Chapter Thirteen Billie Hartley
The Guest List Became a Weapon
Billie Hartley believed in many unromantic truths, including wet floors were lawsuits waiting for footwear, sponsor emails should be read twice before coffee, and men who posted vague threats on public accounts deserved consequences with timestamps.
Ryan Vale had chosen timestamps.
Excellent.
By 5:06 Tuesday afternoon, his post had been screenshotted by Harper, Evie, Mark, Graham Vale’s assistant, Max’s mum, and, somehow, Nate Callow, who had no business being that useful during a developing security issue.
By 5:09, SportNow had reposted it with a question mark and a headline that made Billie want to personally confiscate every punctuation mark in Sydney.
FORMER HARBOUR ICE STAFF MEMBER HINTS AT “WHAT REALLY HAPPENED” AHEAD OF CHARITY SHOOTOUT
By 5:12, Harper had a response draft.
By 5:13, Billie rejected it because it used the phrase “community boundaries” and sounded like a yoga studio denying a refund.
By 5:15, Max submitted his own response through Evie, which read:
Dear adults, stop being mysterious and donate money like normal people.
Billie approved the sentiment and rejected the wording because Max was not becoming the public conscience of a security breach if she could help it.
At 5:21, Graham Vale’s assistant confirmed by email that Ryan Vale was not authorised to attend Friday’s event, represent Vale Community Partners, access sponsor areas, or communicate on behalf of the company.
At 5:22, Billie printed three copies.
At 5:23, she highlighted the sentence that mattered.
At 5:24, Mason Reed walked into the meeting room carrying two coffees and the cautious expression of a man approaching a tiger with paperwork.
Billie looked at the coffees.
Then at him.
“Why?”
He held one out. “Because you rejected a yoga-studio statement, frightened a sponsor into written boundaries, and have not eaten since the protein bar you insulted.”
“I insulted it because it deserved consequences.”
“It was a protein bar. Consequences feel harsh.”
“It tasted like drywall with gym ambitions.”
His mouth curved.
Billie took the coffee anyway.
Mistake.
It was good again.
She looked at the cup like it had betrayed operational independence.
Mason’s smile deepened. “Acceptable?”
“Barely.”
“Your barely is becoming meaningful.”
“Do not build a life on my beverage feedback.”
His eyes warmed.
The sentence hung between them one second too long.
Life.
Build.
Not temporary.
Billie looked down at the printed email and lifted the highlighter like a weapon. “We need a public statement.”
Mason did not push.
Good.
Infuriating.
“Show me what you have,” he said.
Billie slid Harper’s draft across the table.
He read it carefully, lips pressed together, body angled away from her enough to respect space but close enough that she could smell cold air, soap, and his stupidly good coffee.
She did not notice that.
She noticed typos.
Mason looked up. “It’s clean.”
“It’s soft.”
“Soft can work.”
“Soft gets stepped on.”
“Sometimes.”
She hated that he did not argue simply to win.
He tapped one line. “This part is good: Friday’s event is about the junior gear fund and the families who benefit from it.”
“Yes.”
“This part is too corporate: We will not engage with distracting commentary.”
“Harper wrote that after I rejected her first sentence.”
“What was the first sentence?”
“Harbour Ice Centre does not negotiate with weird men in comment sections.”
Mason froze.
Then laughed.
Full, delighted, unguarded laughter that hit the meeting room walls and made her chest respond like it had been waiting for the sound.
Billie looked away.
He wiped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. That was excellent.”
“It was not publishable.”
“No. But excellent.”
“Focus.”
“I am focused. Deeply. On not negotiating with weird men.”
She tried not to smile.
Failed by a millimetre.
He saw.
Of course he saw.
The smile that spread across his face was not smug exactly.
It was worse.
Grateful.
Billie looked back at the statement because paper was safer than men who appreciated her worst instincts.
Mason reached for the pen. “May I?”
She slid it to him.
He crossed out three lines, rewrote two, and added a sentence at the end. His handwriting was worse than hers, large and slanted, but the phrasing was cleaner than she expected.
Billie read it.
Harbour Ice Centre confirms that Friday’s charity shootout remains a community fundraiser for the junior gear fund.
Event access is limited to approved guests, registered staff, players, media, volunteers, and families.
Vale Community Partners has confirmed that Ryan Vale is not affiliated with Friday’s event and is not authorised to attend or represent the sponsor.
We will keep the focus where it belongs: helping young players say yes to hockey.
She glanced up. “That’s good.”
Mason blinked. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Painful honesty.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I?”
“Unclear.”
He leaned back. “The last sentence is Max-inspired.”
“Obviously. He’s the communications backbone of this organisation.”
“And nearly twelve.”
“Do not remind him.”
Billie sent the revised statement to Harper with one instruction.
POST CLEAN. NO EMOJIS.
Harper replied in three seconds.
