Chapter Seventeen Billie Hartley #2
And now Ryan Vale had written over him.
Billie crouched.
Sophie said her name softly.
Billie ignored her.
She picked up the frame by the edges, careful of the glass, careful of fingerprints, careful of everything except the part of her that was tired of letting other people decide how much of her past they could break.
Mason’s chair scraped.
Sophie said, “Mason.”
Billie looked at him.
He was halfway standing, pain in his face and fury behind it.
She shook her head once.
He stopped.
Good.
She could do this.
She carried the frame to the meeting room.
Everyone followed at a distance, which was both respectful and annoying.
She set the frame on the table. Harper placed the evidence bag beside it.
Mark stood in the doorway speaking quietly to the accountant.
Gabe stayed near the entrance, suddenly very invested in being nonintrusive.
Sophie folded her arms and watched everyone.
Mason sat in the nearest chair because Sophie had apparently developed telekinetic authority.
Billie stared at the black marker on the glass.
Still performing.
No.
Not anymore.
She looked at Harper. “Film me.”
The room went silent.
Harper blinked. “What?”
“Film me. Short. Clean. No drama music. No graphics.”
Mason’s eyes sharpened. “Billie.”
She looked at him. “I know what I’m doing.”
He studied her.
Then nodded.
Not approval.
Trust.
That steadied something in her.
Harper lifted her phone slowly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What are you saying?”
Billie looked at the cracked photo.
“The truth. Not all of it. Enough.”
Harper’s thumb hovered over record. “Ready when you are.”
Billie stood behind the table, the damaged photo visible but not close enough to show every face. She did not touch it. Did not soften her posture. Did not make herself smaller for the camera Ryan had tried to weaponise.
Harper nodded.
Recording.
Billie looked into the lens.
“Today, someone tried to turn private history and rink finances into rumours. So here are the facts. Friday’s charity shootout is for the Harbour Ice Junior Gear Fund.
That money is separate, restricted, and dedicated to helping young players access gear and ice opportunities.
It is not being used for general rink expenses. ”
Her voice did not shake.
Good.
“Harbour Ice Centre has had hard seasons. Most community rinks do. Keeping a cold room open in a hot city takes work, money, volunteers, and stubborn people who believe hockey belongs here. I am one of those people. I will not apologise for that.”
Mason’s face blurred in her peripheral vision.
She kept going.
“If you want drama, there are plenty of comment sections. If you want to help kids play hockey, donate to the junior gear fund, come Friday, and bring respect.”
She paused.
Then added, because her father deserved the line.
“And for the record, protecting something is not performing.”
Harper stopped recording.
The room stayed quiet.
Billie’s pulse pounded.
She looked at Harper. “Too much?”
Harper’s eyes were wet. “No.”
Billie looked at Mason.
He was staring at her like she had just scored on an empty net from centre ice while the whole world watched and lost.
His voice was rough. “Perfect.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
Billie looked away.
Gabe cleared his throat. “That will play well.”
Harper turned on him.
Gabe lifted both hands. “I mean, it is clear and strong.”
Billie almost smiled.
Almost.
“Post it,” she said.
Harper did.
No caption except:
Protecting something is not performing. Junior Gear Fund link below.
The video went live at 7:18 p.m.
At 7:21, donations moved again.
At 7:24, the morning show reposted it.
At 7:27, SportNow deleted their question-mark headline and replaced it with:
BILLIE HARTLEY RESPONDS: “PROTECTING SOMETHING IS NOT PERFORMING”
At 7:31, Graham Vale commented from the official Vale Community Partners account:
Vale Community Partners confirms Friday’s fundraiser proceeds are restricted to the Harbour Ice Junior Gear Fund. We remain proud to match donations.
At 7:36, Max’s mum commented:
My son plays here. This rink says yes to kids every day. We donated again.
Billie read that one twice.
Then she put the phone down before her eyes could betray her.
Mason was still seated, ice pack on his knee. He had said nothing publicly. He had done exactly what she asked.
That should not have felt like intimacy.
It did.
The meeting room slowly emptied into tasks again.
Mark handled the accountant. Harper monitored comments.
Sophie took Mason’s vitals because apparently adrenaline and bad decisions counted medically.
Gabe stepped into the hallway to cancel a call with what sounded like a North American team scout.
Alby guarded the archive corridor. Nate entertained Max with fake architectural emergencies.
Theo probably prevented lawsuits by existing.
Billie finally followed Evie to the skate room.
Her cousin stood behind the counter, pretending to sort helmets.
Badly.
Billie stopped at the doorway. “Evie.”
