Chapter Thirty-One
Frankie
Frankie Callahan woke up with a hockey hangover.
Not an actual hangover.
She had not consumed alcohol.
She had consumed pancakes, adrenaline, one emotionally significant kiss, half a slice of victory pie, and the knowledge that her father no longer had direct access to her nervous system.
Apparently, the body processed all of that like a playoff series.
Her limbs felt heavy.
Her head felt full.
Her heart felt like it had been asked to skate double shifts.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling while morning light pushed through the blinds and tried to make the room look ordinary.
Nothing was ordinary.
Westbridge had happened.
They had won.
She had given up one and stopped everything after.
She had kissed Coop in the lobby.
She had answered her father.
She had muted him indefinitely.
Coop had carried her gear bag into her apartment and left when leaving was the right thing.
That last one bothered her.
In a good way.
In an annoying way.
In the best kind of way.
Frankie rolled onto her side and looked at her phone across the room on the charger.
Too far away to grab without getting up.
Strategic.
Past Frankie had been wise.
Present Frankie resented her.
The screen was dark.
No sound.
No father.
Indefinite mute.
She should have felt guilty.
Maybe she would later.
This morning, she felt quiet.
Not empty.
Quiet.
There was a difference.
She got up, brushed her teeth, and made coffee that was worse than O’Malley’s but better than nothing. Then she stood in her kitchen in socks and a Brookfield hoodie, drinking it while looking at the piece of paper taped to her fridge.
Not a schedule.
Not a stat sheet.
A copy of the funding approval.
Reese had made copies for all of them because Reese believed documentation was a love language.
Frankie had pretended to hate it.
Then taped it to the fridge.
Hypocrisy was alive and well.
Her phone buzzed from across the room.
She froze.
Then remembered.
Not him.
The buzz repeated.
She walked over and picked it up.
Coop.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Good morning. I am not bringing pastry. This is personal growth.
Frankie smiled before she could stop herself.
Disgusting.
She typed:
FRANKIE: Too early for growth.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: It’s 9:17.
FRANKIE: Exactly.
A pause.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: How are you?
Frankie stared at the question.
Not bad.
Not even annoying.
He had earned asking.
Still, the answer was not simple.
She looked at the funding letter on the fridge. The leftover pie in the refrigerator. Her gear bag by the door, exactly where Coop had placed it. Her phone, father still muted.
How are you?
She typed:
FRANKIE: Heavy. Quiet. Fine but real fine. Not fake fine.
Dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: That sounds like recovery.
Her chest warmed.
FRANKIE: Maybe.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Do you need anything?
She looked around her apartment.
Coffee.
Quiet.
No pressure.
Maybe food.
Maybe team.
Maybe him.
Dangerous list.
FRANKIE: Not sure.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Okay.
There it was.
A place.
She sat on the edge of her couch.
Then typed before she could overthink it:
FRANKIE: I liked that you left.
The dots appeared immediately.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: That is a very Frankie compliment.
She huffed a laugh.
FRANKIE: It was.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: I liked that you didn’t want me to.
Frankie stared at the screen.
Her throat tightened.
That was also true.
Annoyingly true.
FRANKIE: Don’t get smug.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Too late, but privately.
She shook her head and set the phone facedown on the couch.
Then picked it up again.
FRANKIE: Team lunch?
His reply came fast.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Team or date-included?
She looked at the funding letter.
Then the gear bag.
Then the closed door he had walked out of last night.
FRANKIE: Team. Date-included.
VALE - PROBABLY EARLY: Best category.
Frankie put the phone down and pressed both hands over her face.
Smiling this much was a medical concern.
She should call someone.
She should not.
By noon, O’Malley’s had become the unofficial headquarters of Brookfield women’s hockey survival again, but this time Frankie walked in alone.
Not because she had to.
Because she could.
Mrs. O’Malley spotted her from behind the counter. “Goalie.”
Half the diner turned.
Frankie stopped in the doorway. “No.”
Several students clapped anyway.
Birdie, already in the back booth, rose halfway out of her seat before Wren yanked her down by the hoodie.
Coop stood near the end of the table with two waters and no rescue face.
Welcome face.
Worse.
Better.
Frankie sat beside him because apparently that was a thing she did now, and Mrs. O’Malley brought pancakes and bacon without asking because diner law had become tyrannical after Westbridge.
“This cannot continue,” Frankie said.
“It can until I say otherwise,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “Eat.”
Frankie ate.
The meal stayed quieter than victory night but not calm. Reese looked exhausted and happy. Dani had a marked-up shot chart. Wren had already archived the best clips. Birdie had not stopped texting Asher, which meant her face kept cycling through outrage, delight, and hair-related distraction.
“Asher said if I learned to aim my chaos, I’d be unplayable,” Birdie announced, horrified.
The table went quiet.
Coop leaned toward Frankie. “That was good.”
“Dangerously good.”
Birdie pressed both hands to her cheeks. “I know.”
Frankie pointed at her with a fork. “Book Three.”
“Stop naming my life.”
“Stop making it obvious.”
Wren checked Birdie’s next reply, deleted six words, and handed the phone to Frankie. Frankie fixed one comma and changed the line to: Only when the competition earns breakfast.
Birdie read it, whispered, “Oh,” and sent it before courage could expire.
The team laughed around her.
