Chapter Eighteen Mason Reed #3
Mason knew he saw because Gabe looked away quickly, as if finally understanding that some things should not be turned into strategy.
Good.
Growth all around.
By 9:10, the rink began emptying.
Security had arrived for a walkthrough and would return the next day. Police had taken the report and the videos. Ryan’s posts were documented. The archive corridor was locked with a temporary chain and a sign Billie wrote in thick marker:
NO ACCESS WITHOUT BILLIE OR MARK.
Under it, Max had added, in pencil:
OR ME WHEN I’M OLDER.
Billie erased it.
Then took a picture first.
Mason saw.
He said nothing.
Gabe booked a nearby hotel instead of insisting Mason leave with him. That felt like a truce. Or a pause. Mason would take either.
Sophie gave Mason strict instructions. Elevate. Ice. Anti-inflammatory if approved. No emotional lunging.
Billie repeated the last one with unnecessary emphasis.
Mason saluted.
She did not laugh, but it was close.
The night air outside Harbour Ice Centre was warm and humid, full of distant traffic and the smell of summer pavement. Mason stood near the front doors while Gabe waited for his ride at the curb and Harper locked the office.
Billie stepped out last, keys in hand.
Of course.
She looked exhausted.
Not weak.
Never weak.
But human in a way that made Mason’s chest ache.
“Do you have a ride?” he asked.
She looked at him. “I drove.”
“Are you okay to drive?”
She gave him a look.
He held up one hand. “Not that question.”
“Good.”
“Are you too tired to safely operate your ute?”
Her mouth twitched. “Better. Annoying, but better.”
“And?”
“I’m fine to drive.”
He waited.
She sighed. “I’ll sit for five minutes first.”
“Good.”
They walked to her ute in silence. Not awkward. Not easy either. Something changed between them every few hours now, and neither of them had the time to name each thing before the next crisis arrived.
Billie leaned against the driver’s door and looked back at the rink.
Mason stood a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets, knee aching, heart worse.
“Your dad really built something,” he said.
She nodded.
For a moment, only the city spoke.
Traffic. Heat. The low hum of the rink behind them.
Then Billie said, “When Ryan said I didn’t own it, I wanted to scream.”
Mason looked at her.
Her eyes stayed on the building.
“Legally, I don’t. Not all of it. Not on paper. Mark owns more. Graham’s money matters. Sponsors matter. Families matter. The city matters. But I have given this place so much of myself that sometimes I don’t know where the rink ends and I begin.”
The words hit softly.
Deeply.
Mason stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to be there.
“That’s why it hurt,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“And why I hate that he knew exactly where to press.”
“Billie.”
She looked at him.
He could see the tired now. The cracks. The courage under both.
“You are not the rink because you owe it everything,” he said. “You are the rink because you keep choosing it.”
Her lips parted.
No cameras.
No hallway.
No audience.
No Max yelling from somewhere unlikely.
Just night air, summer heat, and an old cold building glowing behind her.
Billie whispered, “You keep saying things like that.”
“I know.”
“It’s a problem.”
“I know that too.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
The world held.
Mason did not move.
He let her choose.
Billie’s hand lifted.
Then stopped halfway between them.
Her fingers curled, as if she had caught herself reaching.
He could barely breathe.
Then Gabe’s car horn chirped from the curb.
Billie stepped back.
Mason closed his eyes for half a second.
Of course.
Perfect timing from the continent of sensible decisions.
Gabe called, “Mase.”
Mason looked toward him, then back at Billie.
She had recovered her face.
Mostly.
“Go,” she said.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“This is my rink.”
His mouth curved faintly. “So yes.”
She rolled her eyes.
But softly.
He walked toward Gabe’s car with his knee aching and his chest worse.
At the curb, Gabe studied him. “You’re in trouble.”
Mason looked back.
Billie was still by her ute, watching the rink, one hand on the door, her face lit by the sign her father had left behind.
“Yeah,” Mason said.
Gabe sighed. “Career trouble?”
Mason watched Billie climb into the ute, pause, and sit like she had promised.
“No,” he said. “The other kind.”
Gabe followed his gaze.
For once, he did not argue.
Mason’s phone buzzed.
He expected Gabe, Harper, maybe another Ryan mess.
Instead, it was Billie.
BILLIE: You are not allowed to look fond in car parks.
Mason smiled down at the screen.
Then typed back.
MASON: Too late, Your Majesty.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
BILLIE: Ice your knee.
He laughed quietly.
MASON: Yes, boss.
He looked up.
Across the car park, Billie was smiling at her phone.
Not much.
Enough.
Then another message came through.
BILLIE: And Mason?
His heart stopped being sensible.
MASON: Yeah?
BILLIE: Thank you for standing beside me.
Mason stared at the words until they blurred slightly.
Then he typed the only honest thing he could.
MASON: Always.
This time, she did not correct him.