Chapter Seven Billie Hartley #4
She found Sophie in the narrow corridor beside the physio room, arms folded, tablet tucked tight against her ribs. Sophie Chen rarely looked shaken. She looked precise, calm, and professionally immune to nonsense.
Today, she looked like someone had knocked on a door she had bricked over.
Billie softened immediately. “Hey.”
Sophie glanced toward the lobby. “Do you have a minute?”
“For you, yes.”
Sophie breathed out.
That was enough to worry Billie more.
They stepped into the physio room. Sophie closed the door behind them.
For one second, neither woman spoke.
Then Sophie said, “Luca and I used to skate together.”
Billie blinked. “As in hockey?”
“As in everything.” Sophie looked down at the tablet without seeing it. “Training. Academy camps. National development pathways. He was my best friend before he became someone I stopped answering.”
Oh.
Book Three problem had just become a Friday problem.
Billie leaned against the counter. “Does he know you’re the Blades physio?”
“Yes.”
“And he still inserted himself into the event.”
Sophie’s mouth tightened. “Luca does everything on purpose.”
“Do we need to keep him out?”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“No,” Sophie said, firmer now. “The fund needs the money. The event needs the reach. I can handle Luca.”
Billie recognised the tone.
It was her own.
The I am fine voice. The don’t move the plan around my bruises voice. The I would rather bleed quietly than inconvenience the whole room voice.
She hated it on someone else.
“Sophie,” she said carefully, “handling something is not the same as being okay with it.”
Sophie looked up.
For a second, the room held two women who had built very convincing versions of fine.
Then Sophie’s mouth curved without humour. “You say that like you aren’t currently starring in a viral romance segment with an injured import who looks at you like you personally invented ice.”
Billie froze.
“This is not about me.”
“It never is,” Sophie said softly. “That’s the problem.”
Billie had no immediate answer.
Rude.
Accurate, but rude.
Sophie rubbed her thumb along the edge of her tablet. “I don’t want Luca banned. I just need boundaries. No unsupervised access to the training room. No surprise appearances in medical areas. No using my name in media. And if he tries to turn the event into personal history, shut it down.”
“Done.”
“Billie.”
“Done,” Billie repeated. “No argument.”
Sophie’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Thank you.”
“Also, for the record, Mason does not look at me like I invented ice.”
Sophie gave her a very calm look.
Billie pointed at her. “You are supposed to be disciplined and observant, not treacherous.”
“I’m both.”
“Clearly.”
Sophie opened the physio room door. “You should know Luca will test Mason.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
Billie’s jaw tightened. “Let him.”
Sophie studied her. “That is exactly the energy that causes paperwork.”
“I run operations. I love paperwork.”
“No, you love control.”
Billie stared.
Sophie smiled faintly. “See? Both.”
Then she walked out, leaving Billie alone in the physio room with a tablet charger, three rolls of tape, and too many accurate observations for one morning.
By the time Billie returned to the skate room, Mason had sorted the entire return bin.
Correctly.
She checked twice because trusting him immediately felt unwise.
He stood near the shelves, arms folded, trying not to look proud.
She hated that he had earned it.
“Well?” he asked.
Billie looked at the rows.
Then at him.
“Acceptable.”
His smile flashed.
Full strength.
Unfair.
“I’m putting that on my résumé.”
“Please don’t.”
“Skills: respectful apology, charity skating, skate sorting acceptable.”
“Still too long.”
“Billie approved.”
“She did not.”
“She did, with her eyes.”
“My eyes are private.”
“Your eyes are very opinionated.”
She should have snapped back.
Instead, she smiled.
Barely.
But she knew he saw it.
His face softened in a way that made the whole room feel smaller.
Billie cleared her throat. “Sophie needs Luca boundaries.”
Mason’s smile faded. “Okay.”
“No surprise contact. No medical-area access. No personal comments. No baiting.”
“From Luca or from me?”
“Both.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
She studied him.
He did not joke.
Good.
“Also,” she said, “Luca will probably try to get under your skin.”
“I know.”
“Do not let him.”
“I’ll try.”
“No, Mason. You will do it.”
His eyes stayed on hers.
Then he nodded. “I will.”
For some reason, that mattered.
Her phone buzzed again.
Billie expected Harper.
Or Mark.
Or Graham.
Or Max with a proposed anti-Melbourne slogan requiring legal review.
Instead, the screen showed an unknown number.
A text.
UNKNOWN: Looking forward to Friday. Tell Tall Regret not to worry. I’ll be gentle with him.
Second text.
UNKNOWN: And tell Sophie I remember exactly how she takes her coffee.
Billie’s blood went cold.
Mason saw her face. “What?”
She turned the phone before she could decide not to.
He read the messages.
Every trace of warmth left him.
“Luca?” he asked.
Billie’s grip tightened around the phone.
“Yes.”
Mason’s jaw set. “How did he get your number?”
That was a very good question.
And suddenly Friday’s charity shootout did not feel like controlled chaos anymore.
It felt like a trap with a donation link.