HARPER: You wound me.
Then:
HARPER: Posted.
Billie refreshed the Blades account.
The statement went live, simple and unflashy. No graphic. No hashtag beyond the fundraiser tag. No Ice Queen. No Tall Regret. No romance. No Luca. No drama hook.
Exactly right.
Within a minute, comments began.
Good. Keep it about the kids. Clear boundary. Ryan who? Donated again. Max is right, kids need gear.
Billie breathed for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes.
Mason watched her.
She felt it without looking.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I like watching you win.”
Her fingers stopped on the phone.
There it was again.
Too direct.
Too steady.
Too dangerous because it did not sound like flirtation, which meant she could not dismiss it as easily.
Billie set the phone down. “It’s not a win yet.”
“No. But it’s a point.”
“Hockey metaphors. How unexpected.”
“I’m adapting to local culture.”
“Ice sarcasm?”
“Exactly.”
The meeting room door opened, and Harper walked in with her laptop, Evie behind her, Max behind Evie, and Nate behind Max.
Billie stared at the procession.
“No.”
Nate pointed at Max. “He started it.”
Max pointed at Evie. “She said I could come if I was silent.”
Evie pointed at Harper. “She needed my opinion.”
Harper pointed at Billie. “You need theirs.”
Billie looked at Mason. “Do you see what I manage?”
He nodded solemnly. “Your monarchy is unstable.”
Max lifted his hand. “The court requests hoodie approval.”
“Absolutely not,” Billie said.
Evie placed a printed mockup on the table.
Billie looked down despite herself.
The hoodie was clean. Navy. Small Sydney Blades mark on the front. On the back, in strong white lettering:
ICE QUEEN OF SYDNEY HOCKEY
On the sleeve:
Respect required before refills.
No crown.
No face.
No sparkle.
Damn it.
It was good.
Mason leaned over her shoulder, then wisely stopped himself before he got too close.
“Wow,” he said. “I’d buy that.”
Billie looked at him. “You are not wearing my title on your body.”
Nate gasped. “But if Tall Regret wears Ice Queen merch, the internet will explode.”
“That is exactly why he is banned.”
Max nodded seriously. “Forbidden merch increases demand.”
“Who taught you market scarcity?”
Max pointed at Harper.
Harper lifted both hands. “Only morally.”
Billie rubbed her forehead. “Fine. Limited pre-order. One week. All proceeds to the junior gear fund. But the product description says fundraiser merch, not fan merch.”
Harper was already typing. “Done.”
“And no using my face.”
“Done.”
“And no couple bundle with Tall Regret.”
Nate slowly lowered the paper he had just produced.
Billie stared at him.
He crumpled it and put it in his pocket. “That was unrelated.”
Theo appeared in the doorway behind him. “It was not.”
“Betrayal,” Nate whispered.
Mason’s mouth was twitching.
Billie pointed at him. “Do not encourage him.”
“I’m being silent support.”
“You are never silent.”
“I have dimensions.”
“You have a podcast clip.”
Evie winced. “Direct hit.”
Mason put a hand over his heart. “Fair.”
For a moment, the room felt like itself again. Chaotic. Warm beneath the cold. People talking over one another because everyone cared too much to sit quietly and behave.
Then Harper’s phone buzzed.
The entire room went still.
Billie hated that sound now.
Harper checked the screen. Her face did not fall, exactly, but it changed.
“What?” Billie asked.
“Ryan replied to the statement.”
Mason’s jaw tightened.
Billie held out her hand.
Harper gave her the phone.
Ryan’s public reply sat beneath the Blades’ statement.
Interesting how fast they ban people who remember the truth. Ask Billie why she really quit skating. Ask who was there when she decided she was done performing.
The room went silent.
Too silent.
Billie read it once.
Then again.
The words slid under her skin with surgical aim.
Why she really quit skating.
Who was there.
Mason’s voice came low. “What is he talking about?”
Billie kept her eyes on the phone.
She could feel Evie looking at her.
Feel Harper holding her breath.
Feel Max trying to understand adult cruelty in real time.
Feel Nate’s joke engine die.
Feel Mason’s attention, steady and furious and careful all at once.
She handed the phone back to Harper.
“Delete it?” Harper asked.
Billie’s voice worked on the second try. “Hide it. Screenshot first.”
“Already did.”
“Good.”
Mason stepped slightly toward her.
She held up one hand.
He stopped.
That almost broke her.
Not the post.
Not Ryan.
That.
Mason stopping because she asked without making her explain the flinch.
Billie turned to Max. “Out.”
Max’s eyes were wide. “But I can help.”
“Not with this.”
“I’m almost twelve.”
“And I’m very serious.”
Evie touched his shoulder. “Come on, legend. Help me check hoodie sizes.”
Max hesitated, then nodded.
At the door, he looked back at Billie. “He’s being mean because he wants people to look at him.”