Chapter Sixteen #2
Dani suggested, “What about, ‘The save begins when the goalie identifies the most dangerous option, not when the puck leaves the stick’?”
Frankie pointed at her. “Good.”
Dani smiled.
Coop watched Frankie give praise and felt unreasonably pleased.
Frankie’s eyes cut to him. “Do not be proud of me for teamwork.”
“I’m proud of Dani.”
Dani froze.
Then looked delighted.
Frankie stared.
Coop smiled innocently.
“You found a loophole,” she said.
“Within rules.”
“Barely.”
Dani laughed under her breath.
They tightened the script into something clean:
Most people watch the puck. A goalie watches the danger.
The save begins before the shot, when she reads the pressure, the passing lane, the screen, and the second chance waiting after contact.
Investment works the same way. If Brookfield only funds the visible moment, it misses the work that makes the moment possible.
Frankie stared at the paragraph.
Dani looked at her. “Accurate?”
Frankie nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Coop leaned back.
“That’s strong.”
Frankie looked at him.
Not warning.
Not deflecting.
Checking.
“You think?”
“I know.”
Her gaze held his for one beat too long.
Dani closed the laptop a little louder than necessary.
“I need to print this,” she said, standing. “Very far away.”
Frankie’s head snapped toward her.
Dani’s eyes widened with innocent meadow energy.
“Printer is far.”
“It’s outside the room,” Frankie said.
“Emotionally far.”
Then Dani left.
Coward.
Excellent friend.
The door remained open.
The hallway outside had traffic.
Not private.
Semi-private.
Frankie sat back in her chair and looked at Coop.
“Wren knows.”
“Wren knew before we knew.”
“Probably.”
“She gave me a speech.”
“About?”
“You.”
Frankie’s face closed by half an inch.
Coop shook his head. “Not like that. She told me not to handle you.”
Frankie studied him.
“And?”
“And I agree.”
Her fingers tapped once against the script.
“People say that.”
“I know.”
“They still do it.”
“I know.”
“Especially when they like feeling useful.”
That one hit.
Clean.
Because she was right.
Coop looked down at his hands.
“I’m good at useful.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes too good.”
“Yes.”
He laughed once.
No humor.
“You could pretend to argue.”
“No.”
“Fair.”
Frankie’s voice gentled by half a degree. “Useful isn’t bad.”
He looked up.
She was watching him carefully now.
No pity.
Useful.
Just read.
“Being needed made sense in my house,” he said.
“I know.”
“You didn’t know that much.”
“No,” she said. “I guessed.”
“Because you’re good at looking.”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly.
She did not.
Not yet.
“Your sister,” she said. “Mara?”
He nodded.
“She okay now?”
The question was clipped.
Careful.
Frankie asking about someone else’s pain without making it soft.
His chest warmed.
“Mostly,” he said. “She still has hard days. But she’s good at naming them now.”
“Good.”
“Frankie good?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
She looked at the script.
“My father is not good at naming.”
“No.”
“He names numbers.”
Coop stayed quiet.
Frankie glanced toward the open door.
Then back at him.
“After the showcase,” she said, “he will probably say something.”
His body went still.
“Good or bad?”
“Both. Neither. Depends where the flaw is.”
Coop hated him.
Quietly.
Wren-approved.
“What do you need if that happens?” he asked.
Frankie’s eyes lifted.
The question seemed to surprise her.
Good.
Maybe.
She leaned back slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“You can’t just okay everything.”
“I can.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the hallway again.
No one nearby.
Then she said, “I might need you not to be angry first.”
That landed hard.
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t say not angry ever.”
“No.”
“Just not first.”
“Because then you have to manage me too.”
Her eyes came back to his.
“Yes.”
Coop swallowed.
There it was.
A place he could drop things if he was careless.
“I can do that,” he said.
“Can you?”
He thought about the forum posts.
Her father’s texts.
The way rage moved through him whenever someone tried to use her mistakes like a leash.
Could he stop feeling it?
No.
Could he keep it from becoming hers to hold?
He had to.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be angry second.”
Frankie stared at him.
Then her mouth twitched.
“Good.”
He froze.
She smiled a little more.
“You did that on purpose,” he said.
“Yes.”
“That was weaponized good.”
“Yes.”
He laughed softly.
The hallway noise shifted.
Someone passed the door.
They both looked down at the papers like the script had become urgent.
The person kept walking.
Frankie’s foot bumped his under the table.
Not a kick.
Not an accident.
A touch.
Hidden by furniture.
Coop looked at her.
She was staring at the script.
Face neutral.
Menace.
His heart lifted so fast it almost hurt.
He bumped her foot back.
Barely.
Her pen paused.
Then continued.
Private weirdness.
Conditionally approved.
Dani returned too soon and not soon enough.
She handed Frankie the printed script and looked between them with a soft, knowing smile she was too kind to weaponize.
“Printer worked,” Dani said.
Frankie pulled her foot back.
“Miracle.”
“Technology supports women.”
“Sometimes.”
They finished the station notes, emailed Claire, and delivered copies to Wren.
By the time Coop left the media room, his phone had three texts.
One from Nolan.
NOLAN: Wren rejected “organism” language. Oppression.
One from Hayes.
