Chapter Six #2
Coop had not known she was in there.
Which was probably good, because his entire body reacted like a badly trained dog hearing a treat bag.
She wore black leggings, a Spitfires quarter-zip, and her hair down for once, damp at the ends like she had showered after morning skate and then forgotten hair existed as a concept.
Her eyes found him.
Fast.
Then flicked to Hayes.
Then to the binder.
“Is Madden holding the binder hostage?” Frankie asked.
Reese said, “I’m evaluating.”
Hayes lifted the binder slightly. “I have treated it with respect.”
Frankie looked at Coop. “Witness?”
Coop stood straighter. “The binder appears unharmed.”
“Appears?”
“I haven’t checked for internal damage.”
“Do that.”
Hayes looked betrayed. “Et tu?”
Frankie’s mouth twitched.
Coop’s day improved in a way that felt medically concerning.
Reese took the binder back and tucked it against her side. “Claire wants updated player availability for the showcase stations by tomorrow.”
Coop nodded. “I can get the men’s side.”
Frankie said, “No Nolan on goalie station.”
“Nolan is a goalie.”
“Nolan is a prophecy with pads.”
Hayes nodded. “Accurate.”
Coop tried to defend his teammate.
Could not.
“Fair.”
Frankie shifted her attention to Coop fully now. “And no making the goalie station funny.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Your team has instincts.”
“Bad ones?”
“Loud ones.”
“Again, fair.”
Reese looked between them with the face of a woman filing information away for later emotional usefulness.
Coop did not appreciate it.
Frankie noticed too.
“Halloran,” she said.
Reese’s brows lifted. “Callahan.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You have binder face.”
Hayes whispered to Coop, “She does have binder face.”
Reese pointed at him without looking. “You’re on thin ice.”
Hayes smiled.
Openly.
Stupidly.
In love.
Coop had once thought watching his best friend fall for Reese Halloran would be like witnessing a car crash in slow motion.
Instead, it was like watching someone finally learn where to put his hands during a fire.
Useful.
Grounded.
Still occasionally embarrassing.
Frankie looked away from them first.
Something small crossed her face.
Not pain.
Not exactly.
A question, maybe.
Coop wondered if she saw the same thing he did.
Proof.
Not that love solved pressure.
Not that romance made the fight easier.
That a person could be deeply loved and still remain fully themselves.
Team first.
Not team only.
Reese tapped the binder. “I need to get this to Sutter.”
Hayes stepped with her automatically.
Reese stopped and looked at him.
He stopped too.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“With you?”
“Why?”
Hayes thought about it.
Coop watched the wheels turn.
Beautiful.
“No reason,” Hayes said finally. “I panicked.”
Reese’s smile was tiny and devastating. “Better.”
Frankie turned toward the hallway. “Disgusting.”
Coop followed because he had somewhere to be in that direction and not because Frankie was walking away.
Mostly.
They fell into step without discussing it.
Also dangerous.
The hallway was quieter than the lobby, lined with old team photos and bulletin boards covered in schedules, flyers, and a newly printed showcase announcement Wren had clearly bullied into existence.
Brookfield Hockey ShowcaseREAD THE ICE. RAISE THE FIRE.
Frankie stopped in front of it.
Coop stopped beside her.
The poster was clean and sharp. Dark navy background. Pink-white type. Photos of both programs, with the Spitfires not tucked behind the men’s team but placed level with them.
Frankie’s glove save was there.
Small.
Bottom corner.
Not the whole image.
Not decoration.
Proof.
Coop watched Frankie look at it.
“You okay with the photo?” he asked.
“No candid stills.”
“It’s from game video.”
“Loophole.”
“Wren does love those.”
Frankie folded her arms.
He waited.
Finally, she said, “It’s okay.”
That meant something between acceptable and I may not destroy it.
“I like the line,” Coop said.
She glanced at him. “Which one?”
“Raise the Fire.”
“Wren.”
“Read the Ice?”
“Mine.”
“I know.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because it’s better?”
“Because it sounds like you.”
She looked back at the poster.
The hallway felt suddenly too narrow.
Coop held still.
He was learning that with Frankie, a lot happened in the pause after the thing you said. She tested it there. Turned it over. Checked for hooks.
He wanted there to be no hooks.
Not with her.
Not ever.
“Your line is good too,” she said.
He blinked. “Wall and wave?”
“No.”
“Which one?”
She pointed at the bottom of the poster.
In smaller text, beneath the event description:
Brookfield is not asking whether women’s hockey belongs here. Brookfield is showing what happens when it is properly backed.
Coop’s chest warmed.
“That was yours,” he said.
“You kept it.”
“Wren kept it.”
“You sent it.”
“Because it was good.”
Frankie’s eyes stayed on the poster.
“Still,” she said.
One word.
Soft, for her.
He had no idea what to do with it except not ruin it.
