Chapter Thirteen #2
That was the terrifying part.
He had made her care in a way she did not understand, but he had also made her less alone in the caring.
He had not taken work from her.
He had protected her no in a room full of adults.
He had kissed her like her yes mattered more than his want.
He had written breathe before invisible work at the bottom of a timing sheet.
Frankie hated how much that counted.
“No,” she said.
Birdie nodded. “Then maybe the question isn’t whether he makes you worse.”
Frankie looked at her.
Birdie shrugged. “Maybe the question is whether you can let something good count without turning it into a threat first.”
Frankie stared.
Birdie’s eyes widened slightly.
“What?” she asked.
Frankie said, “That was coherent.”
“I know. I scared myself.”
“You should write it down.”
“Wren would edit it.”
“Probably.”
They sat there for another second.
Then Birdie bumped her shoulder once and stood.
“No violins,” Birdie said.
Frankie looked down at the folded timing sheet.
“No violins,” she agreed.
After showering, she had exactly eighteen minutes before her first class.
She should have gone straight there.
Instead, she went to the trophy case.
The Fire We Built display was almost finished now.
Wren had added the timeline cards. Dani’s numbers looked clean and terrifyingly persuasive. Reese’s captain statement was printed in one panel. Hayes’s men’s-team support quote was beneath it, secondary but present.
Frankie’s glove-save photo sat small and off-center.
Exactly as requested.
Under it, Wren had placed the line:
Not luck. Work.
Frankie stood there for a long time.
Long enough that students passed behind her twice.
Long enough for the janitor to nod at her like this was normal behavior.
Long enough for her to realize she did not hate seeing herself there.
She did not like it.
Not exactly.
But she did not hate it.
Progress was a weird animal.
It did not look like fireworks.
Sometimes it looked like standing in a hallway and not flinching at your own photograph.
Her phone buzzed.
She checked.
Coop.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Important pastry follow-up: was scone truly acceptable or were you being brave?
Frankie looked at the case.
Then typed:
FRANKIE: Approved.
A pause.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Low, moderate, or high acceptable?
She considered.
FRANKIE: Structurally sound.
His reply came fast.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: That may be the best review I’ve ever received.
Frankie’s mouth curved.
Small.
Private.
Then another message came.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Can I see you later?
Her heart kicked.
Three letters would be easy.
Yes.
No.
Why.
She looked up at the display again.
At the team proof.
The work.
The off-center photo.
The place she had allowed herself to be visible without disappearing into it.
Her thumb hovered.
Then she typed:
FRANKIE: Define see.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Walk. Coffee. No agenda. No public weirdness. Ask-before-kiss rules remain active.
Frankie swallowed.
There it was.
The door.
The handle.
The space to say no.
She typed:
FRANKIE: Six-fifty?
His answer was instant.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: You’re stealing my brand.
FRANKIE: Your brand is punctual snacks.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: And emotional restraint.
Frankie stared at that.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
In the hallway.
Alone.
A small sound, but real.
Two students looked at her.
She stared back until they kept walking.
Then she typed:
FRANKIE: Debatable.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Fair.
She slid her phone into her pocket and turned toward class.
For the rest of the day, the world did not fall apart.
Her father did not call.
The forum rotted without her reading it.
Classes happened.
Dani sent an updated chart with the subject line CONFIDENCE INTERVALS, MY BELOVED.
Birdie texted a photo of a squirrel and wrote, Emotionally stable? unclear.
Wren sent a warning that the final showcase media push would go live at noon tomorrow and everyone should “prepare for attention without becoming embarrassing.”
At 6:47 that evening, Frankie reached the side entrance of the rink.
Coop was already there.
Standing under the overhang in a navy jacket, hands in his pockets, hair curling at the edges from the damp cold.
No coffee.
No pastry.
Just him.
That was worse.
He looked up when she approached.
The warmth came first.
Then restraint.
Always restraint.
“Six-fifty,” he said.
“You were early.”
“So were you.”
“I’m a goalie.”
“That explains everything.”
“It should.”
He smiled.
Frankie stopped in front of him, close but not too close.
Outside, the sky had gone dark blue, and the rink lights behind the glass made the world look colder than it felt.
“Walk?” he asked.
She nodded.
They started toward the path behind the athletic center, where campus thinned into dark trees, shoveled sidewalks, and old snow piled along the curbs.
For the first minute, neither of them spoke.
Frankie liked that.
