Chapter Four Mason Reed
Tall Regret Entered the Chat
Mason Reed had been called many things in his career, including franchise hope, locker-room problem, overpaid risk, and, once by a furious coach in Manitoba, “a golden retriever with a slap shot,” but Tall Regret was new.
The worst part was that it had rhythm.
By lunchtime, half the rink was chanting it.
By one o’clock, Harper Lane had made it a hashtag.
By two, Nate Callow had printed a paper sign that read TALL REGRET SUPPORT GROUP and taped it to Mason’s locker.
By two-oh-three, Coach Alby walked past the sign, stared at it for a full five seconds, and said, “Accurate.”
Mason leaned against the locker room bench and looked at the ceiling. “I flew twenty hours to be emotionally attacked by children.”
Theo Brooks, who was taping his stick with the calm precision of a man defusing a bomb, said, “You attacked first.”
“With one bad joke.”
“Internationally.”
“I didn’t know it would go viral.”
Nate looked up from his phone. “Nobody ever knows they’re about to become a cautionary tale. That’s what makes it art.”
Mason pointed at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”
“I’m Australian. We respect sport, sarcasm, and public consequences.”
Across the room, one of the younger Blades laughed into his water bottle.
Mason let his head fall back against the locker.
The metal was cold through his shirt. Everything in Harbour Ice Centre was cold in ways Sydney outside refused to be.
Beyond the concrete walls, the city was bright, hot, and loud with summer traffic.
Inside, the rink smelled like ice, coffee, old rubber, and his poor decisions.
Somehow, that was starting to feel less like exile.
Which was alarming.
His phone buzzed against his thigh.
Another notification.
He did not check it.
He knew what it would be. Another tag. Another clip. Another stranger with a kangaroo emoji and a moral stance. His agent had already sent seven messages, each one more exhausted than the last.
GABE: Tell me this charity shootout thing is controlled.
GABE: Mason.
GABE: The phrase Tall Regret is trending in Sydney.
GABE: Why is a child your publicist?
GABE: Do NOT say anything unsupervised.
GABE: Especially about marsupials.
GABE: Call me.
Mason had not called.
Mostly because he did not know what to say.
Hey Gabe, good news, the public hates me in a charming way now.
Hey Gabe, I might be helping save a rink I insulted by being humiliated for charity.
Hey Gabe, the rink manager can destroy me with one eyebrow, and I may be developing a survival problem.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
Theo’s gaze flicked to him. “Knee?”
Mason dropped his hand. “Fine.”
Theo kept taping. “That answer works on media. Not teammates.”
Mason looked at him.
Theo Brooks was not big on unnecessary words. Local player. Assistant captain. The kind of guy who looked as if he had been built from patience, quiet loyalty, and whatever material they used in load-bearing walls. Mason had met a hundred loud leaders in his career. Theo was not one of them.
That made him more dangerous.
“It’s stiff,” Mason said. “Travel didn’t help.”
“Sophie know?”
“Yes.”
“Billie know?”
Mason paused.
Nate’s head lifted immediately. “Ooooh.”
Mason threw a towel at him.
Nate caught it against his chest with theatrical offence. “Assault. In my own workplace.”
Theo’s mouth twitched.
Mason narrowed his eyes. “What?”
Theo said, “You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“It was a normal conversational pause.”
Nate leaned forward. “A romantic pause?”
Mason pointed again. “You. Less.”
Nate grinned. “Can’t. Doctor says I need chaos to live.”
Mason did not want to talk about Billie Hartley in the locker room.
That felt like admitting too much to men who would turn too little into signage.
Still, his brain betrayed him.
Billie standing in the upstairs office, crushed sponsor list in her fist. Billie on the ice in shoes, seeing every limp, every shift of weight, every thing he tried to hide. Billie telling the birthday room she was especially his boss. Billie trying not to smile and failing by half a breath.
Billie Hartley had the kind of control that did not beg for attention.
It commanded it.
She was all sharp edges and soft centres she clearly kept behind locked doors, reinforced glass, and probably three deadbolts labelled Do Not Touch Unless You Enjoy Pain.
Mason enjoyed living.
Mostly.
So he was going to keep his distance.
Professionally.
Respectfully.
With very minimal staring.
The locker room door banged open.
Billie stepped inside.
And there went minimal staring.
She held a tablet in one hand, a marker behind her ear, and the expression of a woman who had spent the last hour wrestling the internet and winning only by points.
Every player in the room straightened.
Not because she asked.
Because Billie Hartley entered rooms like consequences had a favourite daughter.
“Team meeting,” she said.
