Chapter Seven Billie Hartley
Live Television Was a Hostile Workplace
Unfortunately, breakfast television existed.
So did Mason Reed.
So did the internet.
All three were currently making her life harder.
The rink car park was still half-dark when she locked her ute and walked toward the staff entrance, coffee tray balanced in one hand, media notes tucked under her arm.
Sydney was already warm, the kind of humid early-summer warm that made the air feel smug.
Inside, the rink would be cold enough to make her fingers ache.
Perfect.
She preferred cold.
Cold made sense. Cold had settings. Cold could be maintained with machinery, vigilance, and enough invoices to ruin a person’s week.
Chemistry, on the other hand, was unpredictable nonsense and should never have been allowed near a local morning show.
Her phone buzzed.
HARPER: Are you there?
BILLIE: No. I’m answering from the astral plane.
HARPER: Great. Can the astral plane approve wardrobe?
BILLIE: Blades polo. Neat jeans. Hair normal. No gloss.
HARPER: Hair normal is not a measurable standard.
BILLIE: Do not make me regret teaching you words.
HARPER: Mason is here.
Billie stopped walking.
Then immediately hated herself for stopping.
BILLIE: Why?
HARPER: He said he didn’t want to be late.
BILLIE: Suspicious.
HARPER: He also brought coffee.
Billie looked at the coffee tray in her hand.
Absolutely not.
BILLIE: I brought coffee.
HARPER: We are now overfunded in caffeine and underfunded in emotional restraint.
Billie shoved her phone into her back pocket and opened the staff door with more force than necessary.
The hallway lights flickered awake one by one.
Harbour Ice Centre smelled exactly as it always did before the world arrived: cold metal, old rubber, cleaner, and the faint ghost of yesterday’s chips from the vending machine.
The compressor hummed in the distance like it was trying to decide whether to cooperate or become a character problem.
Billie stepped into the main rink corridor and nearly collided with Mason Reed.
Again.
This was becoming statistically unreasonable.
He was standing outside the meeting room in a navy Sydney Blades quarter-zip, dark jeans, damp hair, and the expression of a man attempting innocence without a licence.
He held a coffee tray.
Of course he did.
Billie looked at his coffee.
Then at hers.
Then at him.
“No,” she said.
His smile started. “Good morning to you too.”
“You brought coffee.”
“This is my rink.”
“I noticed.”
“I bring the coffee.”
“I was trying to help.”
“By creating duplicate caffeine logistics?”
He glanced down at both trays. “You make generosity sound inefficient.”
“It often is.”
Harper emerged from the meeting room with a makeup bag, a laptop, and the brightness of someone who had either slept three hours or evolved beyond biology. “Wonderful. We have coffee redundancy. Very on brand for a crisis.”
Mason lifted his tray. “I got decaf for Billie.”
Billie’s head snapped toward him. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you gave me decaf last night and looked proud of yourself.”
“That was punishment.”
“I thought it was intimacy.”
Harper froze.
Billie’s entire soul left her body, looked back, and decided not to return until after the segment.
Mason blinked like he had just heard his own sentence from the outside. “Operational intimacy.”
“No,” Billie said.
“Caffeine-based intimacy.”
“Worse.”
“Professional beverage awareness?”
Harper slowly lifted one finger. “That one might work.”
Billie took a coffee from her own tray and shoved it into Harper’s hand. “Go be useful elsewhere.”
Harper accepted it. “I’m always useful. Sometimes destructively.”
Mason held out one of his cups. “Yours is regular, then?”
Billie eyed him. “You got me regular?”
“I value survival.”
She took it before she could overthink the gesture.
Their fingers brushed.
Again.
Tiny contact. Stupid contact. Nothing contact.
Her pulse reacted like a fool.
Mason’s eyes dropped for half a second to their hands. Then he looked away first, which was either respectful or strategic. Billie did not like either option.
“You’re early,” she said.
“So are you.”
“I open the building.”
“I didn’t want you walking into TV chaos alone.”
There it was.
Sincere Mason.
A menace.
Billie took a sip of coffee to avoid answering. It was good. Better than rink coffee. Better than it had any right to be.
She stared at the cup, betrayed.
Mason’s mouth curved. “Acceptable?”
“Borderline.”
“That’s practically praise from you.”
“Do not get comfortable.”
“I’m learning to thrive in scarcity.”
Harper made a soft squeaking noise.
Billie glared.
Harper lifted both hands. “Sorry. Just observing natural banter formation.”
“It is not natural,” Billie said. “It is a symptom.”
“Of what?”
“Media poisoning.”
Mason leaned slightly closer. “Is that covered by Sophie’s department?”
“No. Exorcism.”
He laughed, warm and quiet in the empty rink.
Billie hated that the sound made the place feel less cold.
The morning show crew arrived at 6:12.
