The Sydney Ice Bet (Sydney Ice #1)

Chapter One Billie Hartley

The Man Was Going to Apologise or Bleed

Billie Hartley knew exactly three things before eight on Monday morning: the rink compressor was making a noise that sounded legally actionable, the under-twelves had somehow lost a goal net, and the new Sydney Blades import had just insulted Australian hockey badly enough to make her phone vibrate off the edge of a desk.

She caught it before it hit the floor.

Barely.

Which was more than Mason Reed deserved.

“Do not be bad,” she told the phone.

The phone, like most men with public platforms, ignored her.

It buzzed again.

Then again.

Then twenty-three times in a row, because apparently the universe had looked at Billie’s morning and decided what it needed was a pile-on.

She stood in the rink office with one boot hooked around a box of youth helmets, one hand holding a half-finished coffee, and one eye on the maintenance monitor blinking red like it was also emotionally involved.

The Harbour Ice Centre was not glamorous at eight in the morning.

It smelled like cold metal, old coffee, blade shavings, and the faint, permanent panic of people who loved expensive sports on unreasonable budgets.

The office carpet had a stain shaped like Tasmania.

The printer only worked if you complimented it first. A whiteboard near the door listed the week’s tasks in three different handwriting styles and one line in red marker that read:

WHO PUT GLITTER IN THE SKATE SHARPENER?

Nobody had confessed.

Billie had suspects.

All of them were under fourteen or played defence.

Her phone buzzed again.

She looked down.

HARPER LANE: Have you seen it?

THEO brOOKS: Don’t check socials until you’ve eaten.

NATE CALLOW: In my defence, I did not personally cause this.

Billie stared at the last message.

That was never a good sentence from Nate.

She opened the link.

A video filled her screen. Podcast clip. Studio lighting. Big headphones. A logo she did not recognise. Three men laughing like they had never once worried about electricity bills. And in the middle of them, leaning back in a chair like he had been born comfortable, was Mason Reed.

The new import.

The very expensive, very injured, very last-minute North American signing the Blades’ ownership had called a “marketable opportunity” and Billie had privately called “a walking invoice with hair.”

He had good hair.

Annoyingly good.

Thick, dark blond, a little too long, the sort of hair that looked accidental but probably had a sponsorship deal somewhere.

He had the jaw of a man who had never had to repeat his coffee order.

He wore a navy shirt, one sleeve pushed up over a forearm that looked like it had been designed by a committee of sports photographers.

Billie hated him on principle.

Then he smiled.

She hated him more.

The host leaned toward the microphone. “So Australia, mate. Big move. What are you expecting?”

Mason laughed.

It was a warm laugh. Easy. Dangerous.

Billie’s stomach sank before he even opened his mouth.

“I mean,” Mason said, still smiling, “it’s Australia. How serious can the hockey be?”

The office went silent.

Not actually silent. The compressor still groaned. A kid somewhere outside the office yelled, “I found the net!” followed immediately by, “Never mind, it’s a bin.”

But Billie heard none of that.

She watched the clip again.

Then a third time, because apparently she enjoyed suffering with evidence.

On the screen, Mason Reed grinned like a man who had never been hit by a furious woman holding a pen.

Billie looked at the pen on her desk.

No.

Absolutely not.

She had promised herself she was done with office props after the Christmas gala incident.

She picked up a pen instead.

More professional.

Sharper.

Her office door flew open.

Harper Lane burst in wearing red lipstick, white sneakers, and the expression of a woman who had already turned disaster into a spreadsheet.

“We have a situation,” Harper said.

Billie held up the phone. “Is it the millionaire import treating Australian hockey like a themed holiday activity?”

“Technically, he is not a millionaire anymore.”

“Comforting.”

“And technically, the clip is doing incredible numbers.”

Billie lowered the phone very slowly. “Harper.”

“What? I’m not saying it’s good. I’m saying if we survive it, we may be able to weaponise it.”

Billie stared at her.

Harper was the Blades’ social media manager, which meant she could look at a public relations fire and see lighting potential. She was twenty-six, frighteningly online, and the only person Billie knew who could say the word engagement in a crisis without sounding like she meant marriage.

Although with Harper, one never knew.

Billie pointed at the phone. “He called us unserious.”

“He implied it.”

“He smiled while doing it.”

“That does make it worse.”

“He has not even landed in Sydney yet.”

“He lands in forty-eight minutes.”

Billie froze.