So he said, “Still.”
They stood there longer than necessary.
Students moved past them. Someone from lacrosse laughed too loudly around the corner. The building carried on.
Then Frankie’s phone buzzed.
She checked it and frowned.
“What?” Coop asked.
“Family.”
The word came out clipped.
Not neutral.
Clipped.
Coop did not ask.
He wanted to.
He really wanted to.
But Hayes’s words tapped his shoulder.
Keep showing up exactly where you said you’d be.
Not everywhere she had not invited you.
Frankie locked her phone and slid it into her pocket.
Her face had changed.
Not much.
Enough.
Wall up.
Higher.
The poster moment closed.
“Meeting at seven tomorrow,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Bring updated availability.”
“I will.”
“No bagels.”
“You already banned bagels.”
“Ban remains active.”
“Coffee?”
A pause.
Tiny.
“Black,” she said.
Then she walked away.
Coop watched her go until she turned the corner.
Then he looked back at the poster.
Family.
One word.
A locked door.
He stood there for another second before heading to Coach Landry’s office to collect availability sheets.
By four, he had texted every men’s player who might help with the showcase.
By four-ten, he regretted democracy.
Tanner replied first.
TANNER: I can do relay. No speeches.COOP: No one asked you to give a speech.TANNER: Good. I would be powerful and divisive.
Nolan replied with:
NOLAN: GOALIE STATION. FUTURE GHOST. PUBLIC DEMANDS IT.COOP: Public has not been consulted.NOLAN: Public fears excellence.COOP: Frankie said no.NOLAN: I respect women.
Hayes sent:
HAYES: I’ll do whatever Reese assigns me.COOP: That’s not leadership.HAYES: It is survival.COOP: Fair.
By five, the availability sheet was mostly complete.
By five-thirty, he found Coach Landry in his office, watching game tape with one hand resting against his chin.
Landry did not look up when Coop knocked.
“Vale.”
“Coach.”
“Sit.”
Coop sat.
On the screen, Frankie made the high-glove save again.
Coop’s breath caught before he could stop it.
Landry noticed because coaches were terrible that way.
“Good save,” Landry said.
“Yeah.”
“Better read.”
Coop looked at him.
Landry paused the video just before the shot.
“See here,” he said, pointing. “Puck carrier curls. Slot option misses. Third stick becomes the threat. Most goalies chase the first two. She waits half a breath longer than comfortable.”
Coop leaned forward.
He had watched the save so many times, but not like this.
Not frame by frame.
Not the way Frankie might see it.
Landry advanced the video.
Frankie’s glove rose.
Puck disappeared.
“Patience,” Landry said. “That’s the save.”
Coop stared at the frozen image.
Frankie in the crease.
Mask on.
Glove high.
Whole rink blurred around her.
Patience.
Of course.
Coach Landry sat back. “How’s the showcase work?”
“Moving.”
“Good.”
“We’ve got player availability. Event flow. Wren’s campaign is strong. Dani’s building data. Claire wants donor language by Friday.”
Landry nodded. “And the pressure?”
Coop knew better than to pretend not to understand.
“Growing.”
“Good.”
Coop frowned. “Good?”
Landry turned off the monitor and faced him.
“Pressure shows where the structure is weak.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
Coop rubbed a hand over his jaw.
Landry watched him for a second. “You’re carrying more than logistics.”
Coop almost-smiled.
Almost.
Easy was right there, waiting.
He didn’t use it.
“I’m trying not to make it about me.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
Coop looked at him.
Landry’s voice stayed calm. “Supporting the women’s program does not require making yourself the hero of their pressure. It requires doing the work you said you’d do. Cleanly. Publicly. Without needing applause for being decent.”
Coop sat back.
The words should have stung.
They did.
A little.
Mostly because he agreed.
“I know,” he said.
“Do you?”
Coop breathed in.
Thought of the forum.
Frankie’s face.
His own anger.
The way he wanted to shield her from things she had never asked him to shield.
“I’m learning,” he said.
Landry nodded once.
That was high praise from him.
“You’re an alternate captain because people like you,” Landry said. “But you’ll keep being one because you learn when being liked isn’t the point.”
Coop swallowed.
The silver A on his chest suddenly felt heavier.
Good.
Maybe it should.
Landry handed him a folder. “Updated rink access schedule. Give a copy to Sutter.”
“Got it.”
“And Vale?”
Coop paused at the door.
“Yeah?”
Landry’s mouth curved faintly. “No Egg Council concessions.”
Coop closed his eyes.
“I’m handling it.”
“Good.”
When Coop left Landry’s office, the hallway outside the rink had thinned. Evening practice blocks were starting. The building shifted into night mode: colder air, brighter ice, fewer voices.
He found Sutter near the women’s bench, writing something on a clipboard with the calm brutality of a person issuing sentences.
“Coach,” he said.