Chapter Nine Billie Hartley #3
Billie wished desperately for an alarm, a compressor failure, a child with one skate, a sponsor call, literally anything.
Nothing came.
Of course.
Mason took one step around the table.
Not toward her exactly.
Just less away.
“You don’t have to do anything with them,” he said. “You can just hear them.”
Billie’s laugh sounded thin. “That sounds suspiciously healthy.”
“Sophie yelled at me this morning. I’m evolving.”
“Lucky us.”
“Billie.”
She looked at him despite herself.
He stopped moving immediately, leaving several feet between them.
Good man.
Terrible man.
Confusing man.
“I trust you,” he said.
Her breath caught.
It felt too big.
Too early.
Too much.
“You shouldn’t,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you know the rink version.”
“Maybe.” His voice was quiet. “Maybe that’s the version you let everyone use because she never needs anything.”
Billie looked away.
Hit.
Direct.
Painful.
She hated him.
She did not hate him at all.
Outside the door, footsteps rushed by. Someone laughed. The rink carried on, alive and oblivious.
Mason waited.
He did not fill the quiet.
That was somehow worse.
Finally, Billie said, “My father built half this place with favours and second-hand parts.”
Mason stayed still.
“When he got sick, everyone told me how strong I was.” She kept her eyes on the whiteboard, not him.
“So I was. Strong with schedules. Strong with bills. Strong with doctors. Strong with Mum. Strong with Evie. Strong with the rink. Strong when he died and everyone said at least I knew how to keep things running.”
Her throat tightened.
She forced the next words out anyway.
“I did know how. That was the problem.”
Mason said nothing.
Thank God.
Billie pressed her palms against the edge of the table behind her. “After that, people stopped asking if I wanted to keep running everything. They just assumed I would. Because I could.”
She finally looked at him.
His face had gone very still.
Not pity.
If it had been pity, she would have thrown him out.
It was something steadier.
Anger, maybe.
Not at her.
For her.
That was dangerous too.
“So no,” she said, voice rough. “I am not good at being the story. I am good at keeping the building open. And if someone is trying to make people question my motives because I turned your disaster into money for kids, I will not give them the satisfaction of watching me react.”
Mason’s jaw flexed.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “Mason.”
“I know. You don’t want apology.”
“I don’t want pity.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He took one slow breath. “Respect.”
The word landed exactly where she did not want it.
Between her ribs.
Behind her armour.
Under all the places she had labelled fine.
Billie opened her eyes.
Mason stood on the other side of the table, hands loose, expression careful. Like he knew one wrong move would send her back behind the wall.
He was right.
She hated that he knew that.
“I don’t need you to defend me,” she said.
“I know.”
“I don’t need you to fix it.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need you to make some noble speech on Friday.”
“I definitely know that.”
A tiny laugh escaped her.
His mouth softened.
“But,” he said, “I’m not going to let anonymous comments make me question you.”
Her eyes stung.
Rude.
Unacceptable.
She blinked the feeling back through sheer force and years of practice.
“Good,” she said.
It was all she could manage.
He nodded as if it was enough.
Maybe it was.
A knock hit the door.
Both of them turned.
Harper opened it halfway, eyes careful. “Sorry.”
Billie straightened immediately. “What?”
Harper looked between them.
Her expression softened, then sharpened into professional mode.
“We have a problem.”
Billie almost laughed.
Of course they did.
“What kind?”
“The IceBetTruth account is gone.”
“That’s good.”
“It reposted from another account before disappearing.”
Mason’s voice went cold. “What did it say?”
Harper swallowed. “It posted an old photo of Billie.”
The room tilted.
Billie’s fingers went numb against the table.
Mason’s gaze snapped to her.
She did not move.
Harper stepped inside and held out her phone reluctantly.
Billie knew before she looked.
Somehow, she knew.
On the screen was a photo of her at seventeen.
Hair pulled back. Competition dress. One hand lifted in the middle of a spin. Young, fierce, and still stupid enough to believe talent plus work meant life would meet you fairly.
The caption read:
Before she ran the rink, Billie Hartley knew how to perform. Don’t let the Ice Queen fool you. She knows exactly what cameras can do.
Billie stopped breathing.
Mason said her name.
She barely heard him.
Because the photo was not public.
At least, it was not supposed to be.
It had been on her father’s old office wall for years, then packed away after he died.
No.
Not packed away.
Stored.
In the locked archive cupboard under the old event files.
At Harbour Ice Centre.
Billie lifted her head slowly.
Harper’s face had gone pale.
Mason looked from the phone to Billie. “What?”
Billie’s voice came out flat.
“That photo is from inside the rink.”