Chapter Five Billie Hartley
The Rival Was Too Pretty and Therefore Suspicious
Billie Hartley did not trust men who smiled like they had already won, especially when they had cheekbones, a rival jersey, and the nerve to make her sponsor event trend before she had finished laminating the emergency signage.
Luca D’Amato was exactly that kind of man.
Billie hated emails with calm subject lines. They were always where rich people hid expensive problems.
At 5:06, the whole Blades staff, half the team, and one under-twelve with an unauthorised media presence gathered in the upstairs office to discuss the crisis.
Max had brought a notebook.
Billie pointed at it. “Why are you here?”
Max sat between Nate and Theo with the confidence of a small prime minister. “I’m a stakeholder.”
“You are twelve.”
“Eleven and three-quarters.”
“Absolutely not better.”
Harper lifted a finger. “Technically, his video started the sponsor match escalation.”
Max nodded. “I have influence.”
Coach Alby stared at the ceiling like he was asking a higher power why hockey had developed captions.
Mark Delaney stood at the desk, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand and optimism visibly under strain. “We need to handle this carefully. Luca D’Amato turning up changes the tone.”
“It changes the risk,” Billie said.
“It changes the reach,” Harper said.
“It changes the violence,” Nate said happily.
Theo looked at him. “It should not.”
“It might.”
“It won’t.”
Nate sighed. “You ruin dreams.”
Across the room, Mason leaned against the wall with his arms folded, jaw set, eyes on the frozen frame of Luca’s video paused on Harper’s laptop.
Billie noticed because she noticed problems.
Mason was a problem.
A large, injured, recently sincere problem with very annoying shoulders.
He had been too quiet since Luca’s video dropped. Not withdrawn exactly. More contained. The smile was gone. The easy jokes tucked away. His attention had sharpened until the whole office seemed to tilt around it.
Billie knew that look.
Competitive men got it right before doing something medically foolish.
“First point,” Billie said, “Luca does not get to hijack the event.”
Mason’s eyes flicked to her.
Good. Listening.
“Second,” she continued, “this remains a junior gear fundraiser, not a grudge match.”
Nate’s hand went up.
“No,” Billie said.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“It was either grudge match or smoke machine.”
Max raised his hand.
“No,” Billie said again.
“You don’t know what I was going to say either.”
“It was definitely fog machine.”
Max lowered his hand, offended. “It was haze.”
Coach Alby snapped, “Nobody is blinding athletes for ambience.”
Harper muttered, “Ambience gets clicks.”
Billie pointed at her. “Do not make me regret your employment.”
“I’m freelance adjacent.”
“You are trouble adjacent.”
“Better branding.”
Mark rubbed his forehead. “Can we focus?”
“Yes,” Billie said. “Luca can attend if he agrees to our structure, our safety rules, our media boundaries, and our donation terms. He does not get to make this about Sydney versus Melbourne unless it benefits the fund.”
Theo’s mouth twitched. “So he does get to make it about Sydney versus Melbourne.”
Billie gave him a look. “Within boundaries.”
Nate leaned toward Mason. “She puts fences around chaos. It’s beautiful.”
Mason did not answer.
Billie’s eyes narrowed.
There.
Another sign.
Mason Reed, who had managed to banter through cupcakes, rental skate diplomacy, and being called Tall Regret by half of Sydney, had gone quiet in front of a rival.
Not just any rival.
Luca D’Amato, Melbourne Kings captain, national team darling, media favourite, and walking proof that some men were given dangerous faces and encouraged to become worse.
Billie had met him twice.
The first time, he had called Harbour Ice Centre “charming” in the tone people used for elderly dogs with mobility issues.
The second time, he had scored twice against the Blades and then complimented Billie’s rink operations setup like he wanted to steal the best parts and leave the rest bleeding.
She did not trust him.
She especially did not trust the way Sophie Chen went still every time his name came up.
That was future trouble.
Today’s trouble stood across from Billie wearing a Blades training shirt and an expression that said his pride had found a matchstick.
“Mason,” she said.
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“This is not a chance to prove North American hockey can beat Australian hockey.”
His face shuttered.
The room quieted by half a degree.
“I know that,” he said.
“Do you?”
His jaw worked once. “Yes.”
Billie did not soften. She could not afford to. “Because if you turn this into your ego versus Luca’s ego, the kids lose. The fund loses. The rink loses. And Sophie will remove your knee herself.”
Sophie, standing near the door with her tablet against her chest, said, “Professionally.”
Mason looked from Sophie to Billie.
Then he exhaled, long and controlled.
“You’re right,” he said.
Nate blinked. “That sounded painful.”
Mason glanced at him. “It was.”
Billie held Mason’s gaze for one more second.
He meant it.
Mostly.
That was the problem with athletes. Meaning it in a calm room did not always survive the heat of competition.