By 6:19, the front lobby had turned into a war zone of cables, lights, bags, folded stands, and people wearing headsets who said “quickly” with the calm panic of trained professionals.
The producer, a sharp woman named Tessa, shook Billie’s hand, called the rink “iconic in an underdog way,” and immediately asked if they could position Mason and Billie near the boards with the Sydney Blades logo behind them.
“Together?” Billie asked.
Tessa smiled. “Visually, yes.”
“Define together.”
“Side by side.”
“How close?”
Tessa looked confused. “Normal close.”
Billie did not trust normal anymore.
Harper appeared at her shoulder. “Side by side is fine.”
Billie glanced at her. “You don’t know that.”
“I know camera framing.”
“I know men.”
“I’m standing right here,” Mason said behind them.
Billie did not turn. “Yes.”
“And yet.”
“You brought this on yourself.”
“I brought coffee.”
“And an international incident.”
“Two things can be true.”
Tessa looked delighted. “You two are great.”
Billie’s stomach sank.
Harper clapped her hands once. “No. They are professional.”
Tessa nodded in the way people nodded when they had no intention of absorbing the correction. “Of course.”
The host arrived ten minutes later.
Kara Finch was tiny, polished, and terrifyingly awake. She wore a cream blazer, bright lipstick, and the kind of smile that had probably coaxed confessions out of politicians, chefs, celebrities, and at least one person dressed as a giant prawn during a festival segment.
She greeted Mark, complimented Harper’s campaign work, shook Mason’s hand, and then turned to Billie.
“Billie Hartley,” Kara said, eyes bright. “The woman who made Tall Regret apologise.”
Mason coughed.
Billie smiled politely. “The rink manager who manages rink operations.”
Kara laughed. “Modest.”
“Accurate.”
“Oh, you’re fun.”
“No one ever believes me when I deny that.”
Mason muttered, “I believe you.”
Billie kicked his shoe.
Not hard.
Enough.
Kara’s eyes dropped to the movement, then rose with visible delight.
Billie immediately regretted having feet.
Harper stepped in. “We’d love to keep the focus on the Harbour Ice Junior Gear Fund, Friday’s charity shootout, and the importance of community hockey.”
“Absolutely,” Kara said, which meant absolutely not exclusively. “We’ll cover all that. And obviously, people are very interested in the dynamic between Billie and Mason.”
Billie looked at Mason.
Mason lifted both hands slightly.
Innocent.
Too innocent.
“No dynamic,” Billie said.
Kara smiled wider. “Wonderful. We’ll start there.”
“No,” Billie said.
Tessa called, “Five minutes to live.”
Billie turned to Harper. “Is prison survivable?”
Harper checked Billie’s collar. “For you? Probably. But we need you for the sponsor dinner.”
Mason stepped closer. “We have the answer.”
Billie looked up at him. “Do we?”
“Respect. Fund. Rink.”
“No romantic face.”
“I have prepared a neutral face.”
He arranged his expression into something serious and bland.
Billie stared.
“You look like a man about to lie at customs.”
His mouth twitched.
“Stop,” she said.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You enjoyed that internally.”
“Can I enjoy things internally?”
“No.”
“Strict.”
“Necessary.”
Kara watched them with the expression of a woman seeing her segment title get stronger by the second.
Billie saw it too.
She clapped her hands once, sharp enough that two camera operators looked over.
“Everyone, listen. This segment is about a junior gear fund, a community rink, and a charity shootout. Not gossip. Not ship names. Not anyone’s face. If anyone uses the phrase love story on air, I will redirect so hard you’ll need a helmet.”
Tessa blinked.
Kara smiled. “Understood.”
Mason leaned toward Billie and whispered, “That was hot.”
Billie’s head whipped around.
His eyes went wide.
He whispered, “I mean, leadership.”
Harper made a strangled sound.
Billie pointed at Mason’s chest, stopping herself half an inch before contact. “You are one comment away from being replaced by the kangaroo costume.”
“Fair.”
“And it will interview better.”
“Also fair.”
Kara said, “We’re live in sixty.”
The rink seemed to inhale.
Billie hated that feeling.
Not nerves exactly. She could handle emergencies. Emergencies were practical. Compressor failure. Missing child. Skate blade cut. Sponsor threat. A man insulting an entire hockey culture on a podcast and landing in her rink with hair that belonged in an expensive commercial.
Fine.
But cameras were different.
Cameras took control from you. They made a version of you and handed it to strangers. Billie did not like being turned into content, especially when the internet had already decided she was half of a romantic storyline she had never approved.
Mason moved beside her.
Not close.
Just enough that his sleeve almost brushed hers.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She looked forward. “I’m operational.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is for the next four minutes.”
He nodded.
No joke.
No push.
Just standing there, solid and warm and annoyingly steady.
The red tally light blinked on.
Kara’s smile turned television-bright.