Chapter Twenty-Two
Coop
Coop Vale woke up the morning after the showcase with three facts in his head.
One, Frankie Callahan had called O’Malley’s a date.
Two, she had muted her father through Westbridge day.
Three, tonight was Sunday dinner.
The first two facts made him smile at his ceiling.
The third made him stare at it like the plaster had personally betrayed him.
Sunday dinner was not dangerous.
Probably.
His mother loved him. His father loved him. Mara loved him in a way that involved insults, theft, and occasional emotional accuracy so sharp it should have been regulated.
No one in his family was cruel.
That mattered.
It also made the nerves harder to explain.
If his mother asked too many questions, it came from excitement.
If his father asked hockey questions, it came from interest.
If Mara made faces across the table, it came from being Mara.
Still, Coop could feel the old version of himself waking up.
Easy Coop.
Arrive cheerful.
Bring pie.
Answer smoothly.
Make Mom laugh.
Let Dad talk hockey.
Let Mara tease.
Give everyone enough of the truth to feel included and not enough to change the room.
He lay there for another minute.
Then picked up his phone.
Frankie had texted at 11:42 last night, after he dropped her off.
FRANKIE: Shortbread survived transport.
He had answered:
COOP: Butter with architecture.
She had replied:
FRANKIE: Approved.
He had stared at that word like a fool.
Now he typed:
COOP: Sunday dinner tonight. Pray for my normal face.
He waited.
No reply.
She was probably still asleep.
Good.
She needed sleep.
The showcase had drained everyone. The rink had looked quiet in the aftermath, but Coop could still hear the chant in his head.
Back the Fire.
Back the Fire.
Frankie in the crease.
Frankie with the microphone.
Frankie saying the work that makes the highlight possible.
His phone buzzed.
FRANKIE: Your face has never been normal.
Coop smiled.
COOP: Supportive.
FRANKIE: Accurate.
Then:
FRANKIE: Is this dinner dangerous?
He looked at the question.
Not is your family nice?
Not are you nervous?
Dangerous.
Frankie language.
He typed carefully.
COOP: Not dangerous. Just… revealing.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
FRANKIE: Worse.
He laughed.
COOP: Yes.
A moment later:
FRANKIE: Say a thing without handing over the whole thing.
Coop stared.
Mara’s line.
He must have told Frankie.
Or she had absorbed it from somewhere in their conversations and filed it correctly.
Of course she had.
COOP: I’ll try.
FRANKIE: Do.
Then:
FRANKIE: And eat real food. Pie is not dinner.
His chest warmed.
COOP: Alternate dinner captain acknowledges.
FRANKIE: Approved title. Temporary.
He set the phone on his chest and smiled at the ceiling again.
Temporary
His phone buzzed again before he could overthink the word.
FRANKIE: Do not let Mara bully you into bad pie.
Coop laughed out loud.
COOP: Mara bullies everyone into everything.
FRANKIE: Resist.
COOP: I am dating a goalie. I understand resistance now.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
FRANKIE: Good answer.
Coop set the phone down and stared at the ceiling with a grin he did not bother controlling because no one was there to judge him.
Then Nolan knocked on his door and ruined the morning.
“Vale,” Nolan called from the hallway. “I know you’re awake. The post-showcase breakfast council is assembling.”
Coop closed his eyes.
“No.”
“The people require pancakes.”
“The people had a showcase last night.”
“Exactly. Recovery pancakes.”
“I have family dinner tonight.”
“Then pre-dinner pancakes.”
Coop got up, opened the door, and found Nolan standing there in sweatpants, a Brookfield hoodie, and sunglasses.
Indoors.
“Why?” Coop asked.
Nolan lifted the sunglasses. “Showcase hangover. Emotionally bright.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means too much happened and I need syrup.”
Hayes appeared behind him, looking more awake and less theatrical.
“Reese and the Spitfires are already at O’Malley’s,” Hayes said.
Coop paused.
Nolan grinned.
Hayes added, “Frankie too.”
Coop grabbed his jacket.
Nolan pointed at him. “Love has made him easy to manipulate.”
Coop walked past him. “Pancakes are not manipulation.”
“They are when timed correctly.”
At O’Malley’s, the teams had taken over three booths and half the counter.
Frankie sat in the back booth with Birdie, Dani, Wren, and Reese. She had pancakes in front of her and the small paper bag of shortbread beside her coffee.
Her eyes lifted when Coop walked in.
The room noise did not stop.
No dramatic silence.
No gasps.
No team-wide weather alerts.
Just Frankie looking at him, and Coop’s day shifting around it.
She pointed at the empty space beside her.
Not a wave.
Not a smile.
An instruction.
Coop obeyed.
Happily.
“Morning,” he said, sliding in beside her.
“Hi ban inactive before noon,” she said.
“Good to know.”
Birdie leaned over the table. “I am being normal.”