Frankie stayed.
That still counted.
After lunch, Reese pulled her outside for a friend walk. The sidewalk was damp, the storefronts still carrying Back the Fire flyers that looked less like a request now and more like a fact.
“Last night, after the first goal, I looked back at you,” Reese said.
Frankie braced even though she knew the ending.
“You were already resetting,” Reese said. “Not pretending. Not unaffected. Resetting. It steadied us.”
The words hit harder than good.
Steadied.
Not saved.
Not carried.
Reese bumped her shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to be a wall to do that.”
Frankie looked toward the diner window, where Birdie was gesturing wildly and Coop was pretending not to watch for her.
“I thought if I stopped being the wall, everything would get through.”
“Did it?”
One goal.
Then saves.
Then team.
Then horn.
Then Coop.
Then her father’s text failing to take the night.
“No,” Frankie said.
Reese nodded. “Good.”
This time, Frankie let the word stay simple.
When they went back inside, Coop walked her to her car. They held hands in the cold lot, and the quiet between them felt less like hiding now.
“I’m glad you came to the game,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“I know.”
He smiled faintly. “And?”
“Fishing.”
“Learning from you.”
She kissed him before he could look too pleased with himself.
It was slow, public enough to be brave and private enough to be theirs.
When she pulled back, her phone buzzed.
Not Dad.
Mara: Asher/Birdie situation has reached my feed. Current evidence favorable but chaotic.
Frankie smiled, then pocketed the phone.
“My father is still muted,” she said.
Coop nodded. “Good.”
“I’m not checking today. If I check tomorrow, I may not answer.”
“Okay.”
“You’re still too okay.”
“I trust you.”
The words landed quietly, maybe because trust had been building under everything.
“I trust you too,” she said.
Coop went still, careful not to scare the moment.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His face softened beyond saving.
This time, she let it stay.
Then she got into her car and drove away before trust turned into something even bigger in a parking lot outside O’Malley’s.
But the whole way to campus, her phone quiet beside her, Frankie felt the shape of it.
The next thing.
Closer now.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
Just skating toward them.
Again.
Later, as the group finally began to break up for classes and recovery, Coop walked Frankie to her car.
The afternoon had turned colder. The pavement glittered faintly where meltwater had started to freeze again.
They walked hand in hand because apparently that was something they did now.
Frankie had stopped pretending she did not like it.
Mostly.
At her car, Coop stopped.
“Do you have practice later?”
“Lift. Film. No ice.”
“Sutter?”
“Sutter.”
“Smart.”
“Cruel.”
“Both.”
She leaned against the driver’s door and looked at him.
He looked back.
There were words again.
Not the biggest ones.
Maybe near them.
Frankie was starting to understand that feelings did not always arrive in a single announcement. Sometimes they collected, one small proof at a time.
He left when he should.
He stayed when she asked.
He carried one thing.
He did not turn her into a story.
He looked like again.
He held the big words when the night was too full.
She trusted him.
Not perfectly.
But truly.
That was terrifying enough.
“Coop,” she said.
His eyes sharpened.
“Yes?”
She swallowed.
“I’m glad you came to the game.”
His expression softened.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“I know.”
“And?”
She glared.
He smiled faintly.
“Fishing.”
“Learning from you.”
“Bad habit.”
“Best kind.”
She should have objected.
Did not.
Instead, she reached for the front of his jacket and pulled him down into a kiss.
He made the sound again.
Soft.
Surprised.
Hers.
She kissed him slowly, in the cold parking lot, with her back against the car and his hands careful at her waist.
Not hiding.
Not performing.
Just wanting.
When she let him go, his face was hopeless.
Truly beyond repair.
“Fix your face before class,” she said.
“No.”
“Coop.”
“No.”
She laughed.
He smiled wider.
Fine.
Let him have it.
For three seconds.
Maybe four.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She did not tense as hard.
Progress.
She pulled it out.
Not Dad.
Mara.
MARA: Asher/Birdie situation has reached my feed. Tell your winger current evidence favorable but chaotic.
Frankie looked toward the diner window where Birdie was probably still panicking.
Then typed:
FRANKIE: Accurate. She is not ready for favorable evidence.
Mara replied:
MARA: None of you are. That’s why this is entertaining.
Frankie smiled.
Coop leaned in. “My sister?”
“Yes.”
“I’m scared.”
“You should be.”
“Is she bullying you?”
“Moderately.”
“Good.”
Frankie pocketed the phone.
“My father is still muted,” she said.
Coop nodded.
“Good.”
“Mine.”
“Yours.”
“I’m not checking today.”
“Okay.”
“And if I check tomorrow, I may not answer.”
“Okay.”
“You’re still too okay.”
“I trust you.”
The words landed quietly.
No fireworks.
No dramatic shift.
Maybe because trust had already been building under everything.
Still, Frankie felt them.
“I trust you too,” she said.
Coop went still.
Not frozen.
Still.
Like he knew not to scare the moment.
“Yeah?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“Yes.”
His face softened beyond saving.
This time, she did not tell him to fix it.
She let it stay.
Then she got into her car and drove away before trust turned into something even bigger in a parking lot outside O’Malley’s.
But the whole way to campus, her phone quiet beside her, Frankie felt the shape of it.
The next thing.
The big thing.
Closer now.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
Just skating toward them.
Again.