Chapter Three Billie Hartley
The Internet Had Opinions
Billie Hartley had made peace with many terrible things in her life, including melted rental skates, parents who thought rink staff could control gravity, and the smell of old goalie gear in summer, but she drew the line at being shipped with a man who had not yet earned the right to touch her coffee machine.
Unfortunately, the internet did not respect boundaries.
Billie stared at the post on Harper’s phone.
“No,” she said.
Harper, who had the moral backbone of a person who could turn public humiliation into brand growth, grinned. “It has thirty-two thousand views.”
“It has lies.”
“It has engagement.”
“It has my face.”
“It has your face looking like you were considering murder, which, statistically, is our strongest-performing content so far.”
Billie handed the phone back as if it had tried to bite her. “I’m going to ban the internet from the building.”
“You cannot ban the internet.”
“I run operations. Watch me.”
From the far end of the rink, a group of under-twelves banged their sticks against the boards and chanted, “Bet! Bet! Bet!”
Billie closed her eyes.
Harper patted her shoulder. “They’ve made signs.”
“I saw.”
“One says, ‘Kiss if he respects hockey.’”
“I am resigning.”
“No, you’re not. Graham Vale moved the sponsor dinner call up to noon, Mark wants updated campaign numbers by ten, Coach Alby wants Mason in media training before practice, and Evie says the skate room smells like a dead possum wearing wet socks.”
Billie opened her eyes. “It always smells like that.”
“Yes, but today she said it with feeling.”
Across the ice, Mason Reed laughed at something Max said.
Billie did not look over.
She absolutely did not look over.
Looking over would be foolish. Looking over would reward the universe. Looking over would suggest that the newly viral North American import with a reckless smile, a visible knee brace, and an unfortunate talent for apologising while looking sincere had taken up space in her head.
He had not.
He was simply large, loud, public, and currently responsible for the survival of a sponsor package that could keep Harbour Ice Centre’s junior program funded through the next season.
That was all.
A funding concern with shoulders.
Mason crouched near the boards to talk to Isla, who had one hand on her hip and the other pointing at his skates like she was about to issue a government penalty. He nodded seriously, said something that made the whole group howl, then pushed off backward.
Cleanly.
Billie’s eyes narrowed.
Harper leaned closer. “You’re watching him.”
“I’m assessing rink liability.”
“You’re assessing whether his left turn is still dodgy.”
“It is.”
“It looked better.”
“It looked lucky.”
“Mmm.”
Billie turned her head slowly. “Do not mmm at me.”
“That was not a romantic mmm. That was an analytics mmm.”
“Those are worse.”
Harper smiled at her phone again. “We need content for the noon sponsor call. Real, local, specific, less international-disaster, more community-redemption.”
Billie inhaled through her nose and reminded herself that she loved this rink.
She loved the uneven boards, the stubborn compressor, the kids who taped their own sticks badly, the mums and dads who came in exhausted after work and still cheered like their child had just won Olympic gold.
She loved the Sydney Blades with their too-small budget and too-large pride.
She loved that hockey had found a home here even when people laughed at the idea.
Which was why Mason Reed was going to help fix the damage he caused.
Not because his apology had been better than expected.
Not because he had looked at the ice like he had missed being useful.
Not because the stupid internet thought they had chemistry.
Billie had chemistry with plenty of things.
Coffee. Competence. Silence.
Not imports.
“Fine,” she said. “We need controlled chaos.”
Harper’s expression lit up. “My favourite kind.”
“There is no uncontrolled posting from team accounts.”
“I would never.”
Billie stared at her.
Harper added, “Without checking font size first.”
“Harper.”
“Fine. Mostly never.”
Billie grabbed the rink schedule from the wall beside the office door. It had three different pen colours, one smear of what might have been jam, and a handwritten note from Evie that read: IF ANYONE ASKS, THE PENGUIN WALKER DID IT.
She scanned the morning block.
“Public skate starts at ten,” she said. “School holiday crowd. Parents, beginners, birthday group, a few regulars. Mason can do apology duty there.”
Harper blinked. “You want to put the man who insulted Australian hockey in front of the general public with knives on their feet?”
“Yes.”
“Bold.”
“Useful. He needs to show he respects people who love the sport, not just players.”
“And if he gets heckled?”
“He deserves it.”
“And if the internet gets more material?”
Billie looked across the ice again despite herself.
Mason had Max on one side and Isla on the other. Max was demonstrating something with dramatic arms. Mason copied him with absolute seriousness, nearly overbalanced, caught himself, then bowed like he had meant to do it. The kids shrieked.
