Chapter Fourteen Mason Reed #2
Instead, he looked at Max. “Your quote sold hoodies.”
Max brightened. “I’m a brand?”
Billie said, “You are a child.”
“A child brand?”
“No.”
Nate whispered, “Micro-influencer.”
Billie pointed at him. “I heard that.”
“Acoustics,” Nate said.
For a few minutes, the room breathed again.
They finalised security. Updated the event plan. Locked ticket review. Set rules for Friday’s guest entry. Harper made a Ryan-related watchlist that she labelled PROBLEM MEN, then changed it to ACCESS RISK after Billie looked at her.
Mason added Gabe and PuckSideDoor to a separate list titled EXTERNAL MEDIA RISK.
Billie saw.
She did not comment.
But something in her face eased, and that was enough.
By early evening, the crisis had become a system.
Mason was learning that was how Billie survived.
Turn pain into columns.
Turn fear into procedures.
Turn betrayal into a revised entry plan with security points and highlighted sponsor language.
He understood it more than he wanted to.
He also understood that systems could not hold everything forever.
At 6:40, Sophie cleared Mason for limited evening skate. “Short session. Controlled movement. No showing off.”
Mason glanced toward Billie, who was reviewing floor flow near the rink gate.
“I don’t show off,” he said.
Sophie gave him a look.
“Much,” he corrected.
“Less than that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sophie’s brows lifted.
“I respect medical authority.”
“Good. Start with that.”
He stepped onto the ice a few minutes later with Theo and Nate for light drills. Alby watched from the bench like a storm cloud with a whistle. Billie stayed near the boards with her tablet, pretending she was not monitoring his knee.
She was absolutely monitoring his knee.
Mason liked it more than he should have.
He warmed up slow, edges easy, knee stable enough if he did not force the turn. Theo moved beside him, quiet and exact. Nate chirped from the blue line.
“Careful, Tall Regret. Ice Queen is watching.”
Mason kept skating. “She watches everything.”
Nate grinned. “Romantic.”
“Operational.”
Theo said, “Both of you focus.”
Mason took a pass and sent it back clean.
Nate whistled. “That was almost responsible.”
“I’m growing.”
“Don’t. It’ll ruin the brand.”
Alby barked from the bench. “Less talking.”
Nate shouted, “That was character development!”
“Develop silently.”
They ran light passing patterns. Nothing hard. Nothing flashy. Mason kept his body under control, even when his instincts wanted speed. Especially then.
Because Billie was watching.
Because Sophie had set rules.
Because standing steady mattered more than proving he could still explode through a turn.
That was new.
Not easy.
But new.
After twenty minutes, Alby blew the whistle. “Reed. Done.”
Mason skated in. “I’ve got more.”
“I know.”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t care. Done.”
Mason looked at him.
Alby stared back.
Then Mason nodded and stepped off.
The old him would have argued.
The slightly less stupid him found Billie’s eyes through the glass and watched the tension leave her shoulders.
Worth it.
Nate coasted to the bench. “Wow. Obedience. Is this what maturity looks like?”
Theo said, “Probably temporary.”
Mason laughed despite himself.
The word temporary should have hurt.
It did, a little.
But not in the same way.
Temporary was a question now, not a sentence.
He could work with questions.
He changed, iced, and found Billie later near the empty stands with a roll of tape, fixing a banner that had started to curl. She stood on the second row, reaching up, one foot braced on the bench, tablet tucked under her arm.
“Please tell me there is a ladder policy you are violating,” Mason said.
She did not look down. “There is.”
“And?”
“I wrote it.”
“So you’re exempt?”
“I’m efficient.”
“You are standing on a bench with tape in one hand and three crises in the other.”
“Multitasking.”
“Unsafe.”
“Are you reporting me to operations?”
“I’m considering it.”
She pressed the tape down. The banner corner curled again immediately.
She glared at it.
Mason stepped closer, holding out a hand. “Let me.”
“No.”
“You’re shorter.”
“I am correctly sized.”
“The banner disagrees.”
“The banner is defective.”
He bit back a smile. “I can reach.”
“I can also reach.”
The banner peeled back again.
Billie muttered something that sounded unkind toward adhesive.
Mason lifted both hands. “Professional height assistance. No emotional implications.”
She looked down at him.
He tried very hard not to notice the way the rink lights caught her hair.
Failed.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one that gets comments.”
“I’m thinking about tape.”
“Liar.”
He smiled.
After a second, she handed him the roll.
“Fine. Height assistance.”
He climbed one row up, careful with his knee, and pressed the banner flat. She stood close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his arm. The scent of her coffee and cold air and something clean drifted toward him.
He focused on tape.
Tape was safe.
Billie was not.
He smoothed the corner. “There.”
She looked up at it. “Acceptable.”
“That is becoming my favourite word.”
“Your standards are low.”
“They have been humbled by Australian hockey.”
She huffed a laugh.
Small.
Real.
Mason’s chest warmed.
They stood there on the bench row in the empty rink, looking at a banner that now hung straight because sometimes small fixes mattered too.
Billie’s phone was silent for once.
So was his.
It felt like a miracle.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For tape?”
“For stopping when Alby told you to.”
He looked down at her.
She kept her eyes on the banner.
“I didn’t do it for him,” Mason said.
Her gaze shifted to him.
There was no joke ready.
No easy cover.
He should have said Sophie. The knee. The event. The team.
All true.
Not enough.
Billie’s voice came quieter. “Mason.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“No.” His smile was faint and honest. “But I’m trying.”
She looked away.
He thought she might step down, end the moment, return them to tasks and lists and clean lines.
Instead, she stayed.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” she said.
His heart slammed once.
“That seems fair,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with me either.”
Her mouth curved, then faded.
“Mason.”
This time, his name sounded like a warning and a confession.
He did not move closer.
He wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
But wanting was not enough. Wanting had to be disciplined. Useful. Safe.
So he stayed still.
Billie turned her head.
Their eyes met.
The space between them went thin.
Not public-thin. Not internet-thin. No cameras. No hashtags. No Max, no Nate, no Luca, no Ryan, no sponsor.
Just Billie on a bench row in the rink she held together.
Just Mason learning that some places got under your skin before you noticed the door was open.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
His breath stopped.
She caught herself and looked away fast, but not fast enough.
He saw.
She knew he saw.
And for once, neither of them made a joke.
The silence grew warm.
Then a door banged open downstairs.
“MASON!” Harper shouted. “Your agent is here!”
Billie stepped back so fast she nearly lost balance.
Mason’s hand shot out, catching her elbow.
She steadied. Froze. Looked at his hand.
He let go immediately.
“What?” he shouted back.
Harper appeared below them, face tight. “Gabe. Your agent. He just walked into the lobby with a suitcase and a very expensive attitude.”
Mason went cold.
Billie stared at him.
Temporary had just grown legs and entered the building.
From the lobby, a male voice carried across Harbour Ice Centre.
“Mason. We need to talk.”
Billie’s face went unreadable.
Mason climbed down from the bench, knee forgotten, pulse hard.
He had expected Gabe to call.
He had not expected him to come.
And as Mason walked toward the lobby with Billie beside him, he knew one thing for sure.
Gabe had picked the wrong rink for a rescue mission.