Chapter Three Billie Hartley #3
The rink needed the sponsorship. Not in the vague way every community sport needed money.
Specifically. Urgently. The junior program’s gear subsidy was already stretched thin.
The women’s development sessions had a waitlist and not enough ice time.
The compressor repairs were going to hurt.
Public skate kept the doors open, but not comfortably.
One good sponsor package could give them breathing room.
One bad viral storm could cost them the only polished-money man currently willing to pretend Australian hockey was worth his attention.
Billie looked through the glass at Mason, who laughed when the dinosaur child accused him of being “too tall for balance.”
He had caused the storm.
Now he had to help hold the roof down.
She stepped onto the ice in her shoes, staying near the matting along the gate. “Mason.”
He looked over immediately.
Too immediately.
“Yes, boss?”
“Off the ice in five. Sponsor call.”
His smile faded just enough. “Right.”
The dinosaur child clutched his hand. “You can’t go. The ice is still rude.”
Mason crouched. “Billie is scarier than the ice.”
The child looked at Billie with wide eyes.
Billie smiled sweetly. “Correct.”
The child released him.
Mason skated over and stepped through the gate. He reached for the boards, and for one brief second, his face tightened.
Pain.
There and gone.
Billie’s mouth moved before her brain could stop it. “Knee?”
He looked at her. “Fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer players give when they don’t want to be benched.”
“I’m not your coach.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re much scarier.”
The words should have been a joke.
They were almost not.
Billie’s pulse kicked.
She covered it by stepping back. “Sophie needs to clear you before practice.”
“Sophie already cleared me.”
“For clinic work. Not for playing hero in public skate and sponsor theatre.”
“I was holding a child’s hand.”
“You were protecting his left side from a teenager with no braking skills.”
His eyes sharpened. “You saw that?”
“I see everything in my rink.”
Something crossed his face. Admiration, maybe. Or calculation. Or the deeply irritating awareness of a man realising Billie Hartley was not as immune as she was working hard to appear.
He leaned one shoulder against the boards. “Everything?”
She gave him a flat look. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
“I was going for terrified.”
“Try harder.”
His grin came back, but gentler. “Yes, boss.”
The sponsor call happened in the upstairs office because it had the least offensive background and only one suspicious stain on the carpet.
Mark Delaney sat behind the desk, all rolled sleeves and optimism that probably came from refusing to read repair invoices too closely.
Harper perched on the windowsill. Billie stood because sitting felt too much like surrender.
Mason leaned against the wall with his arms folded, hair still damp from rink air, expression arranged into polite professionalism.
On the screen, Graham Vale appeared in a pale blue shirt, expensive watch visible, harbour view behind him because of course he had a better harbour view than Harbour Ice Centre.
“Mark,” Graham said. “Billie. Harper.”
His gaze moved to Mason.
“Mason Reed,” Graham said. “The man of the hour.”
Mason smiled. “Depends which hour.”
Billie cut him a look.
He added, “Glad to meet you, Mr Vale.”
Graham did not smile back. “You understand why I’m concerned.”
“I do.”
“Good. Because my board asked me this morning why Vale Community Partners should attach its name to a team currently being mocked by half the internet.”
Billie’s spine snapped straight. “With respect, the team isn’t being mocked. The original comment was directed at Australian hockey by one player, and the response has shown exactly how passionate the community is.”
Graham’s eyes shifted to her. “Passion does not always translate to sponsorship value.”
“No,” Billie said. “But community trust does. Youth participation does. Local visibility does. Sponsor alignment with a redemption campaign people are actively watching does.”
Harper’s eyebrows lifted.
Mason’s gaze landed on Billie, quiet and focused.
Billie ignored both.
Graham steepled his fingers. “You sound prepared.”
“I usually am.”
Mason made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.
Billie stepped on his shoe without looking.
He stopped.
Mark leaned forward. “We have numbers. Harper?”
Harper launched into metrics with the speed and confidence of a woman who had been waiting her whole life for a crisis large enough to deserve her talents.
Follower growth. Engagement. Positive sentiment climb after Mason’s apology.
Shares from local parents. Comments from junior hockey families.
A spike in public skate bookings for the week.
Graham listened, unreadable.
“The cupcake clip is performing very well,” Harper said.
Graham’s mouth tightened. “Cupcake clip.”
“It’s more emotionally compelling than it sounds.”
Billie said, “It shows accountability in a family setting.”
“It shows a child limiting my access to baked goods,” Mason added.
