Chapter Nine
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had made a mistake.
Several, technically.
Letting Wren use the glove-save photo.
Letting Coop see the notebook line.
Letting the team build a display called The Fire We Built while she stood close enough to feel something in her chest loosen.
But the biggest mistake had been answering her father’s call.
She knew better.
She had known better for years.
There were people whose names on a phone screen did not mean conversation.
They meant weather.
Her father was weather.
Cold front.
Low visibility.
Probable damage.
Frankie sat in her parked car behind the student rec center with both hands around the steering wheel and the call log still glowing on her phone.
DAD — 7 minutes, 42 seconds
Seven minutes.
Forty-two seconds.
That was all it had taken to make her feel sixteen again, wet gear in the back seat, hair still dripping from a shower, staring at the dashboard while her father clicked a pen and explained that three goals against was not the standard.
He had not yelled today.
He rarely yelled.
That was not his style.
Yelling was messy.
Her father preferred numbers.
“I saw the clip,” he had said.
No hello.
No how are you.
No nice save.
Just: “I saw the clip.”
Frankie had said, “Okay.”
“The glove was good.”
She should have hung up there.
A compliment from him was always bait.
“But you were late on the first-period goal.”
There it was.
Hook.
Line.
Old blood in the water.
Frankie had stared through her windshield at the brick side of the rec center while he walked through the goal like he was still entitled to her mistakes.
Bad push.
Slow read.
Lazy post integration.
He did not ask what the game situation had been.
Did not ask whether the puck had deflected.
Did not ask whether they won.
He knew they had.
It did not matter.
Wins were context.
Mistakes were character.
At the end, he had said, “Westbridge will eat that alive if you don’t clean it up.”
Frankie had said, “Goodbye.”
Then she had hung up before he could say anything else.
Growth, maybe.
Or cowardice.
Hard to tell.
Now she sat in the car, late for a team lift she had already decided not to attend, and tried to make her hands stop remembering the steering wheel from another car in another winter.
A knock hit the passenger window.
Frankie flinched.
Badly.
Her whole body jerked before her brain caught up.
Birdie stood outside the car, hands raised, eyes wide.
Frankie exhaled through her teeth and unlocked the door.
Birdie opened it but did not get in.
Smart.
“You okay?” Birdie asked.
Frankie hated that question.
It was too big.
Too small.
Too easy to lie to.
“Yes.”
Birdie looked at her.
Frankie looked back.
Birdie said, “You’re sitting in your car like it insulted your bloodline.”
“I’m resting.”
“In the driver’s seat?”
“Efficient.”
“With your bag still in the back?”
“Storage.”
“Frankie.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
Mistake.
Darkness made the call louder.
The glove was good, but—
She opened them again.
Birdie’s face had softened.
No.
Absolutely not.
Frankie reached for her phone. “I’m fine.”
Birdie’s gaze dropped to the screen before Frankie turned it off.
DAD.
Her mouth closed.
For once, Birdie Nguyen said nothing.
That was how Frankie knew things were dire.
Birdie leaned one hip against the open doorframe. “Do you want me to sit quietly, talk too much, or commit a symbolic crime?”
Frankie stared at the dashboard.
“Define symbolic.”
“No property damage. Probably.”
“Then no.”
“Quiet?”
“No.”
“Talking too much?”
Frankie wanted to say no.
She wanted to shut the door.
Start the car.
Drive somewhere empty.
Let the wall do its job.
Instead, she heard herself say, “He saw the clip.”
Birdie’s expression changed.
Tiny.
Careful.
“He said the glove save was good,” Frankie said. “Then he spent six minutes and fifty-something seconds on the goal.”
Birdie’s face went very still.
Chaos left her.
What remained was sharper.
“Your dad?”
Frankie nodded once.
Birdie’s voice dropped. “Does he always do that?”
Frankie looked out the windshield.
The rec center wall had a crack in the brick near the loading dock.
She focused on that.
Cracks were easier when they belonged to buildings.
“He used to track them,” Frankie said.
Birdie inhaled.
Frankie regretted speaking immediately.
Too much.
Too open.
No mask.
No pads.
No crease.
Only a car and a friend standing in the cold, looking at her like the math had finally become visible.
“Frankie,” Birdie said.
“No violins.”
Birdie swallowed.
Then nodded hard. “No violins.”
“Good.”
“Do you want me to hate him quietly or loudly?”
Frankie almost laughed.
It hurt.
“Quietly.”
“Done.”
Birdie climbed into the passenger seat without asking again, which should have annoyed Frankie, but somehow did not.
She shut the door.
The car filled with cold silence and the faint smell of rink gear.
Birdie tucked her hands into her sleeves and stared forward.
“I can also sit here and say nothing,” she said.
“You are bad at that.”