Coach Alby followed her in carrying a coffee that smelled strong enough to strip paint. “Listen to her. She scares sponsors into money.”
Harper came next, phone in hand, practically glowing. “And content into miracles.”
Evie appeared behind them with a box of cupcakes and said, “And imports into nicknames.”
Mason looked at the box. “Are those from the birthday party?”
Evie opened it and peered inside. “Possibly.”
“Were they given freely?”
“Define freely.”
Billie did not turn around. “Evie.”
“What? The mum said staff could have leftovers.”
“The mum said staff could have one each.”
Evie held up the box. “There were only eight left.”
“There are six of us in here.”
Evie looked at the players. “I don’t count hockey boys as staff.”
Nate gasped. “We have rights.”
“Not to cupcakes.”
Mason wanted to laugh.
He should not have wanted to.
This was still a crisis. His crisis. His careless mouth had made extra work for everyone in the room. The team’s sponsor package was dangling over a cliff, and he was the idiot who had leaned on the railing.
But the Blades were not acting like people waiting for the rich import to save them.
They were acting like a family that had already survived worse and would absolutely mock him while handing him a shovel.
Billie tapped the tablet. “Friday’s charity shootout is now official.”
Nate pumped a fist.
Billie pointed the marker at him without looking. “You are on thin ice.”
“We all are. It’s a rink.”
Theo said, “Nate.”
“Right. Serious face.”
Nate arranged his features into something tragic.
Billie ignored him. “The event will support the junior gear fund. Vale Community Partners will match donations up to twenty thousand if Mason survives public humiliation and we keep the event professional.”
“Define survives,” Mason said.
Billie looked at him. “No tears before dinner.”
“During?”
“Depends how generous the donations are.”
Nate wiped an imaginary tear. “She cares.”
Billie clicked the marker. “Here is the structure. Three rounds. Round one, accuracy. Mason against selected Blades players. Round two, community challenge. Kids call the shots. Round three, redemption shot. Mason takes one final shot for the match total.”
Mason stood slowly. “Kids call the shots?”
Harper smiled. “Max and Isla are already making a list.”
“I’m sorry. Max, who named me Tall Regret, gets power over my public reputation?”
Billie’s eyes went flat. “You gave him motive.”
Fair.
Terrible, but fair.
Coach Alby took a sip of coffee. “Also, the kid’s got standards.”
Evie walked between lockers with the cupcake box. “You may want to practise shooting while being insulted.”
“I have played in Philadelphia.”
Theo’s head tilted. “This will be worse.”
Mason looked at Billie. “How much worse?”
She checked her tablet. “Max has requested fog machine privileges.”
“No,” Alby said immediately.
“Denied already,” Billie said. “He appealed.”
“To whom?”
“Me.”
“And?”
“I admire persistence, but I like visibility.”
Mason tried not to smile.
He failed.
Billie caught it.
Her gaze flicked to his mouth, then away so fast he wondered if he had imagined it. The tiny miss in her composure went straight through him, clean and dangerous.
Nate saw it too.
Of course Nate saw it.
His grin started.
Billie said, “Nate, if you speak, I will put you in charge of lost property inventory.”
Nate’s grin died. “Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
Harper lifted a hand. “Campaign goals before Friday: sixteen thousand more followers, positive local media, sponsor dinner sold out, clean human redemption arc, and at least three clips that make families want to bring kids here instead of thinking Mason is a walking international incident.”
Mason raised a finger. “Could we retire walking international incident?”
“No,” everyone said.
He lowered his hand.
Billie stepped closer to him, tablet against her chest. “Your part starts now.”
“My part has been ongoing.”
“Your part has been reactive. Now it becomes deliberate.”
That landed.
Mason did not like how much.
For the last year, his whole career had felt reactive.
React to pain. React to bad articles. React to doctors who spoke in careful voices.
React to fans who wanted the old version of him, coaches who did not trust the new one, reporters who smelled blood, and an agent who insisted Sydney was a reset if Mason could “keep his head down and behave.”
He had behaved straight into a viral insult.
Billie watched him like she knew some of that without knowing details.
“Deliberate how?” he asked.
She handed him a printed sheet.
His name sat at the top in bold.
MASON REED: THIRTY-DAY RESPECT PLAN
Below it was a colour-coded list.
He stared. “You made me a respect curriculum.”
“Yes.”
“You scheduled humility.”
“Yes.”
“There are modules.”
“Lucky you.”
He read aloud. “Junior clinic support. Public skate duty. Local media segment. Sponsor dinner preparation. Blades history session. Equipment repair day. Women’s development skate.”
His gaze lifted. “Women’s development skate?”