Then Coop said, “I have an official update.”
“From the pastry committee?”
“Mrs. O’Malley.”
“Worse.”
“She said not to be stupid.”
Frankie looked at him.
“General advice?”
“Directed.”
“At you?”
“Yes.”
“Useful woman.”
“Alarming woman.”
“Both.”
They walked beneath a lamppost.
Their shadows stretched ahead of them, almost touching.
Frankie tucked her hands deeper into her hoodie pocket.
Coop did not reach for her.
She noticed.
She appreciated it.
She also hated it a little.
Wanting had become complicated.
Or maybe it had always been complicated, and she had simply avoided participating.
Coop glanced at her. “Can I tell you something?”
“Legally?”
“Personally.”
“Worse.”
“Yeah.”
She looked at him.
His face was serious.
Still version.
No golden-retriever performance.
No room-easing smile.
Just Coop.
“Okay,” she said.
He breathed out once.
“I told my mom I might come late Sunday and not stay long.”
Frankie waited.
That did not sound like much.
Which meant it probably was.
“And?” she asked.
“She said okay.”
He looked almost embarrassed by the relief in his own voice.
Frankie understood that kind of embarrassment.
The kind that came from realizing a door had been unlocked for years and you had still been bracing against it.
“That’s good,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Did you perish?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
He laughed softly.
Then his smile faded. “I felt like I might.”
Frankie looked at him.
Not with pity.
Pity was useless.
With recognition.
“Because being less easy felt like danger,” she said.
His eyes met hers.
“Yes.”
She nodded once.
They kept walking.
A car moved slowly through the lot, headlights washing over the snowbanks before fading away.
Frankie said, “I deleted a voicemail.”
“I know.”
“I might delete the next one too.”
“Good.”
She glared.
He held up a hand. “Sorry. Not Sutter good. Coop good.”
“Define.”
“Proud, but not out loud.”
“That was out loud.”
“Right. Still learning.”
Her mouth faint curve of a smiled.
He saw.
Of course.
They reached the back side of the rink, where the building blocked most of the wind. The path was empty. A metal bench sat near the brick wall, half-dusted with snow.
Frankie stopped.
Coop stopped too.
For a second, they just stood there.
The quiet changed.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
Waiting.
Frankie looked at him.
His hands stayed in his pockets.
No pressure.
Ask-before-kiss rules remain active.
She hated that his restraint made her want to step closer.
So she did.
One step.
Coop’s eyes darkened slightly.
“Frankie,” he said.
Not warning.
Question.
She stood close enough now to see the faint redness at the tip of his nose from the cold.
“Ask,” she said.
His breath fogged between them.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He moved slowly, even now, even after two kisses in the media room and two in the service hall.
Like yes was not something he spent.
Like it renewed every time.
His hands came out of his pockets. One settled lightly at her waist. The other rose to her cheek, warm against the cold.
Frankie leaned into it.
On purpose.
Then he kissed her.
Soft.
Quiet.
No audience.
No victory.
No adrenaline from meetings or board previews.
Just the two of them outside the rink, under a dark winter sky, with campus humming somewhere beyond the building.
It should have been less dangerous than the others.
It was worse.
Because nothing pushed them into it except wanting.
Frankie’s hand found the front of his jacket.
Not yanking this time.
Holding.
The kiss deepened slowly.
Her body warmed despite the cold.
Coop made that low sound again, the one that had been haunting her since the media room.
She decided she liked it.
Terrible decision.
Probably permanent.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead lightly against hers.
This time, she did not move away.
“Hi,” he murmured.
Frankie closed her eyes.
“If you say hi after every kiss, I will reconsider this arrangement.”
His laugh brushed her mouth.
“Noted.”
“Say something else.”
A pause.
Then, quietly, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Her eyes opened.
That was worse than hi.
Much worse.
Too honest.
Too simple.
No charm to swat away.
No joke to hide behind.
She looked down at his jacket, fingers still curled there.
“That’s soft,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Rule three.”
“I know.”
“You said it out loud.”
“I did.”
She should step back.
Enforce the rule.
Make a new one.
Instead, she stayed.
Because maybe some rules needed review.
Not repeal.
Just review.
“I’m glad too,” she said.
The words came out small.
Almost too small to count.
But Coop heard them.
His face changed.
Like she had handed him something enormous and trusted him not to drop it.
He swallowed.
“Frankie—”
Her phone rang.
The sound cut through the quiet like a skate blade catching wrong.
