Chapter Nineteen
Frankie
Frankie Callahan had been given donor name tags.
This was not hockey.
This was not leadership.
This was not emotional growth.
This was alphabetizing rectangles for adults who had money and opinions.
She hated it.
Mostly because Wren had been right.
She did need something to glare at.
The media room had become showcase command central, which meant every surface held evidence of impending chaos.
Name tags. Seating charts. Station scripts.
Printed schedules. Donor packets. Student-section wristbands.
A stack of flyers Nolan had been forbidden to touch after adding tiny ghost doodles to one corner.
Frankie sat at the table with Coop beside her, both of them sorting name tags into neat rows while Claire and Wren reviewed the donor walk-through flow at the whiteboard.
Dani stood near the printer, waiting on updated route maps.
Birdie sat on the floor with a highlighter, under strict supervision, circling names of student volunteers.
Nolan was not allowed in the room.
He had accepted this with dignity for nine minutes before sliding a note under the door that read:
THE WEATHER RESPECTS BOUNDARIES.
Wren had picked it up, read it, and taped it to the wall under the words EVIDENCE LOCKER.
Frankie had laughed.
Unfortunately.
Coop had seen.
Also unfortunately.
Now he kept glancing at her like he was still thinking about it.
“Your face is annoying,” she said, without looking up.
Coop placed Margaret Hensley in the H row. “My face is alphabetizing.”
“Badly.”
“This is a flawless H row.”
“You put Howard before Hensley.”
He looked down.
Then moved the tag.
“Temporary flaw.”
“Permanent record.”
“I’ll recover.”
“Debatable.”
Claire glanced over from the whiteboard, smiling. “You two are very efficient.”
Frankie did not like Claire’s tone.
It had warmth in it.
Suspicious warmth.
“Name tags are low-skill labor,” Frankie said.
“They are essential donor experience infrastructure,” Claire replied smoothly.
Frankie stared.
“Do you practice saying things like that?”
“Yes.”
“Respect.”
Claire laughed and returned to the flow chart.
Coop leaned slightly closer, not enough to touch. “Essential donor experience infrastructure.”
“No.”
“I think it has charm.”
“You would.”
“I enjoy infrastructure.”
“You enjoy being useful.”
He paused.
Not much.
Enough.
Frankie noticed immediately.
Too sharp.
Too fast.
She looked at him.
His face had changed by half an inch.
Not hurt.
Not quite.
Recognized.
The room went on around them. Wren and Claire debated whether the reception table should be closer to the trophy case. Dani cursed softly at the printer. Birdie whispered, “Come on, little map baby,” with alarming tenderness.
Frankie set down the name tag in her hand.
“I didn’t mean that as a weapon,” she said quietly.
Coop’s eyes met hers.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You looked like I hit something.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re good at looking.”
“Yes.”
He took a slow breath. “It hit. Not weapon hit. True hit.”
Frankie considered that.
True hit.
There were too many kinds of impact in the world.
Pucks.
Words.
Looks.
Kindness.
Her father had used truth like a puck shot at exposed skin.
Coop let truth land and did not always call it harm.
That was harder to read.
“Still,” she said.
His expression softened.
“Thank you.”
She nodded once and picked up another name tag.
Arthur Bellamy.
B.
Safe.
Alphabetical.
No feelings.
Then Coop said, “I do like being useful.”
Frankie looked over.
His voice stayed quiet enough not to carry.
“Sometimes because it’s good,” he said. “Sometimes because it keeps me from having to say what I need.”
Frankie’s fingers stilled on the B row.
That was not name-tag conversation.
That was not media-room-safe conversation.
That was a door.
She looked at him.
“What do you need?” she asked.
His eyes warmed.
Not with flirtation.
Something deeper.
Worse.
“I don’t know yet.”
Frankie nodded.
“Okay.”
His mouth moved. “You say okay now?”
“Borrowed.”
“From me?”
“Temporarily.”
“High honor.”
“Moderate.”
“Still.”
She looked back at the tags so she would not reach for his hand in front of Claire, Wren, Dani, and Birdie, all of whom had eyes and no respect for subtlety.
After another minute, Birdie gasped from the floor.
Everyone froze.
Wren said, “If that gasp is about romance, swallow it.”
Birdie slapped a hand over her heart. “It is about logistics.”
“Unlikely,” Frankie said.
Birdie held up the volunteer list. “Asher is listed as Westbridge liaison for the showcase.”
Frankie’s head lifted.
Wren walked over and took the list. “That was confirmed yesterday.”
Birdie stared. “By whom?”
“Claire.”
Claire raised one hand. “Guilty.”
Birdie turned to her. “Why was I not informed?”
“Because you are not in charge of Westbridge liaison assignments.”
“I am affected by them.”
“You are affected by many things,” Wren said. “Cloud shapes. Squirrel posture. Fonts.”
