Chapter Eighteen Mason Reed
The Truth Needed Better Lighting
Mason Reed had played in arenas where twenty thousand people booed like they had been personally wronged by his existence, but he had never seen anything as terrifying as Billie Hartley picking up a cracked marker and deciding to tell the truth louder.
She did not look panicked.
That was the terrifying part.
She looked focused.
The kind of focused that made weak men reconsider their hobbies, strong men check exits, and one injured hockey import sit very still with an ice pack on his knee and the sudden understanding that he was watching a woman stop defending herself and start taking ground.
“No more shadows,” Billie said.
Gabe Mercer stood in the meeting room doorway, phone still in hand, looking like he had brought bad news into the wrong kingdom.
Harper appeared behind him two seconds later, breathless. “I saw.”
Billie looked at her. “Signature page?”
Harper nodded. “Partial leak. Your name. Mark’s name. Loan amount visible, but not repayment status, purpose, restricted-fund separation, or timing.”
Mason’s jaw tightened. “So it looks bad.”
“It looks like bait,” Harper said. “Bad is what happens if we let someone else frame it.”
Billie uncapped the marker.
The cap was already cracked from earlier. It made a sad little sound.
She glared at it.
“I need better markers.”
Mason lifted one finger. “I did offer.”
Her eyes cut to him. “This is not the moment to become stationery romantic.”
Gabe blinked. “Stationery romantic?”
Harper whispered, “Long story.”
Mason lowered his hand. “Noted.”
Billie turned to the whiteboard and wrote:
brIDGE LOAN TRUTH
Under it:
What happened. Why. Current status. Junior fund separate. Receipts. No drama. No apology for protecting programs.
Her handwriting remained sharp and steady.
Mason knew enough now to understand that steady did not mean painless.
Evie stepped into the doorway from the skate room, face scrubbed clean but eyes still red. She took one look at the whiteboard and folded her arms.
“You’re telling everyone?”
Billie paused.
Only for a second.
“Yes.”
Evie nodded. “Good.”
That one word changed Billie’s face more than any comfort could have.
Mason watched it land.
Permission, maybe.
Not that Billie needed it.
But maybe she had needed not to be alone in it.
Mark Delaney came in next, phone pressed to his ear. “Accountant is pulling the confirmation. He can send a letter tonight, formal version tomorrow.”
Billie said, “I need tonight.”
“He knows.”
“Good.”
Mark looked at the whiteboard. His shoulders dropped. “We should have disclosed the bridge loan earlier.”
“No,” Billie said. “We should not have needed to disclose a temporary operational loan because a fired former employee decided to cosplay as a whistleblower.”
Mason nearly smiled.
Gabe did smile.
Bad decision.
Billie saw it.
“You,” she said.
Gabe straightened. “Me?”
“Yes. Agent. Media man. Person responsible for temporary with a finance degree.”
Harper made a tiny choking noise.
Gabe sighed. “Fair.”
“What would your worst client do right now?”
Mason looked at her. “Why would you ask him that?”
“Because we need to avoid it.”
Gabe considered. “Worst client? Issue a defensive statement, deny without context, blame the leak, threaten legal action, post something emotional from notes app, then follow it up with a gym selfie.”
Nate’s voice floated from the hallway. “I feel attacked.”
Theo said, “You should.”
Billie pointed toward the door. “If you are listening, be useful.”
Nate appeared instantly. “Finally.”
“I said useful.”
“I can adapt.”
Theo entered behind him. “We’ll help.”
Billie looked at both of them. “Good. Nate, find Coach Alby and make sure no players post anything about the leak.”
Nate blinked. “You trust me to stop posting?”
“No. I trust Theo to stop you, and you know where everyone is.”
Nate considered. “Accurate and insulting.”
Theo nodded. “On it.”
They left.
Billie turned back to Gabe. “Best client?”
Gabe leaned against the doorframe, now fully in work mode. “Best client would get ahead with facts, third-party confirmation, clean emotion, no overexplaining. Make the leak look cruel and incomplete without saying cruel and incomplete.”
Harper was typing. “That’s useful.”
Gabe looked mildly pleased. “I have a career.”
“Debatable today,” Billie said.
Mason hid a smile.
Gabe did not.
He deserved it.
Billie wrote:
Clean facts. Third-party confirmation. Human reason. No overexplain. No Ryan name unless necessary.
Mason pushed up carefully from his chair.
Sophie’s voice from the hallway said, “Why are you standing?”
He froze.
Billie looked past him. “Sophie, how do you do that?”
Sophie appeared in the doorway with her tablet. “Medical instinct.”
“Terrifying,” Gabe muttered.
“Correct,” Sophie said.
Mason held up the ice pack. “I’m standing gently.”
“That is not a category.”
“I want to help.”
Sophie looked at Billie.
Billie looked at Mason.
The room did that annoying thing now where everyone seemed to understand more than Mason had said.
He hated and liked it.