“I’m mad.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
Evie turned, eyes red. “You always do that.”
Billie swallowed. “Do what?”
“Decide what I can handle. Decide what Mum can handle. Decide what the staff can handle. Decide you’ll carry the scary part because you’re oldest or because Uncle Tom trusted you or because you’re Billie and Billie handles things.”
Billie’s throat closed.
Evie wiped angrily under one eye. “You co-signed a loan for this place, and I was complaining about rental socks.”
“You were helping.”
“I could have helped more.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
“Neither should you!”
The words cracked through the room.
Billie stood there, taking them, because Evie deserved to say them.
Evie’s voice dropped. “I know this rink is yours in ways it isn’t mine.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” Evie said. “But it’s mine too. Uncle Tom was my family too. You don’t get to protect me out of belonging here.”
Billie blinked hard.
No tears.
She was tired of that lie.
Tears came anyway.
One slipped down before she could stop it.
Evie’s face crumpled.
“Oh, Bill.”
Billie let out a broken little laugh. “I hate that nickname.”
“I know.”
Evie came around the counter and hugged her.
This time, Billie held on properly.
For one minute, she did not run operations.
She did not protect a fund.
She did not defend a sponsor agreement, manage a guest list, monitor a knee, or keep Ryan Vale from turning her life into a rumour.
She just held her cousin in the skate room that smelled like old leather and disinfectant and family.
“I’m sorry,” Billie whispered.
Evie squeezed tighter. “I’m still mad.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I love you.”
“I know.”
“And I’m ordering an Ice Queen hoodie.”
Billie laughed against her shoulder.
Wet. Tired. Real.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late. I want the sleeve.”
The laugh hurt and helped.
When Billie finally stepped back, Evie wiped her face with both sleeves and looked furious again, but less broken.
“Also,” Evie said, “Mason looked like he wanted to punch Ryan through a wall, but he stopped when you told him.”
Billie’s chest warmed.
“Your point?”
“My point is, that is disturbingly attractive.”
“Evie.”
“I’m healing through observation.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And right.”
Billie shook her head, but her heart did the rude thing.
Again.
She returned to the meeting room five minutes later and found Mason alone at the table, one leg propped on a chair, ice pack wrapped around his knee, watching her video on his phone.
He locked the screen quickly, like he had been caught.
Billie leaned in the doorway. “Were you reviewing my operational messaging?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He looked at her.
The expression on his face was too open for her tired defences.
“I was watching you refuse to be made smaller,” he said.
Her breath caught.
He always did that. Said something impossible with no warning and then sat there like she could survive it normally.
Billie walked in and sat across from him.
Not beside.
Across.
Safer.
Maybe.
“You stopped,” she said.
“At the loading bay.”
“Yes.”
“Barely.”
“But you did.”
He nodded. “Because you said beside.”
The word settled between them.
Beside.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Beside.
Billie looked down at her hands. “Thank you.”
Mason’s voice softened. “For stopping?”
“For listening.”
He did not joke.
Good.
Terrible.
“Always,” he said.
Her eyes lifted.
The word was too big.
Too dangerous.
Too close to permanent in a room still full of temporary shadows.
“Mason.”
“I know.” His smile was faint and tired. “Too soon. Too much. Jet lag. Caffeine. Public humiliation.”
She laughed softly. “Powerful combination.”
“So I’ve heard.”
The quiet came again.
This one did not feel like a trap.
It felt like a door neither of them was opening yet, but both had stopped pretending was not there.
Then Gabe appeared in the doorway.
“I hate to interrupt,” he said, sounding like he actually did.
Billie looked at him. “Then don’t.”
Mason almost smiled.
Gabe sighed. “I deserve that. But we have a new issue.”
Of course.
Billie sat straighter. “What?”
Gabe held up his phone.
“PuckSideDoor is backing off the romance-distraction angle after your video.”
“That’s good.”
“It is. But Ryan’s video is spreading through local accounts, and someone just leaked part of the bridge loan paperwork.”
Billie’s blood chilled.
Mason’s ice pack slid slightly as he sat forward.
Gabe’s face was grim.
“The signature page,” he said. “Your name and Mark’s. No full context.”
Billie closed her eyes.
Not because she was breaking.
Because she was counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then she opened them.
“Fine,” she said.
Mason stared. “Fine?”
“No more shadows.”
She stood.
The exhaustion was still there. The fear too. The anger.
But under it, something older had woken.
Something her father would recognise.
“If Ryan wants the money public,” Billie said, reaching for the cracked marker, “we make the truth louder than the leak.”