Chapter Nineteen Billie Hartley
The Word Always Had Terrible Timing
Billie Hartley woke Wednesday morning with three missed calls, seventeen unread messages, and the word always sitting in her chest like Mason Reed had put it there with both hands.
Which was rude.
Deeply rude.
A man had no business texting always at 9:37 p.m. in a car park, especially when he had a North American agent, an unstable knee, a comeback plan, and a life that still had departure gates written all over it.
Always was a dangerous word.
Always implied roots.
Always implied choice.
Always implied a man might still mean it after the adrenaline faded, the fundraiser ended, the internet moved on, and the next team called with better ice, better money, and a cleaner path back to who he used to be.
Billie did not trust always from temporary men.
She also had not corrected him.
This concerned her.
She sat on the edge of her bed, hair a disaster, phone in hand, and stared at the last two messages like they had committed a crime.
BILLIE: Thank you for standing beside me.
MASON: Always.
No joke after it.
No correction.
No safer version.
Just always.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
She should send something brisk.
Something professional.
Something like: Friday logistics begin at nine. Wear the blue quarter-zip. Do not antagonise Luca or your agent.
Yes.
Good.
That would restore order.
She typed:
Friday logistics begin at nine.
Deleted it.
Typed:
Ice your knee?
Deleted that too, because it sounded like care.
Which it was.
Which was the problem.
She finally typed:
Be on time.
Perfect.
Cold. Efficient. Non-romantic.
Mason replied in eleven seconds.
MASON: Good morning to you too, Your Majesty.
Billie stared.
Absolutely not.
BILLIE: Do not start.
MASON: Too late?
BILLIE: Your question mark does not make that less illegal.
MASON: Understood. I will be on time, respectful, and question-mark-free.
BILLIE: And iced.
MASON: My knee or my personality?
Billie pressed her lips together so she would not smile at her own phone like a woman in a romance segment.
BILLIE: Both.
MASON: Yes, boss.
The words should have annoyed her.
They did annoy her.
They also did something else.
She dropped the phone onto the bed and stood too fast.
“Absolutely not,” she told the room.
The room did not argue, because unlike most people in her life, it respected boundaries.
Harbour Ice Centre did not.
By 7:48 a.m., the rink was already awake, humming with the particular Wednesday-before-disaster energy of a building preparing to host a sold-out charity event, a sponsor dinner, a rival captain, a banned former employee, two security guards, one North American agent, one increasingly emotionally hazardous import, and at least one under-twelve who considered haze a civil right.
Billie arrived with wet hair, a tote full of printed access lists, and a personal vow to be so operational today that no one could see the word always glowing in her rib cage.
Harper saw it immediately.
“You look weird,” Harper said from behind the front desk.
Billie stopped. “Good morning to you too.”
“That was a diagnostic observation.”
“Use softer science.”
“You look emotionally moisturised.”
“I hate that more.”
Evie leaned over the skate counter, already wearing an Ice Queen hoodie sample despite the fact Billie had not approved staff modelling. “She texted Mason.”
Billie’s head turned. “How would you possibly know that?”
Evie pointed at Billie’s face. “You have the expression of a woman who received punctuation.”
Harper gasped. “Was there punctuation?”
“No,” Billie said.
“Worse,” Evie whispered. “A word.”
Billie set the tote on the desk. “I am going to assign both of you to wristband sorting in silence.”
Harper’s eyes widened. “It was a word.”
Evie slapped the counter lightly. “I knew it.”
Billie pointed at the hoodie. “Take that off.”
Evie looked down. “Why? It’s official.”
“It is a sample.”
“I am sampling.”
“You are strutting.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Stop stealing Harper’s line.”
Harper lifted a finger. “It belongs to the group now.”
Billie looked at the ceiling.
The compressor rattled.
Same, she thought.
The front doors opened.
Mason walked in.
Of course he walked in at the exact moment Billie was mentally comparing herself to failing machinery.
He wore the blue Blades quarter-zip, dark track pants, and the kind of morning face that suggested he had slept badly and still somehow been unfairly assembled by the universe.
His hair was damp. His knee brace was visible beneath the fabric.
He carried two coffees, a paper bag, and a careful smile.
A careful smile was worse than a careless one.
Careless could be blamed on habit.
Careful meant he knew the damage radius.
Billie straightened. “You’re early.”
“I was told to be on time.”
“Early is not on time.”
“It’s pre-time.”
“No.”
He held out a coffee. “Peace offering.”
“You cannot keep bribing me with coffee.”
“I can stop.”
She took it instantly.
Harper made a noise.
Evie whispered, “The monarchy accepts tribute.”
Billie ignored them both and eyed the paper bag. “What’s that?”
“Breakfast.”
“I had breakfast.”
Mason looked at her.
Billie looked back.
He said nothing.
She hated that.
“Coffee counts in emergencies,” she said.
