Chapter Eleven
Frankie
Frankie Callahan made it fourteen minutes before she regretted kissing Cooper Vale.
Not the kiss.
The kiss was not regrettable.
The kiss was a problem, obviously.
A catastrophic logistics event.
A breach in the wall.
A warm, steady, infuriatingly consent-forward disaster.
But not regrettable.
What she regretted was leaving the media room afterward with her legs slightly unreliable, her mouth still remembering him, and absolutely no plan for how to behave like a normal person in public.
Frankie did not enjoy situations without plans.
She had made rules.
Rules were good.
Rules made chaos smaller.
No telling the team.
No being weird in meetings.
No making her the soft part of his day out loud.
No changing the showcase.
No changing the work.
He got to ask before kissing her again.
Technically, she had implied yes.
Fine.
She had said yes.
Unfortunately, rules did not erase memory.
And Frankie’s memory had become a traitor.
It kept replaying his hand pausing beside her face.
The way he had waited.
The way he had not moved until she leaned into his palm.
The way his mouth had been careful for half a breath and then not careful at all once she pulled him closer.
The sound he made.
No.
Absolutely not.
Frankie stopped in the middle of the hallway and pressed both hands over her face.
“Bad?” Birdie asked.
Frankie dropped her hands.
Birdie stood six feet away, holding two smoothies and wearing the expression of a woman who had found an unattended emotional crime scene.
Frankie immediately resumed walking.
Birdie pivoted and fell into step beside her. “Interesting.”
“No.”
“I did not ask a question.”
“You were about to.”
“I was observing.”
“Observe less.”
Birdie sipped one smoothie. “You came from the media room.”
“Rooms exist.”
“Coop also came from the media room.”
Frankie stopped.
Birdie stopped too.
Slowly, dramatically, like a woodland creature sensing danger.
Frankie turned her head. “When?”
Birdie’s face became too innocent.
“After you.”
“How long after?”
“Long enough.”
Frankie stared.
Birdie sipped.
The smoothie made a loud, obscene slurping noise.
Frankie said, “If you know something, unknow it.”
Birdie’s eyes widened. “I know nothing.”
“Good.”
“I suspect everything.”
“Worse.”
“Your mouth is different.”
Frankie nearly dropped her bag.
“My mouth is not different.”
“It has secrets.”
“My mouth has teeth.”
“And secrets.”
Frankie stepped closer.
Birdie handed her the second smoothie immediately. “Peace offering.”
Frankie looked at it.
“What is this?”
“Blueberry. Protein. No banana because you said bananas are soft lies.”
“They are.”
“Exactly. I listen.”
Frankie did not take the smoothie.
Birdie held it out farther.
“It is not tribute,” Birdie said. “It is friendship carbohydrates.”
“That phrase is infected.”
“By Coop?”
Frankie’s look could have frozen the rink.
Birdie smiled into her straw.
“No idea why I said that.”
Frankie took the smoothie because refusing nutrients out of pride was inefficient.
Also because her hands needed something to hold.
Birdie watched her drink.
“Are we happy?” Birdie asked.
Frankie swallowed too fast and almost choked.
“No.”
“Are we panicking?”
“No.”
“Are we emotionally constipated but secretly glowing?”
Frankie pointed the smoothie at her. “I will pour this into your bag.”
Birdie looked down at her backpack, then back up. “That would be fair.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No.”
Birdie’s smile softened.
Bad.
Dangerous.
Frankie resumed walking before the softness could spread.
She had class in nine minutes.
She would go to class. She would sit in the back. She would take notes. She would not think about Coop’s hand at her waist or the way his voice had gone rough when he said, “Then you tell me what you want.”
She would be normal.
Normal was a word other people invented to feel superior.
Still.
She would attempt it.
Birdie walked beside her, mercifully quiet for seventeen seconds.
Then she said, “Was it good?”
Frankie almost tripped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t.”
“Sure.”
“I could mean the board packet.”
“Was the board packet good?”
“Yes.”
Birdie’s mouth curved. “Was it kiss good?”
Frankie stopped again.
Birdie kept walking three steps, realized she was alone, and slowly turned back.
Frankie said, “You have two choices.”
Birdie held up a finger. “Symbolic death?”
“Too mild.”
“Silence?”
“Yes.”
Birdie zipped her lips.
For real this time.
Mostly.
Frankie made it to class with Birdie trailing behind her like a gossip balloon losing helium.
She sat in the back row of Sports Psychology and opened her notebook to a fresh page.
The lecture was on attention control under pressure.
Ridiculous.
The universe had terrible comedic timing.
Professor Halverson wrote three words on the board.
