Chapter Eight Mason Reed
The Trap Had Excellent Wi-Fi
Mason Reed had never considered himself a jealous man, mostly because jealous sounded undignified and he preferred his emotional problems to wear better suits, but when Billie Hartley held up a phone with Luca D’Amato’s name practically dripping off the screen, something inside him went very still and very stupid.
The first stupid thing was his fist.
It closed.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone to accuse him of going full caveman in a skate room, but enough that Billie saw it immediately because Billie saw everything.
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your knuckles did.”
He looked down.
Fine. His knuckles had opinions.
He opened his hand. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
“It’s a creepy text.”
“It is.”
“It involves you.”
“Yes.”
“And Sophie.”
“Yes.”
“And your private number.”
Billie’s mouth flattened. “Also yes.”
“So I’m allowed one knuckle.”
“No knuckles.”
“Half a knuckle?”
“Mason.”
He exhaled and forced his shoulders down.
The skate room was too small suddenly. Too full of rental skates, fluorescent light, Billie’s stiff posture, and the sharp electric rage that came from watching a smug rival captain reach into a place he had not been invited.
Mason had known Luca would chirp. That was sport. That was rivalry. That was the theatre everyone pretended did not matter while absolutely feeding it.
But this?
This was not a chirp.
This was a hook slid under a door.
Billie looked back at the messages.
UNKNOWN: Looking forward to Friday. Tell Tall Regret not to worry. I’ll be gentle with him.
UNKNOWN: And tell Sophie I remember exactly how she takes her coffee.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
“Don’t reply,” Mason said.
Her eyes lifted.
He heard himself. The edge in his voice. The command he had no right to give.
He softened it immediately. “Sorry. I mean, don’t give him the satisfaction.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She studied him for one uncomfortable second.
Mason held still and let her.
That was becoming a skill around Billie. Letting her assess. Letting her decide. Not filling every silence with charm just because quiet made him feel exposed.
Finally, she locked the phone. “I’m telling Mark.”
“And Sophie.”
“Yes.”
“And Harper, because she’ll see the digital angle.”
“Yes.”
“And maybe Graham, depending on whether Luca’s going to affect sponsor terms.”
Billie blinked.
“What?” he asked.
“That was practical.”
“I have moments.”
“It’s unsettling.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
Her mouth almost moved.
Almost smiled.
Then the phone buzzed again.
Billie looked down.
Mason leaned back, not reading.
He wanted to. He really wanted to. Every bad instinct in him wanted to step closer and see what Luca had sent now, then make it very clear to the man that Billie Hartley was not a handle to tag, a pressure point to press, or a woman to use as scenery in his rivalry show.
But wanting did not give him rights.
That was the part he kept reminding himself.
Wanting Billie did not make her his.
Protectiveness did not make him noble.
And jealousy, if that was what this was, did not get to call itself concern just because it wore a better shirt.
Billie’s brow tightened.
Mason failed at restraint. “More?”
“Unknown number, different message.”
She turned the screen toward him this time.
UNKNOWN: Friday will be bigger if Billie and Mason play along. Romance angle sells. Ask the station. Ask Vale. Don’t waste the chemistry.
Mason read it once.
Twice.
Cold moved through him.
Not the rink’s cold.
A harder one.
“That’s not Luca,” he said.
Billie’s gaze snapped up. “You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. He’s smug. That’s strategic.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Played against him once in a summer showcase years ago. He liked being hated, but he liked being the reason more.”
Billie looked back at the message. “This sounds like someone pushing campaign direction.”
“Or someone watching the morning show clip and thinking they’re clever.”
“Half the internet thinks that.”
“Half the internet doesn’t have your number.”
The words landed.
Billie’s face changed.
Not fear exactly.
Calculation.
That might have been worse.
The first message had felt personal. Luca, probably. A poke at Mason, a poke at Sophie, a coffee thread meant to signal old access and new nerve.
The second was different. It was about the romance angle. The sponsor. The station. The campaign.
Someone wanted them to lean in.
Someone wanted Billie packaged.
Mason hated it.
Billie stepped past him and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To stop this before it grows legs.”
He followed. “Good.”
She glanced back. “You do not need to come.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re not walking into that office alone with your phone full of anonymous messages.”
She stopped so suddenly he almost ran into her.
Almost.
Progress.
Billie turned. “Mason.”
He held up both hands. “I know. Not my place. Not my choice. Not my job to decide what you need.”
Her expression flickered.
He continued, quieter. “But I can stand nearby and be useful if you want.”
The hallway hummed around them.