“This is not an emergency yet.”
“Optimistic.”
He opened the bag and set it on the counter. “Banana bread. Two muffins. Egg sandwich. Something Evie said sounded like food when I texted her.”
Billie turned slowly toward Evie.
Evie had the good sense to look only mildly guilty. “He asked what you would actually eat before a crisis. I said carbs with structure.”
“Evie.”
“What? I protected you from tiny leaves.”
Gabe Mercer’s voice came from the lobby doorway. “A valid concern.”
Billie blinked.
Gabe stood near the entrance in jeans, a dark jacket, and a posture that looked almost human. No suitcase today. No tailored menace. He held his own coffee and a paper folder.
Mason looked back. “You’re early too.”
Gabe shrugged. “I was told this building punishes lateness.”
Billie accepted this with a nod. “It does.”
Harper’s brows climbed. “Is Gabe on the redemption schedule now?”
Gabe looked at her. “Do I get a printed copy?”
“No,” Billie said.
“Yes,” Harper said.
Billie glared.
Harper smiled sweetly. “For operational clarity.”
Gabe looked alarmingly amused.
Billie did not like this. Airport Energy was supposed to remain on probation, not develop rapport with the staff.
She took a sip of coffee.
Good again.
Terrible.
Mason watched her take the sip, then looked away before she could accuse him of looking fond.
That was somehow worse.
Restraint from Mason Reed should be registered as a public hazard.
“Meeting room,” Billie said. “Nine minutes.”
“It’s 7:56,” Harper said.
“Then you have eight.”
“That’s not how time works.”
“It does here.”
By 8:04, the core team had gathered around the meeting room table: Billie, Mark, Harper, Sophie, Mason, Gabe, Alby, Theo, Nate, Evie, and, against all reasonable policy, Max, who arrived with his mother Priya and a signed note allowing him to be present for “limited youth ambassador duties.”
Billie read the note twice.
Max sat very straight. “It has adult consent.”
Priya, a tired, kind-eyed woman with the calm of someone raising a brilliant menace, smiled apologetically. “He argued that because his quote is on the donor cards, he has responsibilities.”
“He is eleven,” Billie said.
“Eleven and three-quarters,” Max corrected.
Priya sighed. “Yes. That was in the argument.”
Billie looked at Max. “You may stay for the public-facing portion only. No security details. No Ryan details. No adult drama.”
Max nodded. “Understood.”
Nate leaned over. “Adult drama is overrated.”
Billie pointed at him. “You are adult drama.”
“Harsh but fair.”
Theo moved the coffee away from Nate’s elbow before he knocked it over. “Focus.”
Billie started the meeting before the room could develop a second personality.
“Friday structure is now final unless the building catches fire.”
Alby grunted. “Don’t say that in a rink.”
“Noted. Friday structure is now final unless an unspecified non-fire emergency occurs.”
Gabe lifted his pen. “That wording seems worse.”
Billie ignored him.
She turned to the whiteboard, now cleaned and rewritten in fresh marker because Mason had arrived with a set of black, blue, and red markers in his bag and wordlessly placed them on the table like stationery tribute.
She had not reacted.
Externally.
The board read:
FRIDAY PRIORITIES
Safety
Junior Gear Fund
Sponsor Match
Hockey Respect
Media Control
No One Lets Ryan Become the Story
Mason Keeps Knee Functional
Nate Does Not Touch Official Account
Nate squinted. “Why am I below Mason’s knee?”
“Seniority,” Billie said.
“My content has raised money.”
“So has Mason’s public humiliation.”
Mason lifted his coffee. “Proud to serve.”
Max raised his hand. “Where am I on the list?”
“Under Youth Ambassador.”
“Which number?”
“Unofficial.”
“Can I be 8B?”
Nate put a hand over his heart. “I would share a number with you.”
Billie looked at Priya. “Do you see why this is dangerous?”
Priya nodded solemnly. “Every day.”
Harper reviewed media zones. Mark reviewed sponsor timing.
Gabe, annoyingly useful, reviewed external media risk and confirmed he had sent a correction request to PuckSideDoor for the temporary-source framing.
Sophie reviewed player medical boundaries.
Alby reviewed the shootout format with the energy of a man trying to smuggle actual hockey back into a marketing event.
Then Billie reached the hardest part.
“Financial transparency.”
The room settled.
She looked at the printed accountant letter on the table. “The confirmation is posted. We will also have printed copies available for any donor, sponsor, or media request. Mark and I will answer questions together. No one else comments on the bridge loan, the leak, or Ryan’s posts.”
Evie’s jaw tightened.
Billie saw.
“I mean publicly,” Billie added.
Evie looked down.
Progress.
Maybe.
Max raised his hand.
Billie looked at him. “No.”
“You don’t know what I’m asking.”
“Is it about the bridge loan?”
“No.”