Chapter One Billie Hartley #3
If Mason lasts thirty days without quitting, Billie publicly forgives him. If he quits, he admits on camera that Australian hockey humbled him.
Mason’s mouth curved.
Billie pointed at him. “Do not smile.”
“I’m not.”
“You are visibly smiling.”
“I like stakes.”
“You are the stakes.”
“I’ve been worse things.”
Billie should have had a response to that.
She did not, which annoyed her more than the original podcast clip.
Mark leaned forward. “Billie, we need sponsors. We need eyes. We need people talking about the Blades before the season opener. This gives us a story.”
“We already have a story,” Billie said. “A talented team that deserves respect.”
“And now,” Harper said gently, “we have a way to make people watch long enough to see that.”
That landed.
Billie wished it had not.
Through the media room window, she could see the ice.
The kids had finally put the goal net upright.
Theo’s younger brother was helping a tiny skater balance on rental blades.
Coach Alby was pretending not to smile. The Blades logo gleamed at centre ice, waiting for the season, waiting for fans, waiting for enough money to keep everything running without Billie learning another compressor part number by force.
She looked at Mason.
He looked back.
No grin now.
Good.
Maybe he understood there were things in this rink that were not funny.
“You would have to show up,” she said.
“I can show up.”
“Early.”
His mouth twitched. “Define early.”
“Earlier than comfortable.”
“Cruel.”
“You would do every event Harper schedules.”
He glanced at Harper.
Harper smiled like a woman with a folder already named Content Opportunities.
Mason looked mildly afraid.
Good.
“You would listen to local players,” Billie said. “You would not treat this like some cute little side quest on your comeback tour.”
His expression sharpened. “That’s not what this is.”
“No? Because from where I’m standing, Sydney looks like the place you got sent when North America stopped clapping.”
The room went still.
Mason’s jaw flexed.
There.
Under the charm. Under the easy grin.
The bruise.
Billie felt a small, unpleasant twist of guilt.
Not enough to take it back.
Enough to know she had hit something real.
Mason stepped closer.
Not too close.
Close enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold his gaze.
“You want effort?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Good.”
“But when I last thirty days, you forgive me publicly.”
“If.”
“When.”
“And if you quit,” Billie said, “you say exactly what Harper wrote.”
“What did Harper write?”
Harper, thrilled, read from the slide. “I, Mason Reed, was wrong about Australian hockey and have been personally humbled by the Sydney Blades, Billie Hartley, and at least one terrifying child in rental skates.”
Mason looked at Billie.
Billie looked back.
Then he held out his hand.
The whole room seemed to lean in.
Billie should not have taken it.
She knew that.
There were many sensible reasons not to touch Mason Reed’s hand. Public relations reasons. Emotional hazard reasons. The fact that his apology still needed work and his face was a problem and his forearm had no business being that distracting before nine in the morning.
But the Blades needed eyes.
The rink needed sponsors.
Australian hockey needed to stop being the punchline.
And Billie Hartley had never once been accused of walking away from a fight just because the fight had pretty eyelashes.
She took his hand.
His palm was warm.
Of course it was.
The handshake lasted two seconds too long.
Harper made a sound that might have been a suppressed scream or a marketing plan being born.
Mason leaned in just enough for only Billie to hear.
“For the record,” he said, “I’m very good under pressure.”
Billie smiled.
“For the record,” she said, “Sydney is excellent at pressure.”
His eyes lit.
Not with fear.
With interest.
Oh, no.
Billie pulled her hand back.
Too late.
Harper had already taken a photo.
Nate had already posted something.
And somewhere beyond the media room wall, half the under-twelves began chanting a name that sounded suspiciously like Mason’s.
Billie looked at her phone.
A new notification flashed across the screen from the Blades’ official account.
THE SYDNEY ICE BET STARTS NOW.
Under it was the photo.
Mason Reed’s hand in hers.
Her chin lifted.
His smile locked on her like a dare.
And the caption:
Thirty days. One import. One rink manager. Zero chance this stays professional.
Billie stared at it.
Mason looked over her shoulder.
Then, very softly, very unwisely, he laughed.
Billie did not look at him.
She looked at Harper.
“You posted this?”
Harper’s face was the picture of professional innocence. “The engagement is unbelievable.”
Billie inhaled.
Exhaled.
Then looked at Mason Reed, whose entire career might survive the month if she did not end him first.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You are now officially my problem.”
Mason smiled like that was the best news he had heard all year.
And Billie realised, with absolute horror, that the internet might not be the only one in trouble.