Billie’s gaze dropped to his knee. “You can help seated.”
“I don’t need to sit.”
Sophie said, “You do.”
Billie said, “You do.”
Gabe said, “You do.”
Mason turned to him. “You lost voting rights when you entered the rink with airport energy.”
Evie snorted.
Gabe looked at Billie. “Airport energy?”
Billie picked up her phone. “We can define that later.”
Mason sat.
Because apparently he was evolving.
Slowly.
Painfully.
With witnesses.
Billie handed him a printed copy of the leaked signature page that Harper had already pulled from the public post.
“Look at this,” she said.
Mason took it.
His eyes moved over the cropped image.
The signature page showed Billie Hartley and Mark Delaney as co-signers on a short-term commercial bridge loan.
The amount was visible. Enough to make the public gasp if they had never priced rink repairs, insurance, and utilities.
Not enough to look scandalous to anyone who understood how thin community sports margins could be.
But it had no context.
No purpose.
No repayment schedule.
No separation from the junior gear fund.
Just Billie’s name and a number.
A number strangers could turn into motive.
Mason’s stomach twisted.
He looked up. “This is meant to make people think you need the fundraiser to pay it.”
“Yes.”
“But the junior fund is separate.”
“Yes.”
“And the loan predates the event.”
“Yes.”
“And it protected programs.”
“Yes.”
He looked back at the paper. “Then we say that.”
Billie’s expression softened by a fraction. “We?”
The word slipped out before he realised it.
We.
Not you.
Not the rink.
We.
Gabe’s eyes sharpened.
Harper’s fingers paused.
Evie looked at Mason like she had opinions and was storing them for later.
Mason kept his gaze on Billie.
“If you’ll let me,” he said.
Her face changed.
Not enough for most people.
Enough for him.
“You are not the centre of this statement,” she said.
“I know.”
“You are not defending me.”
“I know.”
“You are not making a speech about how much you respect me.”
He hesitated.
Her eyes narrowed.
He corrected, “Not publicly.”
Harper coughed.
Evie muttered, “Disturbingly attractive.”
Billie shut her eyes. “Evie.”
“What? I said it quietly.”
“No, you did not,” Gabe said.
Evie pointed at him. “You are on probation.”
Gabe blinked. “With whom?”
“The rink.”
Mason looked at Gabe. “It’s real.”
Gabe sighed. “I’m learning.”
Billie opened her eyes. “Mason, your role is simple. If asked publicly, you say: I trust Harbour Ice’s financial safeguards, Friday is about the junior gear fund, and I am focused on raising money and respecting the community.”
Mason nodded. “Good.”
“No adjectives.”
“Respectful is an adjective.”
“That one is pre-approved.”
“Can I say transparent?”
“Only if Harper vets tone.”
Harper nodded solemnly. “Transparency can sound defensive if wielded by men.”
Gabe opened his mouth.
Harper pointed. “Do not debate me today.”
He closed it.
Smart man.
Billie turned to the whiteboard again. “We need three pieces tonight. One, accountant confirmation, even if informal. Two, public written post from the Blades. Three, short follow-up video from Mark and me, no emotion unless controlled.”
Mason hated that last phrase.
Controlled emotion.
Billie kept offering the world measured pieces of herself so nobody could accuse her of bleeding messily.
“What?” she asked.
He realised he was staring.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
He looked at the paper again. “I hate that you have to perform not performing.”
The room went quiet.
Billie’s face went very still.
For half a second, Mason thought he had gone too far.
Then she looked down.
Not away exactly.
Down.
Like the sentence had found a place in her she did not want everyone seeing.
Gabe cleared his throat, softer than before. “That is what they’re forcing, yes.”
Billie’s mouth tightened. “Then we do it well.”
Mason wanted to argue.
Not because she was wrong.
Because she was tired.
Because she had already stood in front of a camera and said the truth. Because she had already watched her father’s photo cracked and marked. Because her bridge loan had become content. Because she had spent the whole day proving, explaining, documenting, protecting, clarifying, holding.
And still, the answer was do it well.
He understood it.
That scared him.
Sophie stepped in. “Billie, you need food.”
Billie blinked. “I need what?”
“Food.”
“I had coffee.”
“That is not food.”
“I had part of Mason’s terrible protein bar.”
Mason said, “It was vintage.”
Sophie looked at him.
He sat straighter. “Terrible. Yes.”
Sophie turned back to Billie. “Eat something before filming again.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Make time.”
Billie looked ready to object.
Evie crossed her arms. “I’ll get food.”
“No,” Billie said.
Evie stared. “No?”
“I mean, yes. Sorry.” Billie rubbed at her forehead. “Yes. Please. Whatever is fast.”
Evie softened. “Done.”
Gabe reached for his phone. “I can order something.”
Everyone looked at him.
He paused. “What?”
Evie narrowed her eyes. “Can you order like a normal person, or will tiny leaves arrive on a square plate?”