Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Boyfriend eyes carefully stored.
“That was useful,” she said.
He nodded. “You adjusted fast.”
“I overcorrected first.”
“Then adjusted.”
Her gaze held his.
“I didn’t hear him.”
Coop went still.
Her voice was quiet.
Only for him, maybe.
Even in the rink.
“I heard Sutter. Birdie. The read. But not him.”
His chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.
“That seems big,” he said.
“It is.”
No deflection.
No no.
Just yes.
Big.
Frankie Callahan admitting scale.
He nearly smiled too much.
Controlled it at the last second.
Mostly.
She noticed.
Her mouth moved.
Barely.
“Your face is improving.”
“High praise.”
“Moderate.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Obviously.”
Sutter called her name, and she skated off.
Coop stayed where he was for another moment, looking at the crease.
The puck had gone in.
More than once.
The old voice had not.
That felt important.
Not his thing.
Not his victory.
But he could witness it.
That was allowed.
After the session, Landry pulled him aside near the bench.
“Good work,” he said.
Coop blinked.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You pushed without showing off.”
“That was the assignment.”
Landry’s mouth twitched. “It often is. People still miss it.”
Coop looked toward the locker room tunnel where Frankie had disappeared with Birdie and Reese.
“I’m trying not to.”
“I know.”
Landry leaned on the boards. “You doing all right?”
Coop looked back. “Me?”
“No, the Zamboni.”
“Sorry.”
“I know you’ve had a lot of attention on how to support her.”
Coop nodded slowly.
Landry’s eyes stayed steady. “Support is good. Losing yourself in support is not.”
Coop looked down at the ice marks.
That sentence felt like it had been waiting for him.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He exhaled.
“I’m learning.”
Landry nodded. “Better.”
A pause.
Then Coop said, “I told my family.”
“About Frankie?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d that go?”
“Better than expected.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was.”
“Good surprise?”
“Yeah.”
Landry looked toward the empty net.
“Then let that count too.”
Coop smiled faintly.
Everyone was using everyone else’s language now.
Maybe that was what teams did.
They made private survival tools communal and hoped no one objected too hard.
After showers, Coop checked his phone.
Mara had sent a screenshot of a family group chat where his mother had written:
MOM: Trying very hard not to ask Cooper more questions about Frankie. Please praise me.
Mara had replied:
MARA: You are doing average.
His father had replied:
DAD: What is the correct number of questions?
Mara:
MARA: One fewer than you think.
Coop laughed in the hallway.
Then texted Frankie.
COOP: My family is developing restraint poorly but sincerely.
Her reply came after a minute.
FRANKIE: Better than poorly and insincerely.
COOP: True.
Then:
COOP: Extra film was good.
He stared at that.
Deleted it.
Typed:
COOP: You were good today.
Deleted that too.
Too much?
Not too much.
But maybe not the sentence.
He tried again.
COOP: You adjusted today. It mattered.
He sent it.
Her answer came slower.
FRANKIE: I know.
Coop stopped walking.
I know.
Two words.
Massive.
Then another message:
FRANKIE: It was useful having you there as shooter.
He smiled.
COOP: Just shooter?
Dots appeared.
Disappeared.
FRANKIE: Don’t fish.
He laughed.
COOP: Never.
FRANKIE: Liar.
Then:
FRANKIE: Also boyfriend.
His heart did the stupid, wonderful thing.
COOP: High praise.
FRANKIE: Accurate classification.
COOP: I’ll take it.
FRANKIE: Obviously.
The rest of the day moved in prep.
Classes.
Practice.
Westbridge scout review.
A donor thank-you post Wren managed with the precision of a bomb squad.
Doyle sent a department-wide email announcing the approved funding line, and for once, no one hated the wording.
Mostly because Wren had obviously edited it.
By evening, Coop found Frankie at the trophy case again.
Of course.
It had become less a display and more a checkpoint.
A place where proof lived.
She stood with her Westbridge folder tucked under one arm and her phone in her hand.
His stomach tightened until he realized her face was calm.
“What?” he asked.
She turned the phone toward him.
Her father’s contact.
Still muted.
No messages opened.
“I’m keeping it through the game,” she said.
Coop nodded.
“Okay.”
“I thought I might change my mind.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
He smiled faintly. “Yours.”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
The concourse was empty.
Mostly.
Still, he asked, “Can I hold your hand?”
Her mouth softened.
“Yes.”
He did.
She looked at their joined hands, then at the display.
“I didn’t hear him today,” she said.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know you said that.”
“Better.”
He brushed his thumb once across her knuckles.
“What did you hear?”
Frankie looked toward the rink doors.
“Sutter. Birdie calling weak-side. Reese. My own read.”
A pause.
Then she added, “You, but not in an annoying way.”
Coop smiled slowly.
“High praise.”
“Dangerously high.”
“I’ll handle with care.”
“Do that.”
He turned slightly toward her.
“Can I ask?”
Her eyes lifted.
“Yes.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her beside the trophy case, slow and careful, one hand still holding hers.
She tasted like coffee and mint and the end of an old fear.
Not gone.
Nothing that big went gone in a day.
But quieter.
Chosen quiet.
When they parted, Frankie stayed close.
“Tomorrow is rest and sharpness,” she said.
“That sounds like Sutter.”
“It is Sutter.”
“Westbridge day after.”
“Yes.”
“You ready?”
She looked at the display.
Then at him.
Then toward the rink.
“No,” she said.
His chest tightened.
Then she added, “But I’m prepared.”
Coop smiled.
“That might be better.”
“It is.”
“Goalie wisdom?”
“Mine.”
“Of course.”
She squeezed his hand once before letting go.
Then, because Frankie Callahan enjoyed destroying him casually, she said, “Walk me to my car, boyfriend.”
Coop stared.
Her mouth curved.
Tiny.
Deadly.
“Your face,” she said.
“Hopeless.”
“Fix it.”
“No.”
She rolled her eyes and walked toward the side entrance.
Coop followed, still smiling.
Not easy.
Not fog.
Just happy.
Real.
Prepared.