She stepped back immediately.
Dad.
She knew before she looked.
Of course it was.
The screen confirmed it.
DAD.
Her body went cold in a way the weather had not managed.
Coop saw.
His face went still.
Not angry.
Not moving in.
Waiting.
The phone rang again.
Frankie stared at it.
She could answer.
She could not.
She could delete.
She could throw the phone into a snowbank and let spring decide.
The call ended.
A voicemail appeared.
For a second, she could feel the old reflex.
Listen.
Prepare.
Correct.
Be better before he finds the next flaw.
Her thumb hovered.
Coop said nothing.
Good.
Bad.
Hard.
Frankie swiped left.
Deleted.
The confirmation popped up.
Are you sure?
She tapped yes.
The voicemail disappeared.
Her hand shook once.
Only once.
Coop noticed.
She knew because his own hand moved half an inch, then stopped.
Asking without asking.
Frankie looked at him.
Then held out her hand.
His eyes softened.
He took it.
Warm fingers.
Steady grip.
Not tight.
Not claiming.
There.
She exhaled.
“Fine and hurt?” he asked quietly.
She looked down at their joined hands.
Then back up.
“No,” she said.
His brow creased.
Frankie squeezed his hand once.
“Fine and angry.”
Coop’s mouth curved slowly.
“That counts too.”
A smile threatened the corner of her mouth.
Almost.
They stood there in the cold, holding hands behind the rink like teenagers with better boundaries and worse emotional damage.
Then the side door burst open.
Birdie stepped out, saw them, and froze.
Frankie and Coop released hands at exactly the same time.
Too fast.
Guilty.
Birdie stared.
Her mouth opened.
Frankie pointed at her. “Choose life.”
Birdie’s mouth closed.
Then she nodded so hard her ponytail bounced.
“I saw nothing.”
“Good.”
“I perceived weather.”
“Better.”
Birdie backed toward the door, eyes huge. “Wren needs Frankie for media approval. Not emergency. Just terrifying.”
Frankie zipped her hoodie higher.
Coop looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Frankie glared at him.
He failed silently.
Birdie disappeared inside.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Frankie sighed.
“Team knows in twelve hours.”
“Generous estimate.”
“Six?”
“Maybe.”
She looked at him.
He looked back, smile soft but not careless.
“We don’t have to tell them until you want,” he said.
“They’ll figure it out.”
“Probably.”
“Birdie will become unbearable.”
“She already is.”
“True.”
Frankie looked toward the door.
The old panic tried to rise.
If people knew, it became real.
If it became real, it could become weakness.
Distraction.
Evidence.
A target.
But her father had called, and she had deleted the voicemail.
The forum had circled her photo, and she had kept the station.
Coop had kissed her, and practice had been good.
Maybe the wall was not the reason she survived.
Maybe the read was.
She looked back at him.
“No telling,” she said.
His expression stayed open. “Okay.”
“But no lying if asked directly by Reese.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That is very specific.”
“Reese has captain eyes. Lying wastes time.”
“Agreed.”
“And no letting Birdie name anything.”
“Strongly agreed.”
“And no public weirdness.”
“No public weirdness.”
A pause.
Frankie added, “Some private weirdness may be conditionally approved.”
Coop’s smile went slow.
Too slow.
Dangerous.
“Good to know.”
“Do not smile like that.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
She walked toward the door before she could kiss him again and break several rules in a row.
At the entrance, she paused and looked back.
Coop stood under the rink light, hands in his pockets again, hair ruffled by the wind, face warm in a way that made the cold seem less convincing.
“Six-fifty tomorrow?” he asked.
Frankie nodded.
“Bring coffee,” she said.
“Black?”
“Yes.”
“Pastry?”
She considered.
“Approved pastry candidate.”
His smile widened.
“Structurally sound?”
“Required.”
“Copy that.”
Frankie went inside.
Birdie waited ten feet from the door, vibrating.
Frankie pointed at her.
“No.”
Birdie slapped both hands over her mouth.
Wren looked up from the media room doorway. “Why is she silent?”
“Medical miracle,” Frankie said.
Dani appeared behind Wren. “Should we be concerned?”
“Always,” Wren said.
Frankie walked past them, phone in her pocket, Coop’s warmth still in her hand, her father’s voicemail deleted, and the unsettling knowledge that happiness might not be safe.
But it might be useful information.
And for now, she was choosing to let it in.