“I know. I’m offering growth.”
Frankie’s fingers loosened on the wheel.
The call sat inside her like a puck that had gotten through and refused to stop moving.
Westbridge will eat that alive.
Maybe he was right.
That was the worst part.
Not that he was cruel.
Cruelty could be rejected.
But numbers were numbers.
She had been late.
The goal had gone in.
Westbridge was better than Elmhurst.
Their top line lived on second chances.
Their shot maps were ugly in exactly the way that punished goalies who hesitated.
Frankie had watched the clips last night until the pixels blurred.
Low-high.
Screen.
Rebound.
Traffic.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Birdie said, “Is this where you start trying to become perfect?”
Frankie’s jaw tightened.
Birdie sighed. “I hate that I guessed right.”
“I’m not trying to become perfect.”
“You skipped lift.”
“I’m sitting.”
“Sitting with murder posture.”
“I have normal posture.”
“You look like a gargoyle with student loans.”
Frankie looked at her.
Birdie shrugged. “Accurate imagery.”
Against her will, Frankie breathed out something close to a laugh.
Birdie smiled, but softly.
Still no violins.
Good.
Frankie leaned her head back against the seat.
“If I’m late against Westbridge, it won’t be one post,” she said.
Birdie turned toward her.
“It’ll be everyone,” Frankie continued. “Doyle. The board. Donors. The forum. My father. People who don’t even know what they’re watching but know when the red light goes on.”
Birdie was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, “And us.”
Frankie looked at her.
Birdie’s eyes were bright now, but not teary.
Furious.
Good.
Fury was better.
“You forgot us,” Birdie said. “If one gets through against Westbridge, we’re there too. Reese. Dani. Wren. Me. Sutter. Even Hayes’s emotionally reformed face. The whole bench. The whole team.”
Frankie stared at him.
Birdie pointed at the windshield. “You keep making the crease sound empty. It’s not.”
Frankie’s throat tightened.
Deeply inconvenient.
“You don’t fit in the crease,” she said.
“I fit spiritually.”
“You barely fit in a conversation.”
“Exactly. I take up space.”
Frankie looked away before her face could do something unacceptable.
Birdie let the silence sit.
Then, because she was Birdie, she ruined it in the only way that might have saved it.
“Also, if your dad calls again, I can answer and pretend to be your agent.”
“No.”
“Your lawyer?”
“No.”
“Your emotional bouncer?”
Frankie’s mouth moved.
Barely.
“Maybe.”
Birdie gasped. “I have been promoted.”
“Temporary.”
“I’ll make a badge.”
“You will not.”
“I’ll make two.”
Frankie finally let go of the steering wheel.
Her palms ached.
She flexed them once.
Birdie noticed but did not comment.
Good.
Everybody was getting dangerously competent at loving her.
Very inconvenient.
Her phone buzzed.
Both of them looked.
Frankie’s body locked before the screen even lit.
Not Dad.
Coop.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Sutter says you’re missing lift, which I assume means either legitimate reason or felony. Need anything?
Birdie craned her neck.
Frankie turned the phone away.
“Privacy,” she said.
Birdie lifted both hands. “I am a vault.”
“You are a window.”
“Frosted glass.”
Frankie stared at Coop’s text.
Need anything?
Not where are you.
Not what happened.
Not why aren’t you there.
Need anything?
A door.
Always a door.
She did not know how to answer.
If she said no, he would believe her enough to back off.
If she said yes, he would come.
Probably.
Maybe.
Definitely.
That was terrifying.
Birdie watched her carefully.
No teasing now.
Frankie typed:
FRANKIE: No felony.
She stared at it.
Sent.
Coop replied:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Comforting. Legitimate reason, then?
Frankie’s thumb hovered.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Family weather.
Father being father.
I heard his pen again.
Too much.
She typed:
FRANKIE: Weather.
She almost deleted it.
Did not.
Sent.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Want cover, quiet, or company?
Frankie stopped breathing.
Birdie leaned over despite the privacy declaration and saw enough to make her eyes widen.
“Wow,” Birdie said quietly.
Frankie turned the screen away again, but there was no heat behind it.
Cover.
Quiet.
Company.
Three options.
Not one assumption.
Not I’m coming.
Not are you okay twelve times until she lied from exhaustion.
He had given her exits.
Doors.
Frankie swallowed.
Birdie murmured, “That is annoyingly good.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
Frankie hated the question.
Not because she did not know.
Because she did.
Quiet had sounded good five minutes ago.
Cover would be smart.
But company—
Company had started to feel like something other than threat.
Very specific company.
Patient.
Sincere.
Too early.
Probably carrying coffee or some other emotional weapon disguised as hydration.
Frankie typed one word before she could lose nerve.
FRANKIE: Company.