Chapter Two Mason Reed #3
Harper appeared at the boards like she had teleported. “Oh no.”
Billie turned. “What?”
“That’s Graham Vale.”
Mason looked at Theo. “Should I know him?”
Theo’s mouth flattened. “Main sponsor prospect.”
“Why is that oh no?”
Harper lowered her voice. “Because he threatened to pull out after the clip.”
Billie was already moving toward the gate.
Mark waved too brightly. “Billie! Mason! Perfect timing.”
No one in history had ever said perfect timing before delivering good news.
Graham Vale stepped up to the boards.
He was tanned, polished, and smiling with the exact level of confidence that made Mason’s shoulders tense. Not hockey confidence. Money confidence. The kind that came from knowing every room would eventually rearrange itself around your comfort.
His gaze moved from Billie to Mason.
Then to the phone still in Harper’s hand.
“I’ve been following the morning’s entertainment,” Graham said. “Very spirited.”
Billie’s smile appeared.
Mason immediately disliked it.
Not because it was pretty, although it was.
Because it was fake.
Professional.
Careful.
The kind of smile women used when men with money were standing too close to something they loved.
“Graham,” Billie said. “We’re handling it.”
“So I see.” His eyes returned to Mason. “The bet is clever. Risky, but clever. Sydney does love a redemption story.”
Mason said nothing.
For once, he trusted Billie’s silence more than his own mouth.
Graham leaned against the boards. “I’ll make this simple. If the campaign turns public sentiment around before the sponsor dinner next Friday, we stay in discussion.”
Billie’s fingers tightened around her tablet.
“And if it doesn’t?” she asked.
Graham shrugged. “Then the Harbour Ice Centre may not be the visibility partner we’re looking for.”
The words were polite.
The threat was not.
Mason looked at Billie.
She did not flinch.
That made him angrier than if she had.
“How much public sentiment?” Mason asked.
Graham’s eyes flicked to him, amused. “Pardon?”
“You said turn it around. What’s the number?”
Billie glanced at him.
Mason kept his gaze on Graham.
Graham smiled. “You’re direct.”
“I’m Canadian. We hide it under manners, but only for the first meeting.”
Nate whispered, “Oh, I love him now.”
Graham studied Mason for a long second. “Fine. Twenty thousand new followers. A positive local media segment. Sponsor dinner sold out. And no more international jokes at Australia’s expense.”
“That last one seems personal.”
“It is.”
“Fair.”
Billie stepped in. “Graham, that’s a lot in ten days.”
“It’s a lot of money on the table.”
The rink seemed colder.
Mason understood then.
The bet was not cute.
Not really.
It was not just fake dating bait and viral marketing and two people arguing while the internet threw heart emojis at them.
It was a lifeline.
A ridiculous, risky, neon-colored lifeline with his face on it.
He had made the hole.
Now Billie was being asked to turn it into a door.
He looked at her.
She was still smiling that awful professional smile.
No.
Absolutely not.
He had known Billie Hartley for less than two hours, but he already knew he did not want to see that smile again.
Mason turned to Graham.
“Done.”
Billie’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
“Twenty thousand followers. Positive media. Sold-out dinner. No more stupid jokes.”
Graham’s eyebrows lifted. “Confident.”
“No,” Mason said. “Useful.”
Billie stared at him.
He did not look away.
For once, the rink went completely quiet.
Then Harper’s phone buzzed.
She looked down.
Her mouth fell open.
“What?” Billie asked.
Harper slowly turned the screen.
The Blades’ latest post had gone wider than wide.
Mason’s hand in Billie’s.
Billie’s chin lifted.
His smile fixed on her like a dare.
The caption underneath had already been shared thousands of times.
But that was not the problem.
The problem was the top comment, pinned by accident or fate or Harper’s demon algorithm.
I give them ten days before they kiss.
Under it, the official Sydney Blades account had replied:
Bet.
Billie went very still.
Mason looked at Harper.
Harper looked at Billie.
Nate whispered, “For legal reasons, I did not do that.”
Billie closed her eyes.
“Who,” she asked calmly, “has access to the team account?”
Every single person in the rink looked at Nate.
Nate put a hand over his heart. “Betrayal hurts most when it comes from family.”
Billie opened her eyes and looked at Mason.
He should not have smiled.
He knew that.
He smiled anyway.
“Good news,” he said. “Public sentiment seems engaged.”
Billie’s expression promised violence.
But her cheeks had gone pink.
And when Mason stepped off the ice ten minutes later, his knee aching, his phone exploding, and his entire Sydney future apparently tied to a woman who wanted him useful and possibly dead, he realised the most dangerous part of the day was not the sponsor threat, the viral clip, or the child with the kangaroo sign.
It was that for the first time in months, maybe longer, he wanted to win something that had nothing to do with getting back to where he used to be.