Chapter Seven
Frankie
Frankie Callahan did not ask Reese if Cooper Vale had eaten.
That was not what happened.
Technically.
She had asked if the men’s team had been fed because Nolan was becoming a concessions liability and hungry hockey players made bad decisions.
Reese had interpreted the question incorrectly.
On purpose.
With captain malice.
Now Frankie had to live with the consequences, which included Hayes apparently texting Coop and Coop probably smiling at his phone like a golden retriever who had discovered evidence.
Unacceptable.
“Your face is doing something,” Birdie said.
Frankie did not look up from taping her stick. “Your face does things constantly. I suffer in silence.”
“You have never suffered silently in your life.”
“I suffer efficiently.”
Birdie dropped onto the bench beside her, already in leggings and a Spitfires sweatshirt, hair twisted high and messy.
Morning skate had ended twenty minutes ago, but the locker room still smelled like cold gear, shampoo, and the lemon cleaner facilities used when they wanted to pretend old buildings were not old.
Across the room, Dani was hunched over her laptop, building the donor dashboard with a focus so intense it deserved its own soundtrack. Wren sat beside her, reviewing post language and occasionally making small approving noises that sounded like threats.
Reese had left for a meeting with Claire.
Coward.
Frankie pulled the tape tight.
Birdie leaned closer. “Did you ask Reese if Coop ate dinner?”
Frankie’s hand slipped.
The tape wrinkled.
She stared at it.
Then at Birdie.
“No.”
Birdie’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, you did.”
“I asked about team nutrition.”
“You asked about his team nutrition.”
“Nutrition is team-based.”
“His name is not Team.”
Frankie tore the tape with her teeth. “Stop speaking.”
Birdie clutched her chest. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s paperwork.”
“It’s care.”
“It’s logistics.”
“It’s flirting wearing a hard hat.”
Frankie pointed the stick at her. “Do you want to be healthy?”
Birdie leaned away. “Physically or emotionally?”
“Either.”
“Not especially.”
“Then continue.”
Birdie’s grin softened at the edges, which was always dangerous. Birdie chaos was manageable. Birdie sincerity required protective equipment.
“You know it’s okay, right?” Birdie asked.
Frankie resumed taping. “What?”
“Liking someone.”
Frankie laughed.
One sharp sound.
No humor.
“I like several people.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
Birdie looked across the locker room, then back at Frankie. “Like you notice when he’s in the room before he says anything. Like you kick him under tables instead of punching him, which for you is basically a sonnet. Like you asked if he ate.”
“I ask if people hydrate.”
“Exactly.”
“Hydration is medical.”
“Frankie.”
“No.”
The word came out too hard.
The room did not stop, because Dani and Wren had survival instincts and also laptops, but Birdie did.
She sat back.
Frankie hated that.
She hated seeing the exact moment people bumped into the wall.
She hated the tiny impact.
The silence after.
Birdie’s voice went gentler. “Okay.”
Frankie looked down at her stick.
The tape was uneven.
She had to start over.
For once, yes.
Something to fix.
“I don’t have room,” Frankie said.
She had not meant to.
The words had escaped through a crack she had not approved.
Birdie stayed quiet.
Unnatural.
Frankie kept her eyes on the blade. “The showcase. Westbridge. The review. The forum. Games. Sutter. My own head. There’s no room.”
“For Coop?”
“For anything that makes me worse at the job.”
Birdie exhaled.
Not a sigh.
More like she had been holding breath for Frankie and had finally realized she could not hold it for both of them forever.
“Does he?” Birdie asked.
Frankie’s fingers tightened around the tape.
“Does he what?”
“Make you worse?”
That should have been easy.
Yes.
Distraction made goalies worse.
Feelings made people stupid.
People got through and then left doors open behind them.
That was how things entered.
Pucks.
Noise.
Need.
Fear.
Hope.
Frankie swallowed.
Coop did not make her worse.
That was the problem.
He made the ugly things easier to name.
He made quiet less empty.
He made coffee appear without foam art.
He made room for her no and somehow made yes feel less like surrender.
Frankie hated the answer so much she refused to say it out loud.
Birdie watched her not say it.
Then nodded.
“Okay,” Birdie said again.
“Stop saying okay like you’re learning things.”
“I am learning things.”
“Unlearn.”
“No.”
“Birdie.”
“Nope.” Birdie stood. “You can threaten me all you want, but I am a locked vault of emotional intelligence.”
Wren called from across the room, “You told the entire locker room you cried at a squirrel.”
Birdie pointed at her. “That squirrel was burdened.”
Dani, without looking up, said, “It did look burdened.”
“Thank you.”
Frankie tore the bad tape off her stick.
Clean start.
That was better.
The locker room door opened, and Coach Sutter stepped in.
