Chapter Ten Mason Reed
The Ice Queen Had a Locked Door
Mason Reed had learned early that some silences were louder than shouting.
A rink after a bad loss. A locker room after an injury. A phone call where an agent took too long to say the next sentence. A doctor’s pause before the word but.
Billie Hartley staring at an old photo of herself on Harper’s phone was worse than all of them.
Because she did not shout.
She did not swear.
She did not even blink.
She just went still in a way that made every protective instinct Mason owned stand up and look for something to hit.
Which was exactly why he stayed where he was.
Barely.
“That photo is from inside the rink,” Billie said.
Harper’s hand tightened around the phone. “Are you sure?”
Billie did not look away from the screen. “Yes.”
Mason stepped closer, slow enough not to crowd. “How?”
Billie’s face stayed flat. “It was in my dad’s office.
After he died, I packed some of his things into the archive cupboard under old event files.
Photos, letters, staff records, junior program history, broken trophy plaques he refused to throw out because he said every ugly object had earned its place. ”
Her voice did not break.
That made it worse.
“I haven’t seen that photo in years.”
Harper looked like she wanted to throw her phone into the Zamboni path. “The post is already screenshotted. I had it taken down, but people grabbed it.”
Of course they had.
The internet never let go of anything cleanly.
Mason looked at the image again.
Seventeen-year-old Billie.
Not the operations manager version with folded arms and a glare sharp enough to manage grown men. A younger Billie, in a competition dress, caught mid-spin. Her face open. Fierce. Almost happy.
It felt invasive to see it like this.
Not because the photo was embarrassing. It was beautiful, and that somehow made the theft worse.
Someone had not mocked Billie with a bad picture.
They had stolen a soft one.
He looked at her. “Who has access to that cupboard?”
Billie finally blinked.
Just once.
Then she moved.
The shift was immediate. The stillness snapped into action, and Billie Hartley became operational so fast Mason could almost hear the door slam inside her.
“Staff,” she said. “Some coaches. Mark. Me. Evie when she ignores boundaries. Harper for archives. Maintenance if they need old permits.”
Harper swallowed. “I haven’t opened it in months.”
“I know.”
The answer came instantly.
No suspicion.
No hesitation.
Harper’s face crumpled slightly with relief and guilt anyway. “Billie.”
“I know,” Billie repeated.
Mason filed that away.
Trust from Billie was not loud, but when she gave it, she gave it clean.
She reached for her tablet. “We need the post, timestamp, username, screenshot trail, who first amplified it, who interacted before deletion, and whether any accounts tie back to Luca, SportNow, Vale, or someone in-house.”
Harper nodded quickly. “Already pulling what I can.”
“I’ll check the cupboard.”
Mason said, “I’m coming.”
Billie’s eyes snapped to his.
“No,” she said.
He expected that.
Still hated it.
“Billie.”
“No.”
“I’m not trying to take over.”
“Good. Then don’t.”
The words were sharp enough to make Harper flinch.
Mason did not.
He deserved the edge. She had been opened without permission, and here he was, another person stepping toward a locked place.
He lowered his voice. “Okay.”
Billie’s expression flickered.
She had expected a fight.
He would have given her one yesterday.
Maybe even this morning.
Not now.
Not about this.
He nodded toward the phone. “Tell me how to help from here.”
Her jaw tightened.
For three seconds, she said nothing.
Then she looked at Harper. “Go to the office. Pull the social trail. Do not post anything yet.”
Harper nodded. “Got it.”
“Tell Mark quietly. I don’t want Nate finding out before we know more.”
From the hallway, Nate’s voice floated in. “Finding out what?”
Everyone froze.
Theo’s voice followed. “Keep walking.”
“I heard my name.”
“You always hear your name.”
“It’s my gift.”
Theo’s hand appeared in the doorway and physically pulled Nate away.
Billie closed her eyes for half a second.
Mason almost smiled.
Almost.
Harper slipped out.
Billie grabbed a ring of keys from a drawer near the whiteboard. Her hand was steady.
Too steady.
Mason hated that.
“What can I do?” he asked again.
Billie looked at him as if the question itself was dangerous.
Then she pointed at the whiteboard. “Write down everyone with access to the archive cupboard.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And do not follow me.”
His chest tightened.
He nodded. “I won’t.”
She hesitated.
Not long.
But enough that he wondered if some part of her wanted him to.
Then she left.
Mason stood alone in the meeting room with a dying marker, a whiteboard full of event logistics, and the unpleasant understanding that standing steady sometimes meant letting the woman walk away when every stupid part of him wanted to walk behind her.
He uncapped the marker and wrote:
ARCHIVE ACCESS
Then paused.
