t need you to make the anger pretty.”
Coop looked down.
That one landed.
Hard.
Hayes added, “She probably needs you to keep showing up exactly where you said you’d be.”
Coop swallowed.
Seven means seven.
“I can do that,” he said.
Hayes smiled faintly. “I know.”
A door opened across the lobby.
Reese stepped out of Claire’s office, phone in hand, expression intent.
Frankie followed.