Mark set his phone down. “Graham likes the reach. He is willing to raise the match to twenty-five thousand if Luca participates and the Kings make a donation.”
Harper’s eyes went huge. “Twenty-five.”
Billie’s stomach tightened.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Gear. Ice time. Travel subsidies. Better helmets. Maybe the women’s development sessions could add a second weekly slot for the next eight weeks. Maybe the compressor repair invoice would hurt less. Maybe they could stop making parents feel embarrassed when they asked for help.
Money should not make her emotional.
It did.
Which was why she had to stay sharp.
“Fine,” she said. “We invite Luca officially. Professional wording. Community-first. No trash talk.”
Nate made a wounded noise.
Billie cut him off. “No trash talk from official accounts.”
Harper nodded slowly. “What about lightly seasoned rivalry language?”
“No.”
“Culturally appropriate competitive framing?”
“Harper.”
“Fine. Boring but fundable.”
Max raised his hand. “Can I trash talk?”
Billie stared at him. “You are a child.”
“That feels ageist.”
Theo looked at Mason. “He’s been hanging around Nate too much.”
“I’m proud,” Nate whispered.
Billie looked at Max. “No personal insults. No injury jokes. No family. No national slander. No saying Luca’s hair looks professionally insured.”
Mason coughed.
Nate wheezed.
Harper whispered, “Writing that down.”
Billie snapped her fingers. “No.”
Harper froze.
Max tapped his pencil against the notebook. “Can I say the Kings are allergic to meaningful community impact?”
Billie paused.
Coach Alby grunted. “That’s not bad.”
Mark looked torn. “It’s a bit pointed.”
“It’s eleven-year-old civic accountability,” Harper said. “Very modern.”
Billie sighed. “One post. Harper approves. I approve. No emojis that imply violence.”
Max nodded solemnly. “What about a crown falling off?”
“Acceptable.”
Nate whispered, “The prince rises.”
Theo said, “Stop mentoring him.”
Billie shifted her attention to the laptop. “Harper, draft the invite. Mark, call Vale’s office and get the updated match terms in writing. Sophie, written restrictions for Mason and Luca if he participates. Alby, revised hockey structure so nobody turns this into a contact drill.”
Alby grunted.
“Evie,” Billie said.
Evie, who had appeared at some point and was eating half a cupcake by the door, lifted her chin. “Yes, Supreme Rink Overlord?”
“Find the kangaroo costume.”
Everyone turned.
Evie smiled slowly. “I thought you said no.”
“I said no for Mason’s dinner entrance. I did not say no to using it for donation photos if it helps the junior fund.”
Evie looked moved. “This is the proudest day of my life.”
Mason finally spoke. “Do I get a vote?”
Billie looked at him. “No.”
“Great. Just checking.”
His voice had lightened, but not enough.
Billie filed that away too.
The meeting broke into motion. Mark stepped into the hallway with his phone.
Harper dragged Max to the desk for “supervised civic sass.” Nate followed because of course he did.
Theo followed Nate because someone had to protect society.
Alby and Sophie began discussing safe shot structure in grim, practical terms.
Mason stayed by the wall.
Billie stayed because leaving him unsupervised with his own pride felt irresponsible.
For a moment, the room held only the two of them and the paused image of Luca D’Amato smiling on the laptop screen.
Billie closed the laptop.
Mason’s gaze lifted to hers.
“You okay?”
He laughed once. “You keep asking me that like you expect a new answer.”
“I keep asking because you keep lying.”
“I said you were right.”
“That was alarming, yes.”
His mouth twitched.
Progress.
“Luca get under everyone’s skin like this?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’d hate to be special.”
“You are special. You are currently the reason we have a charity shootout involving a rival captain, a sponsor with leverage, and a child influencer named Max.”
Mason put a hand to his chest. “When you say it that way, I sound important.”
“You sound expensive.”
“I’ve been called worse today.”
“Tall Regret has charm.”
“It’s growing on me.”
“Like mould.”
He smiled for real then, and it did something foolish to the corner of her heart.
Billie hated her heart.
Her heart had terrible timing and questionable taste.
Mason pushed off the wall carefully. “You’ve dealt with Luca before.”
“Briefly.”
“And?”
“And he is exactly as smug in person.”
“Talented?”
She heard the question under the question.
Not Is he good?
Is he better?
Billie folded her arms. “Yes.”
Mason nodded.
“Also,” she said, “too pretty.”
His brows jumped.
“It makes him suspicious,” Billie added.
Mason’s grin started slowly. “You think he’s pretty?”
“I have eyes.”
“You told me to use mine elsewhere.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Should I be worried?”
“About Luca’s face? Probably not. About his wrist shot? Yes.”
Mason stepped closer.
Not enough to crowd.