Chapter Seven Billie Hartley #3
She did not turn around.
Mason stayed in the doorway. Not coming in. Not leaving. Letting her choose.
That should not have mattered so much.
It did.
“I’m not crying,” she said.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m not having a moment.”
“Definitely not.”
“I’m just recalibrating.”
“Sounds operational.”
A laugh broke out of her before she could stop it.
Small. Wet around the edges.
Damn him.
Mason’s footsteps entered slowly. He stopped on the other side of the counter, leaving space between them and the disaster she was pretending not to be.
“You were good,” he said.
“So were you.”
“Careful. That sounded like praise.”
“It was temporary.”
“I’ll treasure it irresponsibly.”
She wiped under one eye with the heel of her hand, furious at the evidence. “I hate cameras.”
“I noticed.”
“I hate being turned into content.”
“I know.”
She looked at him then.
He did know.
That was the problem.
“You handled the romance question well,” she said.
His expression softened. “I meant it.”
“You’re not using me for a headline.”
“No.”
“And you’re not using this place to get back to wherever you think real hockey is.”
The words came out sharper than she intended.
Mason stilled.
There it was. The door she had not meant to open. The bruise behind the charm.
For a second, she thought he might joke.
He did not.
“I don’t know where back is anymore,” he said.
Billie’s breath caught.
Outside the skate room, the rink roared again with fresh activity, phones buzzing, people moving, the whole machine lurching forward. Inside, the two of them stood surrounded by rental skates and the kind of truth that did not care about timing.
Mason looked down at the counter between them.
“I came here thinking temporary would be safer,” he said. “Temporary team. Temporary city. Temporary version of myself until I figured out what was left.”
Billie’s fingers curled against the countertop.
“And now?”
His eyes lifted.
“Now,” he said, “I’m starting to hate temporary.”
Oh.
Absolutely not.
Billie’s heart did the thing again, the rude thing, the dangerous thing, the one that leaned toward him before she could remind it that men with return prospects and agents named Gabe did not build futures in old rinks held together by stubborn love.
She straightened. “That sounds like jet lag.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Probably.”
“And caffeine.”
“Definitely.”
“And public humiliation.”
“Powerful combination.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. Because otherwise, it might be concerning.”
His eyes warmed. “Wouldn’t want that.”
“No.”
The silence turned soft.
Too soft.
Billie needed to break it before it grew hands.
She grabbed a pair of rental skates from the return bin and set them on the counter. “You can help me sort these.”
Mason looked down. “Is this a punishment or intimacy?”
She pointed at him. “Careful.”
“Professional skate-adjacent support.”
“Better.”
He picked up a skate, checked the size, and placed it in the correct row after only a two-second delay.
Billie watched.
“Wrong shelf.”
He froze.
She lifted one brow.
He moved it.
“Harsh system,” he said.
“Respect starts with skate sizes.”
“I’ll add it to the curriculum.”
They worked side by side for several minutes.
It should have been ridiculous. Mason Reed, former rising star, viral import, internationally humbled man, sorting rental skates under Billie’s supervision while donations rolled in because breakfast television had discovered emotional stakes.
It should not have felt comfortable.
It did.
That scared her more than the cameras.
Her phone buzzed again.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Mason looked at her pocket. “That sounds urgent.”
“Everything sounds urgent in this building.”
“It might be Harper.”
“Then it is definitely urgent and somehow also not.”
It buzzed a third time.
Billie sighed and checked it.
Harper had sent a screenshot.
A trending local sports account had posted a side-by-side clip: Mason looking at Billie during her “it means yes” answer, and Luca D’Amato smirking in his challenge video.
Caption:
MASON REED LOOKS READY TO RESPECTFULLY DEFEND BILLIE HARTLEY’S HONOUR AND THE JUNIOR GEAR FUND. LUCA, GOOD LUCK.
Under it, Luca had commented:
Honour? I only asked for coffee.
Mason read over her shoulder.
His expression changed.
Subtle, but not subtle enough.
Billie turned the phone screen off. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made the face.”
“What face?”
“The Luca face.”
“I don’t have a Luca face.”
“You do. It’s very North American and emotionally underdeveloped.”
His mouth opened, then closed. “That was specific.”
“You are not defending my honour.”
“I know.”
“Or my coffee.”
“I know.”
“Or the junior gear fund in a way that involves reckless skating.”
“I know.”
“You will smile politely, raise money, take medically approved shots, and not get drawn into whatever smug little trap Luca is setting.”
Mason’s eyes stayed on hers.
“What if he’s not setting it for me?”
Billie went still.
The words landed.
Because she had wondered the same thing.
Luca had not tagged Mason first after accepting. He had tagged the Blades and mentioned her coffee. He had pulled Billie into the exchange by name. Luca liked attention, yes, but he was rarely sloppy. If he wanted pressure on Mason, there were easier ways.
If he wanted to rattle Sophie, that was another matter.
If he wanted to rattle Billie’s event, even worse.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, Sophie.
SOPHIE: Can we talk before Friday? About Luca.
Billie stared at the message.
Mason did not lean in this time.
Progress.
Or restraint.
She looked up. “Sophie needs me.”
“About Luca?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once. “Go.”
“No commentary?”
“None.”
“No jealous questions?”
His gaze sharpened, but his voice stayed steady. “Not my place.”
That should have pleased her.
Instead, it knocked something loose.
Billie did not want possessive. She did not want jealousy. She did not want men turning her into territory.
But she also did not know what to do with a man who wanted and restrained himself at the same time.
Mason Reed kept refusing to be the simple problem she had ordered.
It was deeply inconvenient.
She stepped around the counter. “Keep sorting.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And correctly.”
“I’ll consult the shelf labels.”
“They’re there for a reason.”
“So are you.”
Billie stopped at the door.
Slowly, she turned.
Mason looked like he regretted the sentence only because it had revealed too much.
Her chest tightened.
“Sort the skates,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Yes, boss.”
Billie left before the room could get any warmer.