Every conversation died.
Even laptops seemed to type more respectfully.
Sutter held a clipboard in one hand and a folded paper in the other.
“Callahan,” she said.
Frankie’s shoulders set. “Coach.”
“With me.”
No explanation.
No tone.
Just command.
Frankie stood and followed her into the hallway.
Birdie’s eyes tracked her the whole way, worried now.
Frankie did not look back.
Looking back made things bigger.
The hallway outside the locker room was cold and mostly empty. Sutter walked past the equipment room, past the training room, and stopped beside the old trophy case where Brookfield had displayed decades of men’s hockey glory and exactly one crooked Spitfires team photo from three seasons ago.
Someone had recently straightened it.
Probably Reese.
Possibly Wren, if the angle offended her.
Sutter handed Frankie the folded paper.
Frankie opened it.
A printout.
Westbridge roster notes.
Player stats.
Recent game results.
Shot maps.
Frankie scanned the page.
Westbridge had scored five or more goals in six of their last eight games.
Their top line generated ugly traffic in front.
Their power play conversion rate was obscene.
Their left wing, Asher Reed, had seven goals, eighteen assists, and apparently too much time for chirping.
Frankie’s stomach tightened.
Sutter watched her read.
“They are good,” Sutter said.
Frankie folded the paper once. “Yes.”
“Good teams are useful.”
“Because they teach?”
“Because they reveal.”
Frankie looked at her.
Sutter nodded toward the stats. “You saw the forum.”
Frankie did not bother lying.
“Yes.”
“Did it enter the crease?”
“No.”
Sutter’s stare sharpened.
Frankie’s jaw clenched.
“Some,” she admitted.
“Good.”
Frankie blinked.
Sutter’s mouth did not move. “You are not a brick wall. Brick walls do not improve. They stand until they crack. Goalies adjust.”
Frankie looked down at the paper again.
The numbers blurred for one second.
She hated that.
Sutter said, “Letting information in is not the same as letting rot in.”
Frankie said nothing.
“Their top line goes low-high. They create screens. They live on second chances. That matters.” Sutter tapped the paper. “Anonymous cowards hoping you fail do not.”
Frankie breathed through her nose.
In.
Out.
Wall up.
No.
Not wall.
Read.
Adjust.
Sutter waited until Frankie looked at her.
“You do not win by blocking out everything,” Sutter said. “You win by knowing what to let through.”
The hallway went quiet around that.
Frankie hated when coaches said things that applied off the ice.
It felt like cheating.
Sutter tucked the clipboard under her arm. “Vale requested extra ice for the goalie station walk-through.”
Frankie’s head snapped up.
Sutter’s expression did not change.
Of course it did not.
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For sight lines, according to his email.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes. “His email.”
“It had bullet points.”
“Of course it did.”
“And no exclamation marks.”
That surprised her.
Coop used exclamation marks the way Nolan used poor judgment.
“None?”
“None.”
Frankie absorbed that.
Sutter watched her absorb it.
Terrible woman.
“Do you approve the ice time?” Sutter asked.
Frankie frowned. “You’re asking me?”
“It is your station.”
The words landed oddly.
Not the goalie station.
Your station.
A thing she got to shape.
Not endure.
Frankie looked back at the Westbridge sheet.
Low-high.
Screens.
Second chances.
A showcase where people might finally see that saves started before the shot.
Where donors might understand she was not a mascot in pads.
Where Coop, annoyingly, had already understood the point enough to ask for ice time without asking for credit.
She folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of her hoodie.
“Yes,” she said.
Sutter nodded once. “Good.”
Then she walked away.
Frankie stood in the hallway for another beat, staring at the trophy case.
At the Spitfires photo.
At the old men’s championship plaques.
At the reflection of herself in the glass.
Small.
Dark hoodie.
Tired eyes.
Goalie.
Not wall.
Goalie.
She did not know why that felt different today.
She returned to the locker room before the thought could become worse.
Birdie looked up immediately. “Are you alive?”
“No.”
“Spiritually?”
“Also no.”
“Relatable.”
Frankie grabbed her bag. “I need extra ice.”
Birdie gasped. “Are we doing secret training montage?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“A little montage?”
“Do you want to be invited?”
Birdie zipped her mouth shut with imaginary force.
Dani looked up from her laptop. “What kind of extra ice?”
“Goalie station walk-through. Coop requested it.”
Wren’s fingers paused over her keyboard.
Birdie slowly turned her head.
Frankie pointed at both of them. “No.”
Wren said, “I said nothing.”
“You paused in italics.”
“I did.”
Birdie stood. “I can help.”
“No.”
“I am excellent traffic.”
“You are banned traffic.”
“Because I’m too powerful?”
“Because you’ll chirp the imaginary donors.”