Dani added, “Gold tones.”
“Exactly.” Birdie pointed at the list. “Asher Reed cannot be loose in our showcase.”
“She is not loose,” Claire said. “She is scheduled.”
“Worse. Organized menace.”
Frankie leaned back in her chair. “You text her daily.”
Birdie’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“That is different.”
“How?”
“It is private combat.”
Coop coughed.
Frankie looked at him.
He stared very hard at the name tags.
Coward.
Wren tapped the volunteer sheet. “Asher will assist with Westbridge player timing, donor route coordination for their station, and conference-rivalry messaging.”
Birdie looked betrayed by governance itself.
“Fine,” she said. “But if she calls me decorative, I’m adding glitter to something she values.”
Claire said, “No glitter.”
“Symbolic glitter?”
“No.”
Birdie sighed and returned to the floor with the tragedy of a woman denied war.
Frankie almost smiled again.
Bad trend.
She blamed Coop.
At six-thirty, Claire finally released them from name-tag duty with sincere thanks and one more phrase about “guest experience cohesion” that made Frankie respect and fear her.
Dani left to update maps.
Wren took Birdie with her to review volunteer language before Birdie could add insults.
The media room emptied until only Frankie and Coop remained.
The door stayed open.
Semi-private.
The most dangerous category.
Frankie stood and stretched her shoulders.
Coop gathered the name-tag stacks and placed them into labeled boxes.
Efficient.
Careful.
Useful.
She watched him for three seconds too long.
He looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“My nothing has a face now?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
He smiled and closed the last box.
Outside the room, hallway noise echoed faintly. Showcase posters rustled near the bulletin board where the air vent kicked on. Somewhere down the hall, Nolan was probably violating a noun.
Frankie picked up her coffee.
Cold now.
Still drinkable.
Coop’s gaze dropped to it. “That has to be terrible.”
“It’s coffee.”
“It’s been sitting there for an hour.”
“It has loyalty.”
“It has temperature loss.”
“Still loyal.”
He laughed.
She liked making him laugh.
That was information.
Possibly dangerous.
Definitely true.
Her phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room.
Her body reacted.
Not as badly as before.
But enough.
Coop saw.
His smile faded.
She pulled the phone out.
Dad.
Of course.
A text this time.
DAD: Westbridge forwards like to crash low after weak rebounds. Watch your second-chance control. Don’t get distracted by showcase nonsense.
Frankie stared at the screen.
There it was.
Again.
Hockey knowledge wrapped around rot.
Weak rebounds.
Distracted.
Nonsense.
Her thumb hovered.
Old options appeared.
Delete.
Ignore.
Absorb.
Pretend it did not land.
Let it become another note in the kitchen-table book.
Coop did not speak.
Angry second.
He was learning.
She appreciated it so much she hated needing to appreciate it.
“What do you need?” he asked.
Quiet.
No heat.
No taking over.
Frankie looked at the text.
Then at The Fire We Built poster taped to the media room wall.
Showcase nonsense.
No.
Not nonsense.
Work.
Future.
Team.
She typed before she could overthink.
FRANKIE: The showcase is not nonsense. I know how to control rebounds. Do not text me about Westbridge again unless I ask.
She stared at the words.
Heart hammering.
Coop went very still beside her.
She hit send.
The message disappeared.
Sent.
No undo.
The room seemed to tilt.
Frankie locked the phone and set it facedown on the table.
Her hands were shaking.
More than once.
Coop’s voice stayed soft. “Do you want me to be angry now?”
A laugh burst out of her.
Too sharp.
Almost a sob if she had less dignity.
“Yes.”
Coop’s jaw tightened immediately.
“Then I’m angry,” he said.
“Good.”
“Very angry.”
“Moderate.”
“No. High.”
Frankie looked at him.
His eyes were steady, but the anger was there now.
Not spilling everywhere.
Not making itself the center.
Held.
For her.
With her.
Not at her.
“He called it nonsense,” she said.
“I know.”
“He used a hockey note to say the thing he wanted to say.”
“I know.”
“I answered.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t ask permission.”
“You don’t need permission.”
She breathed in.
Out.
The air came easier the second time.
“I may throw up.”
“I can get a trash can.”
“Do not become too useful.”
He paused.
Then nodded. “Okay.”
Frankie laughed again.
Better this time.
She pressed both hands against the edge of the table and leaned forward.
“I feel insane.”
“You’re not.”
“Don’t comfort too fast.”
He nodded again. “You sent a hard text. Your body thinks you invited a tiger into the room.”
Frankie looked at him.
That was annoyingly accurate.
“Did Mara teach you that?”
“Therapy-adjacent household osmosis.”
“Useful.”
“Careful. That word is loaded now.”
She breathed out.
The phone stayed silent.
No immediate reply.
Somehow worse.
Somehow better.
Coop leaned against the opposite side of the table, not coming closer.