Billie closed her eyes.
Harper whispered, “Also that.”
Graham looked at Mason. “Do you understand what’s at stake here, Mr Reed?”
Mason’s posture changed.
Not much. Just enough.
Charm moved aside.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand I made this harder for people who were already working harder than they should have to. I understand the rink needs support, the junior program needs funding, and the Blades are carrying a lot more than a men’s roster.
I can’t undo the clip. But I can spend the next thirty days making sure people see what I should’ve seen before I opened my mouth. ”
The office went still.
Billie looked at him.
He did not look back.
He kept his attention on Graham, calm, direct, no wink, no polish.
Graham tapped one finger against his desk. “That sounded almost rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No?”
“No,” Mason said. “Billie would’ve made it shorter.”
Harper snorted.
Billie pressed her lips together.
Graham finally smiled a little. “All right. Here is what I’m willing to do. I won’t pull the sponsorship discussion today. But Friday’s dinner matters. If the room is not full, if the local media segment does not land well, if this campaign slips into circus instead of redemption, I’m out.”
Mark nodded. “Understood.”
“One more thing,” Graham said. “I want a campaign moment before Friday. Something bigger than a cupcake.”
Harper’s eyes gleamed.
Billie felt dread crawl up her spine.
“What kind of moment?” Billie asked.
Graham looked directly at Mason. “Something that proves Mr Reed is not just apologising. Something that proves he is willing to be humbled publicly.”
Nate’s voice floated up from downstairs through the cracked office door.
“Charity shootout!”
Billie turned her head slowly toward the door.
No.
Absolutely not.
Nate appeared in the doorway, sweaty from practice warmups and far too pleased with himself.
Mark frowned. “Were you listening?”
Nate nodded. “Deeply.”
Theo appeared behind him, expression apologetic. “I tried to stop him.”
“You did not,” Nate said. “You said, ‘This seems legally unwise,’ and then followed me.”
Theo looked at Billie. “That was me trying.”
Harper was already typing.
Billie felt the floor tilt.
“No,” she said.
Graham leaned closer to the screen. “What charity shootout?”
Nate stepped into the office as if entering a stage. “Simple. Mason Reed versus Australian hockey. Friday afternoon. Before sponsor dinner. Harbour Ice Centre. Local kids, Blades players, community turnout. For every goal he misses, he donates to the junior gear fund.”
Mason’s brows lifted. “For every goal I miss?”
Nate grinned. “Respect is expensive.”
Harper pointed at him. “That’s the tagline.”
“No,” Billie said again.
Graham looked interested. “And if he wins?”
Nate’s grin sharpened. “Billie has to publicly upgrade him from ‘my problem’ to ‘acceptable.’”
Every face turned to Billie.
Billie’s body went very calm.
Mason looked at Nate. “Do you enjoy pain?”
“Only in a team-building context.”
Billie said, “I am not the prize in a sponsor activation.”
The room quieted.
Mason straightened immediately. “Agreed.”
The speed of it caught her off guard.
No joke. No teasing. No hesitation.
He looked at Graham through the screen. “Make it about the fund. Not her.”
Billie’s chest tightened.
Graham studied him, then nodded once. “Fair.”
Nate raised a finger. “Alternative. If Mason loses, he wears a full kangaroo costume during the dinner entrance.”
“No,” Mark said.
Harper said, “Maybe.”
Theo said, “Where would we get one?”
Evie’s voice called from downstairs. “I have one!”
Everyone turned toward the stairs.
Billie whispered, “Why?”
Evie shouted, “Do not ask questions you are not emotionally ready to answer!”
Mason looked at Billie. “Your family is terrifying.”
“You insulted a nation’s hockey culture and willingly walked into a skate room of children. Do not pretend you value safety now.”
Graham chuckled.
It was small, but it was enough to change the temperature of the call.
“All right,” Graham said. “A charity shootout could work if it is structured well. Community fund, local media, clear sponsor tie-in. Billie, can you manage it?”
Billie could feel everyone looking at her.
Of course she could manage it.
That was the trap of being competent. People handed you burning things because you had proven, repeatedly and stupidly, that you knew where the extinguisher was.
She thought of the junior gear fund. The patched goalie pads. The waitlist. The parents who quietly asked if payment plans were possible. The kids who loved hockey enough to show up at a rink that smelled like old coffee and wet socks.
She thought of Mason saying, Make it about the fund. Not her.
Fine.