Chapter Eighteen Mason Reed #2
Gabe looked offended. “I know food.”
Mason laughed.
Billie gave him a look.
He tried to stop.
Failed.
Gabe sighed. “Fine. I will not order tiny leaves.”
Evie pointed at him. “Chips. Sandwiches. Actual human portions.”
“Yes.”
“And something sweet.”
“Obviously,” Gabe said.
Evie’s eyes narrowed further. “That was unexpectedly correct.”
“I contain multitudes,” Gabe said.
Harper looked up. “That’s my line.”
The absurdity cracked the room open just enough to breathe.
For twelve minutes, they worked and waited for food.
Harper drafted the written post. Mark chased the accountant.
Gabe ordered actual human portions under Evie’s supervision.
Sophie rewrapped Mason’s knee and threatened to physically remove him from the meeting room if he stood too fast again.
Nate returned to announce all players had been placed under a no-post order, except one who asked if liking Max’s quote counted as posting.
Theo confirmed the player had been educated.
Billie kept moving between whiteboard, phone, and table.
But slower now.
Slightly.
Mason noticed.
He also noticed when she stood too long without eating and the edge of her focus started to fray.
He opened one of the sandwiches when the food arrived, put it on a napkin, and slid it across the table without comment.
Billie looked at it.
Then at him.
“Did you just feed me silently?”
“I was trying to avoid stationery romance.”
Her mouth twitched.
Gabe, eating chips from a paper carton near the door, said, “I still don’t understand that phrase.”
Evie said, “That’s because your heart is in a briefcase.”
Gabe nodded slowly. “I see.”
Billie picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
Mason looked away so she would not feel watched.
He could do that.
Give space.
Let her eat.
Let her breathe.
Let her be a person, not the centre of a crisis.
His phone buzzed.
He checked it.
Unknown number.
For a horrible second, he thought it was Ryan.
It was not.
It was Gabe’s assistant.
TARA: Mason, this is Tara. Gabe told me not to contact you directly, but I need to tell you something.
The media note came from me, but I only sent Gabe’s approved language.
PuckSideDoor asked for more. I said no. Someone else forwarded them the phrase “rink-side romance distraction.” It was not in our note.
Mason stared at the message.
Then read it again.
Billie noticed his face. “What?”
He held up the phone.
She read it.
Her eyes sharpened. “Someone else.”
Gabe stepped closer. “What happened?”
Mason handed him the phone.
Gabe’s face changed as he read.
“Tara wouldn’t lie about this,” Gabe said. “She’s terrified of me.”
Evie muttered, “Healthy workplace.”
Gabe ignored her. “That phrase did not come from my office.”
Harper’s fingers started moving. “Rink-side romance distraction was in the PuckSideDoor headline.”
Mason nodded. “And the anonymous text said don’t waste the chemistry.”
Billie’s eyes narrowed. “Ryan’s attacks are local and personal. This phrasing is media-aware.”
Harper looked up. “Could be SportNow.”
Gabe shook his head. “Maybe, but PuckSideDoor would be more likely to listen to someone in hockey media, agent circles, or a team source.”
Mason thought of Luca.
Then dismissed it.
Luca liked being the face of trouble, not an anonymous source in North American gossip.
Unless he had someone around him.
Kings staff.
Sponsor staff.
Ryan.
Too many threads.
Billie wrote on the whiteboard:
UNKNOWN SOURCE: “Romance distraction” “Don’t waste chemistry” Forwarded to PuckSideDoor? Not Gabe note. Media-aware.
The board was becoming a map of all the ways people were trying to use them.
Mason hated it.
Billie turned back. “We still post the financial safeguards first. This can wait.”
“It connects,” Mason said.
“Yes. But the money leak is current. The source trail is background. We prioritise.”
He nodded.
She was right.
Again.
The accountant confirmation arrived at 8:04.
Mark read it aloud.