HAYES: Reese says if Nolan says organism again, she’s telling Sutter.
One from Mara.
MARA: Mom knows something. She made two pies. This is not a drill.
Coop stared at Mara’s text.
Two pies.
His mother was escalating.
He typed:
COOP: I haven’t told her anything.
MARA: Your punctuation did.
COOP: That is not real.
MARA: Mom has maternal surveillance powers. Come prepared.
Coop leaned against the hallway wall.
Sunday dinner loomed closer now.
The showcase was three days away.
Westbridge seven.
Board vote after.
Everything converging.
He looked down the hall.
Frankie stood at the trophy case with Reese, both of them looking over the display. Birdie hovered nearby, probably trying not to ask questions. Wren taped a tiny correction to one panel. Dani held the level.
The Spitfires had built something.
Not just the display.
A structure of people who caught one another in different ways.
Birdie with symbolic crime.
Reese with captain truth.
Wren with boundaries.
Dani with data and softness.
Sutter with sled pushes.
Coop wanted to be part of that without taking up the wrong space.
A useful space.
A chosen space.
His phone buzzed again.
Mara.
MARA: Also Dad asked if your showcase goalie is the one with the .928 save percentage. So. Good luck.
Coop closed his eyes.
Absolutely not.
No.
His father did not get to ask Frankie about numbers.
Not before he understood anything else.
Coop typed fast.
COOP: Frankie is not coming Sunday.
Then he paused.
He had not even thought of inviting her.
Good.
Too soon.
Too family.
Too much.
Mara replied:
MARA: I know. I meant he’ll ask YOU.
Oh.
Right.
Still.
The protective spike had arrived before reason.
He looked toward Frankie again.
She was laughing at something Reese said.
Not big.
But visible.
The sight hit him directly in the chest.
He typed:
COOP: I’ll handle Dad.
Mara answered:
MARA: Will you though? Or will you become charming fog?
Coop stared at that.
Charming fog.
Accurate.
He typed:
COOP: I’ll handle him.
This time, he meant it.
His father’s hockey questions came from interest, not cruelty. But impact mattered.
Coop was learning that.
He would not let the people he loved turn Frankie into a stat line because they did not know how to ask better questions.
Not angrily.
Not first.
But clearly.
That was the work.
At six-fifty, he met Frankie at the trophy case again.
She had coffee already.
For him.
Regular.
Good lid.
His chest did the thing.
“You brought coffee,” he said.
“Observation skills.”
“For me.”
“Bad interpretation.”
“Frankie.”
“Hydration-adjacent.”
He took the cup.
Their fingers brushed.
Not enough.
Enough.
“Thank you.”
“It’s coffee.”
“It’s good coffee.”
“It was available.”
He smiled.
She watched him.
Then her gaze dropped to the cup.
“You have family dinner Sunday.”
Coop blinked. “I do.”
“Mara?”
“You remember?”
“I listen.”
He went quiet.
She looked away immediately, like she regretted giving him that.
He had it.
He would keep it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Mara will be there.”
“Is that good?”
“Yes.” A pause. “And complicated.”
Frankie nodded.
No pushing.
No easy comfort.
Just understanding.
He leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall. “I might tell them about you.”
Her eyes snapped to him.
“Not details,” he said quickly. “Not… private things. Just that I’m seeing someone. If that’s okay.”
Frankie’s face was unreadable.
Coop held still.
Too much?
Maybe.
Probably.
Then she asked, “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Seeing someone.”
His mouth went dry.
He looked at her.
She looked back, chin lifted, eyes guarded but steady.
The question was not a trap.
It was a door.
A terrifying, simple door.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Her throat moved.
“And is she aware?”
He smiled slowly.
“I’m hoping.”
Frankie rolled her eyes, but color rose in her cheeks.
“Ridiculous.”
“Completely.”
She looked down at her coffee.
Then said, “You can tell them.”
Relief moved through him.
Warm and sharp.
“Yeah?”
“Not details.”
“No.”
“Not private things.”
“Never.”
“Not…” She paused, searching for the line.
He waited.
“Not me as a story.”
His chest tightened.
There it was.
The heart of it.
“Never,” he said again.
She looked at him long enough to believe him.
Then nodded once.
“And if your father asks about my save percentage,” she said, “tell him pucks are rude.”
Coop stared.
Then laughed.
Frankie’s mouth curved.
Small.
Private.
His.
A little.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
She looked around.
The concourse was empty.
For now.
“Yes.”
He kissed her beside The Fire We Built display, coffee warm between them, the rink humming behind the walls, and the future still undecided.
It was brief.
Because semi-public.
Because showcase week.
Because rules.
But when he pulled back, Frankie stayed close for one extra breath.
“I’m seeing someone too,” she said.
Coop’s heart stopped.
Then restarted badly.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Is he aware?”
She took her coffee and stepped back.
“He suspects.”
Then she walked away.
Coop stood there with his coffee, his heart, and absolutely no normal face.
Wren rounded the corner three seconds later, saw him, and stopped.
“No,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“I know.”
“Fix it before donors arrive.”
“Donors are three days away.”
“It may take that long.”
Then she walked on.
Coop looked at the trophy case.
At the fire they built.
At the space Frankie had let herself occupy.
He took a sip of coffee and smiled anyway.