Chapter Thirty-Four #2
The rink doors opened again before anyone fully escaped.
Asher Reed stepped in wearing a Westbridge jacket and carrying a slim folder against his side.
Every Spitfire turned.
Birdie went very, very still.
Frankie looked at the folder. “If that contains a complaint, file it with Wren.”
Asher’s smile was small and sharp. “Conference community-skate paperwork. I was told Brookfield likes things in writing.”
Wren held out one hand. “Correct.”
Asher handed it over, then let his gaze slide to Birdie. “Nice win, Nguyen.”
Birdie lifted her chin. “Nice almost stealing our joy, Reed.”
“I would never almost do anything.”
“No. You fully menace.”
Asher’s smile widened by half an inch.
The hallway seemed to notice.
Dani made a quiet sound into her coffee.
Reese looked at Frankie.
Frankie looked at Coop.
Coop mouthed, Book Three.
Frankie elbowed him.
Asher, unfortunately, saw it. “Am I missing a team joke?”
“Yes,” Birdie said.
“No,” Wren said at the same time.
Asher looked delighted. “Excellent.”
Then she left with one last glance at Birdie, who looked personally attacked by eye contact.
Frankie waited until the door closed.
“Functional disaster,” she said.
Birdie pointed at her. “No.”
“Yes,” Dani said softly.
Wren made a note.
At practice later, Coop found out love did not make hockey easier.
It made focus harder for approximately eight minutes, until Tanner checked him into the boards during a drill and said, “Congratulations, idiot.”
Coop shoved him back.
“Thanks.”
“Skate.”
“Yes.”
Landry watched the exchange with a faint smile and said nothing.
Practice fixed the rest.
By evening, Coop was tired in the best way. Body used. Heart full. No longer pretending those were separate categories.
He found Frankie at the trophy case after her team lift.
Of course.
She stood in front of The Fire We Built display, hands in her hoodie pocket, looking at the new little card Wren had added beside the funding approval.
WESTbrIDGE RESULT: brOOKFIELD 2, WESTbrIDGE 1
Under it, in smaller type:
Not a verdict. A beginning.
Coop stopped beside her.
“Wren?”
“Obviously.”
“It’s good.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“She knows.”
“Yes.”
Frankie looked at the display for a long moment.
Then said, “This can probably come down soon.”
Coop looked at her.
The display had become a landmark.
A checkpoint.
A place where they had learned how to stand near proof.
“Yeah?” he asked.
She nodded slowly.
“It did its job.”
The words landed.
The Fire We Built had done its job.
The showcase.
The funding.
Westbridge.
Her father’s muted voice.
Their almost and then actual love.
Not gone.
Not finished.
But maybe no longer needing a display case to prove it existed.
“What comes next?” he asked.
Frankie glanced toward the rink doors.
“Work.”
“Obviously.”
“Games.”
“Yes.”
“Birdie pretending not to like Asher.”
“Badly.”
“Reese making renewal folders eighteen months early.”
“Likely.”
“Wren threatening digital lives.”
“Already happening.”
He smiled.
“And us?” he asked.
Her eyes moved to his.
There it was.
No flinch.
No shutdown.
A little fear.
A lot of truth.
“Us too,” she said.
Simple.
Massive.
Coop nodded.
“Good.”
She reached for his hand.
He took it.
“My father texted again,” she said.
His body went alert, but he kept his face steady.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I might eventually.”
“Okay.”
“But not because I owe him the last word.”
“No.”
“And not because I need his version of the game.”
“No.”
She looked down at their hands.
“I think I’m allowed to decide how much access someone gets to me.”
Coop’s chest tightened.
“You are.”
“Even family.”
“Especially family.”
She absorbed that.
Then nodded once.
“Good.”
“Yours?”
She squeezed his hand.
“Mine.”
He smiled.
“Shared?”
Her mouth curved.
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Obviously.”
The rink doors opened, and Nolan’s voice echoed down the hall.
“VALE! IF YOU ARE DOING ROMANCE NEAR THE TROPHY CASE, WREN SAYS USE THE SIDE HALL BECAUSE LIGHTING IS BETTER BUT SHE DENIES SAYING THAT.”
Frankie closed her eyes.
Coop laughed.
Wren’s voice followed, murderous. “I did not say that!”
Birdie yelled, “You implied it!”
Dani laughed.
Reese said, “Everyone leave them alone.”
Hayes added, “Run, man.”
Frankie opened her eyes.
“Your friends are terrible.”
“Our friends.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Then sighed.
“Our friends are terrible.”
He loved the sound of that.
Our friends.
Our good.
Us.
Frankie turned toward the side hall.
“Walk me to my car?”
“Always.”
She looked at him.
“Still.”
“Still.”
They walked down the hallway together, past the display that had done its job, past the rink that had become less borrowed, past the echoes of a team that had fought its way into being seen.
At the side entrance, Frankie stopped.
The cold waited beyond the glass.
She looked at him.
“I love you,” she said.
No warning.
No buildup.
Just there.
Coop’s heart went soft and wild at once.
“I love you too.”
Her face warmed.
Tiny.
Real.
Then she opened the door herself, because of course she did, and stepped into the cold.
Coop followed.
Together, they walked toward the lot, not fixed, not finished, not easy.
Better.
Real.