Chapter One Billie Hartley #2
BILLIE: Depends. Can you skate backwards while apologising?
The three dots vanished.
Then returned.
Then vanished again.
Harper pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh, I love when they realise.”
Billie pocketed the phone. “Realise what?”
“That Australian women are not a soft landing.”
Before Billie could answer, a commotion rolled through the lobby.
Voices.
A rolling suitcase.
Nate yelling, “Import has entered the building!”
Billie closed her eyes for half a second.
“Professional,” Harper whispered.
“I know.”
“Public-facing.”
“I know.”
“No stabbing.”
“It was one pen.”
Then Mason Reed walked into the Harbour Ice Centre carrying a duffel, a stick bag, and the expression of a man who thought charm was a universal currency.
The lobby seemed to notice him before Billie let herself.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Travel-creased black T-shirt.
Dark jeans. Hair messy from the flight in a way that looked better than anyone deserved after fourteen hours in the air.
His left knee brace showed just slightly beneath the denim when he shifted his weight, and Billie filed that away because she noticed everything that might affect ice time, even when she wanted to be annoyed.
Especially then.
Mason looked around the rink with open curiosity.
Not contempt.
That irritated her too.
She had been prepared for smug. Smug was easier.
His gaze moved over the boards, the banners, the kids on the ice, the Blades logo, the city shining through the windows. Then it landed on her.
And stayed.
For half a second, neither of them moved.
Billie was used to hockey players looking at her.
Most of them did it in one of three ways: like she was the person who fixed their schedule, the person who controlled the ice slots, or the person who might yell if they left tape balls in the hallway.
Mason Reed looked at her like he had just found the problem and was deeply, inconveniently interested in it.
Billie folded her arms.
His mouth tipped.
Not a full smile.
Worse.
A challenge.
“You must be Billie,” he said.
His voice was lower in person. Rougher from travel. Still carrying that North American ease, the kind that made everything sound like a joke he was prepared to win.
“And you must be the man currently being ratioed by twelve-year-olds with kangaroo emojis.”
Behind her, Harper made a tiny delighted sound.
Mason blinked.
Then he laughed.
Billie hated that it was a good laugh.
“I was hoping to make a better first impression.”
“You did make an impression.”
“Not better?”
“Memorable.”
“Good memorable?”
“The kind sponsors ask about.”
He winced. Just a little. Enough to suggest there might be a brain under the hair.
“I was joking.”
Billie nodded. “That’s what people usually say after they insult an entire sport.”
“I didn’t insult the sport.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘It’s Australia. How serious can the hockey be?’”
His gaze flicked over her face. “You memorised it.”
“It has been sent to me thirty-six times.”
“Popular clip, then.”
“Do not look pleased.”
“I’m not pleased.”
“You are a little pleased.”
“I have a bad face.”
“You have a worse survival instinct.”
Nate, who had appeared near the skate counter with the subtlety of a fireworks display, whispered loudly, “I already ship it.”
Billie turned her head.
Nate immediately looked at the ceiling.
Mason’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Ship what?”
“Nothing,” Billie said.
“Something,” Harper said.
Billie pointed at her. “Do not.”
Harper lifted both hands and mouthed content.
Billie turned back to Mason. “Media room. Now.”
“Do I get a tour first?”
“No.”
“A coffee?”
“No.”
“A lawyer?”
“Only if he can skate.”
His smile deepened, and for one treacherous, deeply inconvenient second, Billie understood the problem.
Mason Reed was not just handsome.
Handsome was manageable. Hockey was full of handsome men with missing teeth, bad playlists, and protein powder where a personality should be.
Mason had timing.
He listened. He gave back fast. He looked like he enjoyed being challenged instead of resenting it.
That was dangerous.
That was exactly how men got forgiven before they had earned it.
Billie turned and started toward the media room.
“Keep up, Reed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stopped.
Slowly, she looked back.
Every Blades player within earshot became fascinated by the ice.
Mason’s face was pure innocence.
Billie stepped closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“I do not know what kind of women you annoyed in North America,” she said quietly, “but in Sydney, we do not reward ma’am.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Just once.
Fast enough that most people would have missed it.
Billie did not miss things.
“No ma’am,” he said.
“Better.”
“What do you reward?”
There it was.
The charm.
The bait.
The little spark tossed onto dry grass to see if it caught.
Billie smiled up at him, all teeth.
“Effort.”
His expression shifted.
Only a little.
But she saw it.
Good.
The man could learn.
They reached the media room, which was really a converted storage space with one decent backdrop, two folding tables, and a ring light Harper treated like a religious object.
Theo Brooks waited inside with Coach Alby, Blades owner Mark Delaney, and the expression of a man who had already mentally retired twice that morning.
Mark Delaney clapped his hands once. “Great, everyone’s here.”
Billie did not sit.
Mason did, which made her dislike him for three seconds until he immediately noticed everyone else standing and got back up.
Points, unfortunately.
Mark cleared his throat. “Obviously, the clip is unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate,” Billie repeated.
Harper whispered, “Public-facing.”
Mark continued. “But the attention is significant.”
Billie looked at him. “Please tell me you are not about to say there is no such thing as bad publicity.”
“I would never say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking near it.”
Theo sighed.
Coach Alby scratched his jaw. “Kid said something stupid. Make him say something less stupid. Done.”
“If only media strategy were that beautiful,” Harper said.
“It can be,” Alby said. “You people keep adding fonts.”
Mason lifted one hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Billie looked at him.
The room quieted.
His expression had changed. Less charm now. Less performance. He was still tired, still too handsome, still the man who had made her morning worse, but there was something steadier under it.
“I was trying to be funny,” Mason said. “It came out disrespectful. I don’t know Australian hockey yet, and I talked like I did. That’s on me.”
Billie hated how much better that was than she expected.
She also hated that she believed him.
A little.
Not enough.
“Good,” she said.
He nodded.
“Now you can say it on camera.”
His eyebrows rose. “Now?”
“Unless you need to stretch first.”
Nate made a strangled noise outside the door.
Mark rubbed his forehead. “Actually, we were thinking of something a little more strategic.”
Billie did not like the word strategic when said by owners. It usually meant unpaid labor with a press release.
Harper’s face lit up.
Billie liked that even less.
“What did you do?” Billie asked her.
“I did not do it yet.”
“That is not comforting.”
Harper turned her laptop around.
On the screen was a mock graphic in navy, coral, and ice blue.
THE SYDNEY ICE BET
Billie stared at it.
Then at Harper.
Then at Mark.
“No.”
Mark smiled carefully. “Hear us out.”
“No.”
Mason leaned closer to read the screen. “Is that my name in the comments?”
“It’s everyone’s name in the comments,” Harper said. “The clip is huge. Annoying huge. But the sentiment is split.”
“Split how?” Mason asked.
“Half the comments want you humbled,” Harper said. “Half think you’re hot.”
Billie closed her eyes.
Australia had betrayed her.
“So,” Harper continued, “we create a challenge. Mason has thirty days to prove he respects Australian hockey. Youth clinic. Community skate. Sponsor dinner. Learn the Blades history. Train with local players. Public apology. Charity exhibition. The whole thing.”
“And I run it,” Billie said flatly.
Harper smiled. “You are the most credible person to run it.”
“I am the angriest person to run it.”
“Exactly. Authenticity.”
Mason looked between them. “And the bet?”
Billie opened her eyes.
Harper clicked to the next slide.
Billie wished she had not.