Chapter Six Mason Reed #2
“Yes. Don’t ruin it by smiling at the host afterward.”
He laughed.
Billie’s mouth curved before she caught it.
There.
That tiny crack in the armour.
Mason was starting to live for it, which seemed unhealthy.
A knock hit the open doorframe.
Harper leaned in, holding her laptop. “Sorry to interrupt whatever emotionally productive thing this is.”
“It’s media training,” Billie said.
“Sure. I also train media by staring at men like I might either kiss them or assign them paperwork.”
Billie stood. “Harper.”
Harper entered anyway, because fear was clearly not one of her factory settings. “The morning show sent segment questions.”
Mason sat forward. “Already?”
“Local TV moves fast when a pretty rival captain starts a city war for charity.”
Billie took the laptop. “They’re not calling it a city war.”
Harper winced.
Billie froze.
“They’re calling it a city war?”
Harper turned the laptop.
The subject line read:
TOMORROW SEGMENT: SYDNEY ICE BET, TALL REGRET, AND THE CHARITY SHOOTOUT TAKING ON MELBOURNE
Billie pinched the bridge of her nose.
Mason tried to read the room before speaking.
Failed.
“Technically, Melbourne started it.”
Billie lowered her hand and looked at him.
He sat back. “And community started it. Respect. Junior gear fund. Remorse.”
Harper pointed at him. “He learns.”
Billie looked pained. “Not fast enough.”
Harper clicked the document. “Questions include: What made Mason’s comment so upsetting to local hockey families?
Billie, how did you become the face of the Sydney Ice Bet?
Mason, how does it feel to be called Tall Regret by children?
Is there romantic tension between you two?
Will Luca D’Amato appear Friday? And what is at stake for Harbour Ice Centre? ”
Mason stopped listening at romantic tension.
Billie’s entire posture changed.
Not embarrassed.
Worse.
Professional.
The more something mattered, the more Billie looked like it didn’t.
“No,” she said.
Harper nodded. “I know.”
“No.”
“We can redirect.”
“No one answers that.”
“Agreed.”
Mason leaned back. “What’s the redirect?”
Billie looked at him. “The fund.”
“Right.”
“The kids.”
“Right.”
“The rink.”
“Right.”
“Not my face. Not your face. Not anyone’s chest.”
Harper’s gaze shot to Mason’s shirt. “Chest?”
Mason shook his head. “No chest.”
Billie said, “Absolutely no chest.”
Harper looked delighted. “There was chest.”
“There was not,” Billie said.
“There was strategy,” Mason offered.
Billie closed her eyes. “You are exhausting.”
“And yet,” Harper said, “engagement.”
Billie opened her eyes. “I will throw that word into the harbour.”
Harper held up both hands. “Fine. But we need an answer ready because they will ask. They’ve already clipped you two looking at each other in the hallway from somebody’s public skate video.”
Mason’s stomach sank.
Billie went still. “What video?”
Harper turned the laptop again.
A shaky phone clip played. The angle was from near the skate counter, probably a parent filming their child. In the background, Billie stood with Mason at the noticeboard. Not close enough to be scandalous. Close enough for the internet to lose its mind.
The clip zoomed in badly just as Mason leaned toward Billie and said something no one could hear.
Then Billie looked up at him.
That was all.
That was enough.
The comments scrolling below were brutal.
THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER.
SHE’S TRYING SO HARD NOT TO SMILE.
TALL REGRET HAS A CRUSH.
BILLIE HARTLEY COULD END HIM AND HE’D SAY THANK YOU.
Mason watched Billie watch the clip.
Her face gave away nothing.
That bothered him.
Harper spoke carefully. “It’s not bad. It’s actually helping sentiment.”
Billie closed the laptop halfway. “I’m not sentiment.”
“I know,” Harper said, softer.
Mason looked at Billie. “We can shut it down.”
Both women looked at him.
He swallowed. “In the interview. If they ask. I’ll say the only thing between us is a professional campaign and a lot of deserved supervision.”
Billie’s eyes searched his face.
Harper tilted her head. “That’s actually not bad.”
“I have moments.”
Billie kept looking at him.
He wanted to tell her he understood. Or at least he was trying to. That being made into a storyline by strangers felt less funny when you had spent your life being useful instead of seen. That he would not feed the internet pieces of her just because he liked how it felt when she looked at him.
He did not say all that.
Not with Harper there.
Not when Billie might turn it into a wall.
He only said, “You’re not the prize, Billie.”
The words came out quiet.
Harper stopped moving.
Billie’s face changed so quickly most people would have missed it.
Mason did not.
A tiny breath. A blink. The armour shifting because something had struck the person beneath.
Then she looked down at the laptop.
“Good,” she said.
Just that.
But her voice had changed.
Harper cleared her throat. “Okay, I’m going to pretend I didn’t just witness healthy boundary setting with emotional undertones.”
Billie grabbed the printed talking points. “You do that.”
“Also, wardrobe.”
Mason frowned. “Wardrobe?”
Harper nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Billie, Blades polo. Mason, training quarter-zip. No suits. We want local, approachable, slightly humbled.”
“I can do slightly humbled,” Mason said.
Billie looked at him. “Can you?”
He smiled. “By tomorrow? Maybe.”
Harper pointed at him. “No smile if they ask about romance.”
Mason held up three fingers. “Respect. Fund. Rink.”
“Good boy,” Harper said.
Billie’s eyes snapped to her.
Harper blinked. “Sorry. Forgot you’re both weird about praise.”
Mason laughed.
Billie did not, but he saw the corner of her mouth move again.
They spent the next hour drilling answers.
Billie made him repeat the apology in three lengths: fifteen seconds, thirty seconds, and “host interrupts you because breakfast television fears depth.”
Harper taught him how to pivot from jokes to donation links.
Mason learned that saying “I was an idiot” played well, but Billie preferred “I was careless” because it sounded less like he wanted applause for admitting the obvious.
Billie learned that Mason could take notes when he wanted to, and Mason learned that Billie wrote press language like she sharpened skates: precise, efficient, and mildly threatening.
At 6:12 p.m., Mark poked his head in to say the sponsor dinner had sold out.
For one suspended second, nobody moved.
Then Harper screamed.
Billie sat down hard.
Mason looked at her.
Her eyes were bright.
Not crying. Billie Hartley did not seem like a woman who let tears wander around unsupervised. But something in her expression broke open before she could lock it again.
Sold out meant money.
Sold out meant community.
Sold out meant the rink had a chance.
Mason felt the win in a place he had not expected.
Not like a goal.
Better, maybe.
Quieter. Deeper.
Harper hugged Billie from behind, nearly knocking her forward. “We did it.”
Billie patted Harper’s arm. “We have not done it. Friday still has to happen.”
“But sold out.”
“Yes,” Billie said, voice rough. “Sold out.”
Mason stayed where he was.
He wanted to touch her.
Not romantically, not exactly. Just a hand on her shoulder, maybe. Something simple. Congratulations. I see what this means. You’re allowed to be happy.
He did not.
Because Billie had enough people taking pieces.
He could give her space.
So he picked up the marker and went to the whiteboard.
Under SPONSOR DINNER, he wrote:
SOLD OUT.
Then, under it:
TALL REGRET: 1 PUBLIC DISASTER: 0
Billie looked at it.
Then at him.
“You realise public disaster is still winning the series.”
“Long season.”
Her mouth curved.
This time, she let it.
Mason felt the smile hit him square in the chest.
He was absolutely, undeniably in trouble.
By 7:00, the rink had quieted.