“No, you’re not,” Frankie said.
“I am being normal for me.”
Wren took a sip of coffee. “Low bar.”
“Reachable bar,” Birdie said.
Dani smiled into her mug.
Reese looked across at Coop. “Family dinner tonight?”
Coop blinked. “How does everyone know that?”
Frankie took a bite of pancake. “You told me.”
“And?”
“I told Reese.”
Reese lifted one shoulder. “Hayes was present.”
Hayes, sitting at the next booth with Nolan and Tanner, raised his coffee in apology.
Nolan twisted around. “I sensed family dinner pressure.”
“You sensed nothing,” Coop said.
“I sense all pressure systems.”
Frankie picked up a piece of bacon. “No weather.”
Nolan faced forward immediately.
Coop looked at Frankie. “You told Reese?”
She did not look at him.
“Privacy, not secrecy.”
His chest warmed.
She kept eating like she had not just knocked him sideways before noon.
Birdie stared at her plate with both hands pressed around her mug.
Wren said, “Nguyen.”
“I’m containing it.”
“Contain harder.”
“I’m so proud of her,” Birdie whispered.
Frankie pointed a fork at her. “I can hear you.”
“I know. It’s my emotional truth.”
“Lower truth.”
Birdie lowered her voice. “Proud.”
Frankie sighed.
But she did not leave the booth.
Progress.
Maybe happiness did that too, Coop thought.
Made staying easier.
After breakfast, everyone scattered into the strange in-between day after a major event. The showcase was over, but the board vote had not happened. Westbridge still waited. Classes still existed, rudely. Laundry still needed doing. Sticks needed tape. Bodies needed rest.
Coop spent the afternoon doing all the things he normally used to feel in control.
Laundry.
Homework.
Film review.
Two emails.
A call with Coach Landry about the Westbridge scouting packet.
A text exchange with Claire confirming the final donor thank-you list.
He did not text Frankie every time he wanted to.
That felt important.
Dating did not mean filling every quiet space.
At four-thirty, he showered.
At five, he stood in front of his closet and realized he had no idea how to dress for Sunday dinner as a person who had boundaries.
He chose jeans, a dark sweater his mother liked, and shoes that did not look like he had left a locker room six minutes earlier.
Then he drove to a bakery and bought pie.
Not grocery store.
His father would approve.
His mother would know he had tried.
Mara would steal the best slice anyway.
At 5:52, he sat in his parked car outside his family house and texted Frankie.
COOP: Arrived. Pie secured. Face questionable.
Her reply came almost immediately.
FRANKIE: Say a thing. Not the whole thing.
He smiled.
COOP: Yes, goalie.
FRANKIE: No new nicknames.
COOP: Existing descriptor.
FRANKIE: Debatable.
Then:
FRANKIE: You’re allowed to need things too.
Coop stared at that last one until the porch light blurred slightly.
Ridiculous.
He was not going to get emotional in his car over a text from his girlfriend before chili.
Girlfriend.
That word still felt new enough to trip over.
He typed:
COOP: I’ll remember.
Frankie replied:
FRANKIE: Do.
Coop took the pie and went inside.
His mother was in the kitchen, wiping an already-clean counter.
Mara sat at the island with her feet on the lower rung of the stool, eating shredded cheese from a bowl.
His father stood at the stove, stirring chili like it was tactical.
“Cooper,” his mom said, turning too fast.
She stopped herself halfway to him.
He saw the restraint.
The effort.
It made something in his chest ease.
“Hi, Mom.”
He hugged her first.
She held on for one second longer than usual, then released him.
“Hi, honey. I am being normal.”
Mara snorted into the cheese bowl.
His mother pointed at her. “You are not helping.”
“I’m witnessing.”
“Superiorly?” Coop asked.
Mara smiled. “Always.”
His father looked over. “Pie?”
“Apple.”
“Bakery?”
“Yes.”
His father nodded with grave approval. “Good.”
Coop laughed.
His mother’s eyes softened when she heard it, which made him realize he had expected inspection more than welcome.
Maybe that was on him.
Maybe not entirely.
Both.
Dinner began without interrogation.
Mostly.
His mother asked about the showcase first, and Coop told them the true version.
Not all of it.
Enough.
He told them the turnout was strong.
That the board committee had moved the proposal forward.
That the Read the Ice station landed.
That Frankie presented it.
Mara watched him over her chili with sharp eyes.
His father leaned forward. “The goalie station?”
Coop took a breath.
“Yes.”
“Smart angle,” his father said. “Most people don’t understand how much happens before a shot.”
Coop paused.
That was true.
And not harmful.
Yet.
“Exactly,” he said.
His father nodded. “Frankie is the goalie with the .928?”
There it was.
Coop set his spoon down.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m trying not to talk about her like a stat line.”
The table went quiet.
His mother looked at him.
Mara’s eyebrows lifted.
His father blinked.