Billie looked at him for one long second.
Then she said, “Fine.”
One word.
Not soft.
Not grateful.
But permission.
Mason took it like a gift and followed her toward the office.
The upstairs office had become command central again, which was apparently what happened whenever Harbour Ice Centre’s day developed plot.
Harper sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop balanced on a printer box, two phones beside her, hair twisted into a clip that had clearly given up.
Mark Delaney stood at the desk on speaker with someone from Vale Community Partners.
Coach Alby occupied the corner with a coffee and the look of a man trapped in a marketing seminar against his religion.
Nate and Theo hovered near the door, because team chaos had excellent hearing.
Sophie stood by the window.
She saw Billie’s face and straightened immediately.
“What happened?”
Billie held up the phone. “Messages.”
The room changed.
All the noise dropped a level.
Even Nate shut up.
Billie handed the phone to Sophie first.
Mason liked that.
Hated the reason, but liked the instinct. Sophie’s name was in this too. Sophie deserved to see it before the room turned it into strategy.
Sophie read the first messages.
Her face went blank.
Too blank.
Then she read the second.
Her brows drew together. “That one isn’t him.”
Mason looked at her. “That’s what I thought.”
Billie asked, “You’re sure?”
Sophie stared at the screen. “Luca doesn’t outsource arrogance. If he wants a reaction, he wants you to know it’s from him.”
Nate whispered, “That’s disturbingly poetic.”
Theo elbowed him.
Sophie handed the phone back. Her voice stayed even. “The coffee text is him.”
Billie’s jaw tightened. “How did he get my number?”
Sophie looked away.
The answer entered the room before she said it.
“My old phone,” Sophie said. “Maybe. I had your number saved from rink emergency contacts. If he still has access to any shared backup from years ago, or if he found an old group chat…”
She stopped.
Mason saw the colour drain from her face, not dramatically, but enough.
Billie stepped closer. “Sophie.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” Billie’s voice sharpened. “Do not apologise for someone else crossing a line.”
Sophie swallowed. “I should have checked.”
“You should not have to audit your past because a man might decide boundaries are optional.”
The room went very still.
Mason stared at Billie.
So did half the office.
Billie seemed to realise what she had said at the same time everyone else did. Something private flashed across her face and disappeared.
Then she became operational again.
“Mark,” she said, “get off speaker.”
Mark ended his call with the speed of a man who had been waiting for orders. “Done.”
“Harper, can you trace whether the second message connects to a public post, burner number, station contact, or anything campaign-related?”
Harper’s expression had lost all playfulness. “I can compare timing and language. Not trace like a hacker in a bad film, but I can do a quick pattern check.”
“Do that.”
“Already doing.”
“Mark, tell Vale we’re receiving anonymous pressure to lean into the romance angle. Keep it factual. Do not accuse anyone.”
Mark nodded. “Right.”
“Alby, no one outside this room hears about Sophie.”
Alby’s jaw set. “Obviously.”
Billie’s gaze moved to Nate.
Nate lifted both hands, face unusually serious. “Not a word.”
Theo nodded. “I’ll make sure.”
Mason expected Billie to keep moving. More commands. More structure. She was brilliant at turning fear into systems.
Instead, she turned to Sophie.
“What do you need?”
Sophie blinked.
The question was gentle enough that Mason felt it in his own chest.
Sophie pressed the tablet tighter against her ribs. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want the event cancelled.”
“No one said cancelled.”
“I don’t want to be the reason we lose twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“You are not the reason for anything Luca chooses to do.”
Sophie’s mouth trembled by a millimetre, then hardened. “I want him kept away from the physio room. I want all communication through Mark or Alby. I don’t want him near medical staff without another person present.”
“Done,” Billie said.
Sophie’s eyes shifted to Mason.
He straightened.
“And I don’t want this becoming two men posturing over old history they don’t understand.”
Fair.
Painfully fair.
Mason nodded. “Understood.”
Sophie held his gaze. “If Luca baits you about Billie, about me, about your injury, about Sydney, anything, you disengage.”
“I will.”
“If he touches the knee in warmups?”
Billie’s head snapped toward Mason.
Alby swore under his breath.
Mason kept his face calm. “Then I skate away.”
Nate looked like that physically hurt him.
Theo looked relieved.
Sophie nodded once. “Good.”
Billie watched Mason, eyes sharp, as if weighing whether he had meant it.
He had.
Mostly.
No. Entirely.
Damn it, he would have to mean it.
He looked at her. “I can do it.”
Her expression softened by half a breath. “I know.”
That was new.
Trust, small but real.