Harbour Ice Centre confirms that the upcoming Charity Shootout proceeds and Vale Community Partners match are restricted to the Harbour Ice Junior Gear Fund.
These proceeds are held separately from general operating expenses and will not be used for prior bridge financing or general rink debt.
A public post-event use-of-funds summary will be made available.
Clean.
Clear.
Useful.
Billie approved the written post at 8:07.
Harper posted it at 8:09.
At 8:10, comments began.
Thank you for transparency. Donated. My kid got loaner gear here last year. Ignore the drama. Protect the rink.
At 8:14, Ryan commented from his account.
Sure. Now show the full loan.
Harper hid it.
Billie did not react.
At 8:16, Graham Vale reposted the accountant confirmation.
At 8:19, the morning show host Kara Finch commented:
Community sport often survives because people step up before anyone applauds them for it. Donated.
Billie read that one twice.
Mason pretended not to see.
At 8:22, donations crossed sixteen thousand.
No one screamed this time.
They were too tired.
But Evie made a sound that was half sob, half laugh, and Max, who had been returned by his mother and was now under strict lobby supervision, shouted from downstairs, “DOES THIS MEAN THE brIDGE IS FIXED?”
Nate yelled back, “YES, ARCHITECTURALLY!”
Billie sat down.
Just sat.
Slowly.
Like her body had finally noticed the day.
Mason looked at Sophie.
Sophie nodded once, subtle.
Let her.
So he did.
No questions.
No are you okay.
No operational.
Just quiet.
Billie stared at the whiteboard.
Her voice was low when she spoke. “Dad would hate this.”
The room stilled.
Evie looked at her.
Billie did not seem to notice she had said it aloud.
“He hated asking for money,” she continued. “Loved giving things away. Free skate passes. Waived rental fees. Paid for a kid’s stick out of the till once and told me not to tell Mum.”
Evie smiled through tears. “He was terrible at secrets.”
“The worst.”
Billie’s mouth curved faintly, then faded. “He would hate seeing the rink’s hard parts spread online.”
Mason’s voice came before he could overthink it. “He’d love seeing how many people showed up for it.”
Billie looked at him.
The room disappeared again.
Not fully.
But enough.
Her eyes softened with grief and something that looked dangerously like hope.
“You didn’t know him,” she said.
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
Mason swallowed.
“Because I’ve seen what he built.”
Billie’s breath caught.
Evie cried first.
Loudly.
“Oh, come on,” she said, wiping her face with both hands. “That was unnecessary.”
Harper sniffed. “Rude, honestly.”
Gabe stared at the ceiling like he was trying not to feel anything without a contract addendum.
Sophie handed Evie a tissue.
Billie looked away, but not before Mason saw the shine in her eyes.
He did not apologise.
He was learning.
The second video took three tries.
The first was too stiff.
The second had Mark saying “financial instrument,” which Billie stopped immediately because, in her words, “we are not trying to sedate donors.”
The third worked.
Billie and Mark stood in front of the rink logo.
Billie handled the facts. Mark confirmed the restricted fund.
Billie said, “Hard seasons are not scandals. Community support is not shame.” Mark said the bridge loan was separate, current, and not tied to fundraiser proceeds.
Billie ended with, “Friday stays about the kids.”
Harper posted it at 8:43.
The response was not explosive.
It was better.
Steady.
People donated.
Families commented.
Local coaches shared it.
A girls’ hockey account wrote: This is why community rinks matter.
Mason watched Billie read that one.
Her hand shook.
Just once.
Then she put the phone down and stood.
“Enough for tonight,” she said.
Everyone stared.
Evie’s mouth fell open. “Did you just stop work voluntarily?”
Billie looked annoyed. “I’m capable of stopping.”
Harper coughed.
Mark looked at the floor.
Sophie said, “Debatable.”
Nate shouted from downstairs, “False!”
Billie closed her eyes. “I hate this building.”
Mason smiled.
She opened one eye. “Do not look fond.”
“Too late.”
Her face softened before she could stop it.
Gabe saw.