Chapter Eleven Billie Hartley
Temporary Men Should Come with Warning Labels
Billie Hartley had many practical skills, including crisis triage, skate-lace diplomacy, budget miracles, and the ability to tell when an under-twelve was lying about who put a puck through a vending-machine panel, but she had never mastered the art of remaining emotionally unaffected by a man proving her right in real time.
Sydney is a stop, not a destination.
The sentence sat on her phone like a bruise.
Not because it was new.
Because it was not.
Billie had known Mason Reed was temporary from the beginning. Temporary was practically stamped across him in customs ink. North American import. Injury comeback. PR mess. Agent with opinions. Smile like a man used to exits being held open for him.
Temporary men did not belong in old Sydney rinks with broken trophy plaques and kids who needed helmets.
Temporary men did not get to look at her like she mattered.
Temporary men especially did not get to stand in her archive corridor, surrounded by stolen memories, and say things like I know enough to start.
That was the kind of sentence that made a woman stupid if she let it.
Billie Hartley did not let herself be stupid.
Mostly.
Mason stood beside her, his expression carved tight as he read the PuckSideDoor headline again.
MASON REED’S AUSTRALIAN REBOUND: CAREER RESET OR RINK-SIDE ROMANCE DISTRACTION?
Under it, the quote:
Sydney is a stop, not a destination.
A source close to Reed says the injured forward is focused on controlling the narrative, rebuilding his value, and keeping his Australian stint temporary despite growing local attention.
Billie locked the phone.
“Billie,” Mason said.
“No.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look like you know.”
She turned toward him with a smile so sharp it felt borrowed from a skate blade. “I said I know. I did not say I enjoyed being publicly described as a distraction adjacent to your market value.”
His face flinched.
Good.
No, not good.
She did not want to hurt him.
That made her angrier.
Mason took one breath. “You’re not a distraction.”
“That seems to be a matter of source interpretation.”
“You know that’s not how I see you.”
“What I know is we have an event in three days, a private photo stolen from my father’s archive, an anonymous account trying to frame me as manipulative, Sophie’s ex arriving with media, your agent feeding North American gossip sites a temporary-Sydney narrative, and a sponsor who likes momentum but not scandal. ”
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Excellent. Then we agree the priority is not your feelings about my feelings.”
The hallway went quiet.
Too quiet.
Mason looked at her like she had hit him. Not hard. Not unfairly. Just exactly where the bruise already was.
Billie hated the look.
She hated more that she had caused it.
But she could not afford soft right now. Soft was how the internet found cracks. Soft was how men with airports in their future got mistaken for roots.
Mason nodded once.
Controlled.
Professional.
Terrible.
“You’re right,” he said. “What do you need me to do?”
That should have helped.
It did not.
Because he did not argue. He did not defend. He did not chase.
He stepped back into useful, and somehow that made everything ache worse.
Billie turned toward the main rink. “Meeting room. Harper. Mark. Sophie. Alby. Now.”
Mason nodded again. “I’ll get them.”
“No. I will.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was, a flicker of something.
Hurt.
Maybe.
Or understanding.
She did not wait to find out.
Billie walked toward the rink with her shoulders straight, phone in hand, and every feeling shoved into a locked storage room beside archived event files and photos of girls who used to fly.
The meeting room filled in under four minutes.
Harper arrived first, laptop already open, face tight.
Mark came in with his phone pressed to his ear and ended the call the second he saw Billie.
Sophie followed quietly, tablet against her ribs.
Coach Alby came last with coffee and the grim expression of a man who had decided marketing was a plague sent to punish skating.
Mason stood near the door.
Not leaning.
Not smiling.
Not close to Billie.
Good.
Good was awful.
Harper put the PuckSideDoor post on the screen.
Nobody laughed.
The room read it in silence.
Mark swore first. “Source close to Reed.”
Mason’s mouth barely moved. “Gabe made media calls. He admits that. Says he didn’t send anything about Billie. I believe he didn’t leak the photo.”
Billie noticed the careful wording.
Believe.
Not know.
Sophie looked at him. “Would he describe Sydney as a stop?”
Mason’s gaze flicked to Billie, then away. “Yes.”
There was the knife again.
Clean. Honest. Useful.
Billie made herself breathe normally.
Mark rubbed his forehead. “This puts Vale in a delicate position. If the story becomes Mason using the Blades as a temporary reputation rehab stop, it undercuts the respect campaign.”
“It also makes Billie the distraction,” Harper said, voice unusually flat. “That’s what the piece is doing. It frames the rink as small, Billie as romantic noise, and Mason as someone who should leave once he has value again.”
Mason’s hands flexed at his sides.
Billie saw it.
She saw everything.
She hated that she still cared.
