Chapter Nineteen #2
“Can I say something?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“You can block him during showcase day.”
Frankie’s spine stiffened.
He lifted one hand. “Not saying you should. Not telling. Just an option.”
An option.
Not command.
Not rescue.
A door.
Frankie stared at the phone.
Block him.
For a day.
Temporary.
She had never considered temporary as a category for that.
Her father existed in her phone like weather existed in the sky. Unavoidable. Uncontrolled. Something to prepare for.
But phones had settings.
Ridiculous.
Obvious.
Terrifying.
“I could mute him,” she said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Not forever.”
“No.”
“Just showcase day.”
“Or Westbridge day.”
Her throat tightened.
Westbridge day.
The game.
The thing her father kept trying to enter before it even happened.
Frankie picked up the phone again.
Opened his contact.
Her thumb hovered over notifications.
She did not mute.
Not yet.
But she looked at the option.
That counted.
Maybe.
“I’ll decide,” she said.
“Good.”
She looked up.
He smiled faintly. “Your good.”
She let him have it.
The phone buzzed in her hand.
Her father.
Reply.
Frankie almost dropped it.
Coop did not move.
She looked at the screen.
DAD: Fine. Do what you want.
The words were simple.
Four of them.
Somehow enormous.
Fine.
Weapon fine.
Dismissal fine.
Do what you want.
Like wanting was childish.
Like boundaries were rebellion.
Like he had not been texting her unasked for days.
Frankie felt the old pull.
Explain.
Clarify.
Make him understand.
Make the text less sharp by softening herself around it.
Then she remembered the trophy case.
The team room.
Birdie asking, Is he good to you?
Reese saying being known is inconvenient.
Wren saying privacy, not content.
Coop saying angry second.
Her own notebook.
Good is mine.
Fine is mine.
She opened the contact settings and muted notifications.
Not blocked.
Muted.
For now.
Then she placed the phone on the table.
Face down.
“There,” she said.
Coop exhaled.
Not relief for himself.
For her.
“That was big,” he said.
Frankie’s eyes burned.
Absolutely not.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Do not make it—”
“Frankie.”
His voice stopped her.
Soft.
Firm.
Not taking over.
Just asking her to hear him.
“That was big.”
She swallowed.
The room blurred for half a second.
She blinked until it behaved.
“Fine,” she said.
Her voice cracked on the word.
Coop’s face changed.
She hated that he saw.
Loved that he did.
Both.
“Fine?” he asked.
She nodded.
Then corrected herself.
“Mine.”
His expression softened into something she felt in her ribs.
“Yes,” he said. “Yours.”
She wanted to kiss him.
Badly.
Not because she was happy.
Because she was shaking.
Because the room had tilted.
Because she had done something that felt like stepping off a ledge and landing on her own feet.
Because he was there and not taking credit.
She looked toward the hallway.
Empty.
For now.
“Ask,” she said.
Coop’s eyes darkened.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He came around the table slowly.
Still giving her time.
Always giving her time.
By the time he reached her, Frankie was the one who closed the last bit of distance.
His hands went to her waist, careful until she gripped his hoodie and pulled.
The kiss was not like the others.
Not playful.
Not semi-public sweet.
This one had anger under it.
And relief.
And the leftover tremor of a boundary set for the first time in a place that mattered.
Coop kissed her like he understood that.
Like he would hold the anger without letting it become the whole room.
Like he was proud and furious and trying very hard not to be too much.
Frankie appreciated the effort.
Then made it harder by sliding one hand up to the back of his neck.
His breath caught.
For once, yes.
Hers.
The kiss deepened.
For a few seconds, there was no phone.
No father.
No showcase.
No board vote.
No Westbridge.
Just Coop’s mouth and his steady hands and the fact that she had asked for this, chosen this, wanted this.
She broke the kiss first.
Barely.
Her forehead rested against his chest.
One second.
Two.
Three.
He did not speak.
Perfect.
Then, because peace was illegal, Nolan’s voice came from the hallway.
“Are we allowed back in the media room or is there weather?”
Frankie froze.
Coop’s head dropped forward onto her shoulder.
Silent laughter shook him.
Frankie closed her eyes.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Nolan added, “Respectfully asking from a distance!”
Wren’s voice followed. “McKay, walk away.”
“That’s not my name,” Nolan said.
“It is now.”
Footsteps retreated.
Frankie lifted her head.
Coop was still trying not to laugh.
Failing.
“Do not,” she said.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.”
“I know.”
She stepped back and smoothed her hoodie with as much dignity as possible.
Which was some.
Not a lot.
Coop looked at her phone on the table.
Then at her.
“Still muted?”
She picked it up.
Checked.
Notifications silenced.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“My good?”
“Yours.”
She nodded.
Then her own mouth curved despite everything.
“You are learning.”
“I have a good teacher.”
“Careful.”
“Low-level praise?”
“Conditional.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Obviously.”
They left the media room together, not holding hands because the hallway had witnesses and Frankie’s heart had already done enough cardio.
But they walked close.
Close enough that their sleeves brushed.
Close enough that when they passed Wren, she looked once and said, “No weather indoors.”
“Agreed,” Coop said.
Frankie said, “Nolan started it.”
“Nolan starts most atmospheric problems,” Wren said.
From somewhere down the hall, Nolan called, “I heard that and respect it.”
Birdie appeared beside Dani, eyes immediately scanning Frankie’s face.
Frankie braced.
Birdie’s expression softened.
“You okay?”
Bad question.
But Birdie meant it.
Frankie thought about the muted contact.
The sent text.
The kiss.
The phone face down.
The way the world had not ended.
“Fine,” she said.
Birdie’s face tightened with concern.
Frankie lifted her chin.
“Mine.”
Birdie’s eyes filled instantly.
“Oh no,” Frankie said.
Birdie pressed both hands over her mouth and nodded hard.
No violins.
No questions.
Just support leaking around the edges.
Dani wrapped one arm around Birdie’s shoulders and gently steered her away.
Coop stood beside Frankie, close but not touching.
Frankie looked down the hallway toward the rink.
The showcase was still coming.
The board vote still waited.
Westbridge still mattered.
Her father was muted, not gone.
But for once, quiet had not been given to her as punishment.
She had chosen it.
And tomorrow, when she stepped onto the ice for the showcase station and said most people watch the puck, a goalie watches the danger, she would mean herself too.
Not because she could stop every shot.
Because she was finally learning which ones were hers to face.
And which ones she could let go wide.