Billie’s stomach did something rude.
She ignored it.
“Then,” she said, “we make sure the material helps the rink.”
Harper was already typing. “Public skate apology lap. Good. Could be charming. Could be a lawsuit. Either way, views.”
“No lives. No thirst captions. No using the word kiss.”
Harper stopped typing.
Billie pointed at her. “I know your face.”
“My face is neutral.”
“Your face is committing crimes.”
“My face is exploring brand direction.”
“No.”
Harper sighed. “You’re very hard to make viral.”
“I’m very easy to keep employed.”
A sharp whistle cut through the rink. Coach Alby stood near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets and the haunted expression of a man who had once believed hockey should involve hockey.
“Billie,” he barked. “Why is my new import being taught by children?”
Billie called back, “Because the children have standards.”
Max yelled, “His left turn was dodgy!”
Mason put one hand over his heart. “I’m improving under excellent leadership.”
Isla shouted, “Barely!”
Coach Alby rubbed both hands down his face. “Media training. Now. Before he says Canada has better beaches.”
“I would never,” Mason said.
Billie lifted her brows.
Mason skated toward the gate, slow enough that the brace was obvious if someone knew to look. Most people would see ease. Billie saw restraint. A tiny hitch when he shifted weight. The flicker at the corner of his mouth when pain caught up with pride.
She hated that she noticed.
She hated more that he caught her noticing.
His grin softened into something less public.
“You worried about me, Hartley?”
“Only as rink property.”
“I’m a person.”
“That remains under review.”
He stepped off the ice and reached for his skate guards. “Good to know there’s a process.”
“There’s paperwork.”
“Sounds intimate.”
“Everything sounds intimate when you say it like you’re being interviewed by a cologne ad.”
Harper made a tiny choking noise behind her phone.
Mason’s smile widened. “You think I could sell cologne?”
“I think you could sell poor decisions to people with low standards.”
“And yet, here you are, managing me.”
“Because I have high standards and no choice.”
He slipped the guards over his blades and walked closer, still taller than was convenient.
Up close, he looked less polished than he had at the media room table.
There were faint shadows under his eyes.
Airport fatigue. Jet lag. Maybe a deeper kind.
The kind that came from landing in a new country with your old life chasing you through headlines.
Billie did not have time to be sympathetic.
Sympathy was how people got volunteered for committees.
Mason glanced at Harper’s phone. “How bad is it?”
Harper brightened. “Define bad.”
“That bad?”
“We gained four thousand followers.”
“That sounds good.”
Billie crossed her arms. “A top comment says we should kiss if you survive ten days.”
Mason’s eyes flicked to Billie.
Only for a second.
Only long enough to be extremely annoying.
“And your official account replied, ‘Bet,’” Billie added.
His mouth twitched. “That feels off-brand for you.”
“It was Nate.”
From somewhere near the bench, Nate Callow shouted, “Allegedly!”
Coach Alby pointed at him. “You are one vowel away from bag skates.”
Nate looked at Theo. “Is that a real threat?”
Theo, tying his laces with the calm of a man who had survived too much team nonsense to startle easily, said, “With Alby, yes.”
Mason looked back at Billie. “So what’s my punishment?”
“Public skate.”
His brows lifted. “That sounds adorable.”
“You’ll be apologising to parents, helping beginners, taking photos, answering questions without making jokes at an entire nation’s expense, and letting Harper film just enough to prove you’re useful.”
“Useful,” he repeated.
Something in his voice shifted.
Billie caught it because she was trained to catch things. Compressor rattle. Skate cracks. The mood change before a parent yelled. The small gap between charm and truth.
Mason Reed liked being called useful.
Interesting.
Dangerous.
She tucked the observation away and hardened her tone. “Do not flirt with the public.”
“I don’t flirt with the public.”
Harper coughed.
Mason looked offended. “I’m friendly.”
Billie said, “You flirted with the coffee urn.”
“It had excellent warmth.”
“You called it beautiful.”
“It saved my life.”
“You winked at a grandmother during your apology.”
“She said my hair looked tired.”
“It did.”
His hand went to his hair. “Jet lag hair is a recognised medical condition.”
Billie refused to smile.
Barely.
He saw the almost-smile anyway, because of course he did. Men like Mason had radar for weakness. Not maliciously, maybe. Not even intentionally. But charm like his moved through a room looking for cracks.
Billie had spent years sealing hers.