He did not know the staff list.
He only knew the names he had heard.
Billie. Mark. Harper. Evie. Alby. Maintenance. Coaches. Staff.
Not enough.
He added:
Who had keys? Who knew photo existed? When was cupboard last opened? Any CCTV near archive? Who was in building after morning show? Who benefits from making Billie look performative?
The last question made his grip tighten.
Who benefits?
Luca liked pressure, but this did not feel like Luca. Not entirely. The photo was too specific. Too internal. Too personal to Billie and too useful to whoever wanted the romance angle complicated.
It questioned her motives.
It made her look like a performer. Someone aware of cameras. Someone who knew how to manipulate attention.
Mason’s stomach twisted.
That was the point.
Not just to embarrass her.
To make people doubt her.
He wrote another line.
Frame Billie as using Mason/campaign.
The marker squeaked under the pressure.
He forced his hand to loosen.
Stand steady.
Do not posture.
Do not make this about your anger.
He capped the marker and looked toward the hallway.
He could not follow Billie.
But he could check the public areas.
That was useful. Not disobedient. Probably.
Mostly.
He stepped into the corridor.
The rink was in that strange afternoon lull between scheduled sessions.
A few staff moved around the lobby. Evie was at the skate counter, kangaroo feet gone, face sharper than usual as she sorted rental returns with unnecessary force.
Max sat at a bench near the noticeboard with homework spread in front of him, Theo standing nearby like a quiet guard.
Nate paced near the boards, clearly dying to ask questions and being held together by fear of Billie and possibly Theo’s hand on his hoodie.
Mason scanned the walls.
Cameras.
One above the lobby doors. One near skate rental. One facing the main concourse. Maybe one near the staff corridor.
He found Mark near the front office, phone in hand, face grim.
“Security footage?” Mason asked.
Mark looked up. “We have cameras in public areas. Not in the back archive corridor.”
“Of course.”
“Privacy. Staff areas.”
“Right.”
Mark rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Billie doesn’t want this big yet.”
“I know.”
“Hard to keep it small.”
“I know that too.”
Mark’s gaze sharpened. “She told you not to follow her?”
Mason looked at him. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
Mark’s expression changed, just slightly. Approval maybe. Or surprise.
People around Billie seemed used to men pushing.
Mason did not like that pattern.
Mark nodded toward the whiteboard. “Can you work with Harper? She’s better online, but you might know player-network accounts. If Luca or someone around him touched this, you may recognise names.”
Useful.
“Yes,” Mason said. “Where?”
“Office.”
Mason went.
Harper was at the desk with two laptops open, one phone plugged in, and the expression of a woman hunting a digital rat through a wall.
She did not look up. “Tell me you’re here to be useful and not emotionally masculine.”
“Mark sent me.”
“Good start.”
“I can look for hockey accounts.”
She turned one laptop toward him. “Screenshots are here. The account that posted the photo was created today. IceBetTruth disappeared, then this one popped up. Different username, same tone. The photo post got boosted first by three accounts. One generic sports meme account. One fan account. One burner.”
Mason sat.
His knee protested.
He ignored it.
Harper noticed anyway. “Ice pack in the freezer.”
“I’m fine.”
She looked at him.
He sighed. “I’ll get it in a minute.”
“Good. Because Sophie scares me in a calm way.”
“She has range.”
Harper tapped the screen. “Start here. Do you recognise any usernames? Past leagues, agents, reporters, hockey gossip people, anything.”
Mason leaned in.
The photo post had been deleted, but Harper had captured it.
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.
Under it, the first comments:
Interesting timing with the morning show. So the Ice Queen likes cameras after all. Fake romance = real donations? Mason better watch out.
Mason’s jaw locked.
Harper said, “Breathe.”
“I am.”
“Like a criminal trying to look normal.”
He inhaled.
Exhaled.
Better.
He clicked through the booster accounts. The sports meme account looked broad. Lots of local sport jokes, rugby, cricket, football, occasional hockey when drama spiked. The fan account seemed new but plausible. The burner had no profile photo, no history except replies about The Sydney Ice Bet.
Then he saw a username in the likes.
Not a burner.
Not Luca.
A hockey gossip account out of North America.
PuckSideDoor.
His stomach dropped.
He knew that account.
Unfortunately.
“Mason?” Harper asked.
He pointed at the screen. “That one.”
Harper leaned closer. “PuckSideDoor?”
“They ran stories about me last year.”
“What kind of stories?”
“The kind where a guy gets hurt and every anonymous source suddenly knows his attitude, pain tolerance, locker-room influence, and trade value.”
Harper’s face softened by a fraction. “Ah.”
“Yeah.”