STIMULUS. INTERPRETATION. RESPONSE.
Frankie stared at them.
No.
No, thank you.
She had enough stimuli.
Too many interpretations.
Responses were under review.
Professor Halverson turned to the room. “Elite performance is not about blocking out everything. It’s about filtering. The athlete must decide what information matters and what information becomes noise.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
Briefly.
Sutter had infected academia.
“You do not win by knowing less,” Halverson continued. “You win by knowing what to let in.”
Frankie opened her eyes and wrote the sentence down because apparently she enjoyed being personally attacked by education.
Her phone buzzed once in her pocket.
She did not check it.
Strong.
Disciplined.
Goalie.
It buzzed again.
Frankie lasted eight seconds.
She pulled it out under the desk.
Coop.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: I am being extremely normal in public.
Frankie’s mouth tried to smile.
She stopped it.
Mostly.
She typed:
FRANKIE: Unlikely.
His reply came fast.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Hurtful but fair.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Hayes looked at me and said “legitimate logistics” with air quotes.
Frankie stared at the message.
Then typed:
FRANKIE: Did you look weird?
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Define weird.
FRANKIE: Smile-related crimes.
A pause.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Possibly misdemeanor level.
Frankie pressed her lips together.
Professor Halverson said, “Callahan, would you like to define selective attention for the room?”
Frankie looked up.
The entire class turned toward her.
No better.
She put her phone facedown on the desk.
Selective attention.
Yes.
Fine.
She could do this.
“Selective attention is choosing the useful input and rejecting the noise,” Frankie said. “But if you reject everything, you miss the read.”
The room went quiet.
Professor Halverson’s eyebrows lifted.
“Excellent,” he said.
Frankie looked back at her notebook.
Do not perceive me, she thought violently.
Her phone buzzed again.
She waited until the professor turned away.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Did I just feel you being impressive somewhere?
Frankie blinked.
Then, against her will, laughed under her breath.
The girl beside her looked over.
Frankie stared until the girl looked away.
She typed:
FRANKIE: You felt nothing.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Noted.
A second later:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: For the record, I am also not making you the soft part of my day out loud.
Frankie’s fingers stilled.
Her pulse did the stupid thing.
She should not answer.
She answered.
FRANKIE: Good.
Then, because she was apparently determined to ruin her own life, she added:
FRANKIE: In writing?
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: If I put it in writing, Wren will subpoena it.
Frankie looked down so no one could see her face.
Birdie, three rows ahead, turned slowly in her seat like she had sensed emotional movement through concrete.
Frankie pointed at the board.
Birdie turned back around, shoulders shaking.
Class became survivable after that.
Barely.
Frankie took notes.
Real notes.
Pressure.
Filtering.
Pre-performance routines.
The difference between distraction and information.
She wrote that one twice.
By the time class ended, her brain had mostly returned to operational status.
Mostly.
She packed her notebook, ignored Birdie waiting too obviously outside the door, and headed toward the athletic center for the board preview prep.
The preview was tomorrow.
The showcase was six days away.
Westbridge was ten days away.
The numbers felt like pucks lined up on the ice, each one waiting its turn.
She could handle numbers.
Usually.
As long as they were not in her father’s voice.
Her phone buzzed again before she reached the rink.
Dad.
Her body stopped before her feet did.
The name lit the screen.
One second.
Two.
Three.
She did not answer.
The call ended.
A voicemail appeared.
Frankie stared at it.
Then, very deliberately, she swiped left.
Deleted.
The phone asked if she was sure.
Rude.
She tapped yes.
The voicemail vanished.
Her chest felt hollow and full at the same time.
She was still standing in the hallway when Coop turned the corner.
He stopped immediately.
The smile disappeared from his face.
Not because he was caught.
Because he saw her.
Really saw her.
Frankie hated and trusted it in equal measure.
“Weather?” he asked quietly.
She looked at the phone.
Then at him.
“Voicemail.”
His jaw tightened.
She held up the phone. “Deleted.”
Something moved across Coop’s face.
Not pity.
Never pity.
Pride, maybe.
Careful.
Private.
The kind he would not say out loud because rule three existed.
“Good visibility?” he asked.
Frankie slid the phone into her pocket.
“Better.”
He nodded.
They stood on opposite sides of the hallway like two people not thinking about a kiss in a media room.
Badly.
Coop cleared his throat. “Board packet review in ten?”
“Yes.”
“Wren has three new slides.”
“Threatening?”
“Polished-threatening.”
“Good.”
“Dani added student turnout projections.”
“Confidence intervals?”
“Yes.”
“Better.”
A pause.