Alby took a sip of coffee. “Can we sue a website with bad vowels?”
“No,” Mark said.
“Shame.”
Billie stepped closer to the table. “We do not respond emotionally.”
Harper nodded. “Agreed.”
“We do not mention anonymous accounts, stolen photos, or internal access publicly.”
“Agreed.”
“We re-centre the fundraiser.”
“Agreed.”
Billie turned to Mason. “You do not respond to PuckSideDoor.”
His eyes met hers. “Agreed.”
“You do not call Gabe where anyone can hear you.”
“Agreed.”
“You do not make a public declaration that contradicts temporary unless you are prepared for the career consequences.”
The room went still.
Mason looked at her.
Billie held his gaze because looking away would be worse.
His voice was low. “Is that an instruction?”
“It is an operational warning.”
“It sounds personal.”
“It is practical.”
“It can be both.”
Her pulse jumped.
No.
Absolutely not in front of everyone.
She looked back at Harper. “We post a clean update. Donation tracker. Friday structure. Community fund. Quote from Max if he has one that is not emotionally illegal.”
Harper typed. “He submitted: ‘Adults are making it weird, but kids still need gear.’”
For one glorious second, the room almost laughed.
Billie closed her eyes. “Max is alarmingly useful.”
“Too useful,” Alby muttered.
Harper looked up. “We could use it. It redirects beautifully.”
Billie considered.
Adults are making it weird, but kids still need gear.
Honestly, the child was a menace and a communications savant.
“Use it,” Billie said. “With guardian permission. No photo.”
“Done.”
Mark looked at Billie. “Vale wants a call.”
“Of course they do.”
“They’re not threatening withdrawal. Yet.”
“Yet is doing heavy lifting.”
“Yes.”
Billie reached for the marker and wrote on the whiteboard.
PUBLIC MESSAGE: Kids. Gear. Community. Respect. Friday. Donation match.
Then under it:
PRIVATE: Archive breach. Access list. Gabe/media trail. Luca boundaries. Sophie safe. Mason response discipline.
Mason’s name sat there in black marker.
She did not look at him.
Harper raised a hand. “For the archive breach, we need to know who entered that corridor in the last forty-eight hours.”
Mark nodded. “I’ll pull staff schedules.”
“I need camera footage from nearby public corridors,” Harper said. “Even if there’s no archive camera, we can see who went back there.”
Mark said, “I’ll get it.”
Sophie’s voice came quiet. “What about old keys?”
Billie’s stomach sank.
Everyone turned.
Sophie continued, “You said staff, coaches, maintenance. Has anyone left recently who still might have a key? Former staff? Former volunteers? Contractors?”
Billie’s fingers tightened around the marker.
Yes.
Too many.
Harbour Ice Centre had survived for years on goodwill, favours, part-time help, retired volunteers, junior parents, old coaches, and people who returned keys when they remembered, which was not always.
Mark looked pained. “We changed some locks two years ago.”
“Some,” Billie said.
Mason’s gaze sharpened.
She could feel him noticing the word.
Some.
Another thing she had managed well enough but not perfectly. Another rink weakness hidden under duct tape and competence.
Billie wrote:
OLD KEYS?
Then added:
Lock change quote.
Mark winced. “That won’t be cheap.”
“I know.”
Mason said, “Use me.”
Billie’s head snapped toward him.
“What?”
“For the cost,” Mason said. “If locks need changing, use me.”
“No.”
“I caused attention to land here.”
“No.”
His jaw set. “Billie.”
She pointed the marker at him. “You are not buying your way out of guilt.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“You can help by showing up Friday, following the media plan, not making reckless declarations, and keeping your knee intact.”
Mason took the hit.
Again.
And again, he did not swing back.
“Okay,” he said.
Billie hated that word.
She hated how many ways he could say it.
This one meant: I disagree, but I am respecting your boundary.
Which was inconveniently attractive.
Which was not relevant.
Mark cleared his throat. “We can price the locks and decide later.”
“Fine,” Billie said.
Harper’s fingers flew over the keys. “Clean update ready.”
She read aloud.
SYDNEY BLADES OFFICIAL: Adults are making it weird, but kids still need gear.
Max, 11?, said it best. Friday’s Charity Shootout supports the Harbour Ice Junior Gear Fund.
Every donation helps more young players say yes to hockey.
Vale Community Partners will match donations up to $25,000.
Bring respect. Bring a donation. Leave the excuses at home.
Billie nodded. “Post.”
Harper did.
For once, nobody made a joke.
Maybe everyone was tired.
Maybe the room understood that the funny part still mattered, but it could not hold the whole weight.
Within seconds, the replies began.
Harper watched. “Good reaction. People like Max.”
Alby grunted. “People have low self-preservation.”