Harper smiled with deep professional terror.

“No,” Billie said.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“He is coming straight here from the airport.”

“Why would he come straight here?”

“Because management scheduled a welcome skate.”

Billie looked toward the rink glass, where six under-twelves were chasing a loose puck with the commitment of tiny criminals.

Beyond them, through the high windows, Sydney morning glittered over the harbour.

Bright water. Hot sky. A city full of people who thought ice hockey was strange until they saw it up close and fell a little bit in love.

The Harbour Ice Centre sat wedged between practical things and impossible views.

If you stood at the right angle near the loading dock, you could see the Opera House over a stack of broken cones.

If you climbed the back stairs at sunset, the Harbour Bridge rose behind the rink lights like it had shown up to supervise.

Billie loved this place.

Loved it with the exhausting devotion usually reserved for difficult relatives and teams in rebuild years.

Her grandfather had helped lay the first boards.

Her mother had run the canteen through three ownership changes, two floods, and one junior tournament where a visiting goalie’s dad tried to fight a vending machine.

Billie had learned to skate here before she learned long division.

She had broken her wrist here, kissed a boy badly behind the Zamboni room here, lost her competitive future here, and come back anyway because some loves did not care whether they had been convenient.

This rink was not a novelty.

The Blades were not a joke.

Australian hockey was not a punchline for some imported forward with excellent cheekbones and airport hair.

Billie set her coffee down.

Too hard.

It sloshed over the rim.

Harper took one careful step back.

“What are you doing?” Harper asked.

“Being calm.”

“No, you’re doing the voice.”

“What voice?”

“The voice where you sound calm because someone is about to die administratively.”

Billie grabbed her radio off the desk and clipped it to her waistband. “I am not killing anyone.”

“Great.”

“I am welcoming our new player.”

“Less great.”

“With professionalism.”

“Terrifying.”

“And possibly a prepared statement.”

“Billie.”

“And if he survives that, I may let him keep both legs.”

Harper followed her into the corridor. “Before you professionally remove his legs, management wants us in the media room.”

“Management can want many things.”

“They want a plan.”

“I have a plan.”

“Does it include murder?”

“Not if he apologises quickly.”

They passed the skate rental counter, where Billie’s cousin Evie was sitting on the counter despite being told at least nine hundred times not to sit on the counter. Evie held up her phone.

“Is this our new guy?” she asked. “Because he’s hot in a regrettable way.”

“Do not encourage him,” Billie said.

“I haven’t met him.”

“That has never stopped you.”

Evie grinned. “True.”

From the rink, Coach Alby banged a stick against the boards. “Billie! Compressor’s making the noise again.”

“I know.”

“It sounds expensive.”

“I know.”

“Should I turn it off?”

“Do you want the ice to melt?”

“No.”

“Then do not touch anything with a switch.”

“Copy that.”

Billie kept walking.

The corridor opened into the main rink, and cold wrapped around her like a hand on the back of the neck.

Outside, Sydney was already warming, sunshine flashing off water and car roofs and the glass towers beyond the harbour.

Inside, the rink breathed winter. Clean air.

Sharp edges. Blue lines beneath white ice. Home.

Billie stopped at the boards.

For one second, she let herself look.

The under-twelves had found the goal net, unfortunately because it was now upside down and being used as a fortress.

A cluster of Blades players were drifting through warmups at the far end, laughing at something Nate had done.

Theo Brooks stood near the bench, arms folded, already looking like he had been born disappointed in everyone.

The team logo gleamed at centre ice: two crossed blades over a navy shield, sharp and bright under the rink lights.

The Sydney Blades.

Her team.

Her mess.

Her heart, whether that was sensible or not.

Her phone buzzed again.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey, this is Mason Reed. Heard there might be a little media thing. Looking forward to meeting everyone.

Billie stared at the message.

A little media thing.

A little.

She typed.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Deleted that too because it included the words “international incident” and “emotional damages.”

Harper leaned over her shoulder. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing legally useful.”

“Send something polite.”

Billie typed:

Welcome to Sydney. Come directly to the media room when you arrive. We need to discuss your podcast.

Harper made a face. “That sounds like you’re calling him to the principal’s office.”

“I am.”

“You manage a hockey rink.”

“And today, apparently, a kindergarten for grown men with passports.”

She hit send.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Of course he was fast.

MASON REED: Should I be scared?

Billie smiled.

It was not a nice smile.