Chapter Twenty Mason Reed #2
Her gaze dropped to his knee. “Did it hurt when you lunged?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flashed up.
Mason added, “And I stopped before it got worse.”
“Because I shoved you.”
“Because you reminded me who I was trying to be.”
Billie went still.
He had not meant to say it like that.
Actually, no.
He had.
He was tired of accidentally being honest and pretending surprise.
Billie Hartley deserved deliberate honesty.
Even if it scared him.
Especially then.
Her voice went softer. “Who are you trying to be?”
The question landed.
Mason looked at his hands.
He had a hundred old answers.
A comeback. A reliable forward. A player with value. A man with another season in him. A body that still worked. A story not done yet.
All true.
Not the whole truth.
“Someone who stays beside,” he said.
Billie’s breath caught.
There it was.
Between them again.
Beside.
Always.
Dangerous words, getting comfortable.
Harper’s voice cut across the room. “I am pretending not to hear emotionally significant sentences.”
Billie closed her eyes. “Harper.”
“I said pretending.”
Gabe, focused on the laptop, muttered, “This building has no privacy.”
Billie looked at Mason. “We are not having this conversation in a room full of people who cannot mind their business.”
Mason smiled. “So we are having it?”
Her eyes narrowed.
Oops.
Growth was not linear.
“Rest your knee,” she said.
“Yes, boss.”
She turned away, but he saw the colour touch her cheeks.
He would take that as a win and tell no one, because he valued survival.
The legacy statement took shape over the next two hours.
It was not a denial.
It was a story.
Tom Hartley, former competitive-skating dad turned rink builder, had believed Harbour Ice Centre belonged to the people who showed up for it.
He had considered investment, like many community rinks had to, but refused any ownership arrangement that tied programming decisions to outside control or naming rights.
Vale Community Partners remained a sponsor, not an owner.
Friday’s fundraiser remained restricted to junior gear.
The match honoured the community, not a hidden sale.
Graham Vale agreed to post a confirmation.
That surprised everyone except maybe Billie, who had apparently expected Graham to choose the least legally embarrassing path.
Graham’s statement was simple.
Vale Community Partners has no ownership interest in Harbour Ice Centre. A prior draft investment discussion was never executed. We are proud to support Friday’s Junior Gear Fund fundraiser as a sponsor and match partner, with no control rights over rink operations.
Billie read it three times.
Then said, “Good.”
Gabe looked at her. “You understand that is a strong sponsor statement.”
“I understand it is accurate.”
“Both can be true.”
“I am aware.”
He nodded, wisely not pushing.
Harper’s version of the heart post was better.
At 10:18 p.m., after edits, food, two more ice pack rotations, and one Nate interruption asking whether legacy had a mascot, the Blades account posted:
Years ago, Harbour Ice Centre considered outside investment, like many community rinks fighting to keep ice affordable and accessible.
Tom Hartley said no to any deal that would trade the rink’s independence, name, or programming control.
He believed this place belonged to the kids, families, volunteers, players, staff, and stubborn hockey people who kept choosing it.
Friday’s Charity Shootout honours that same belief.
Vale Community Partners is a sponsor and match partner, not an owner. Every dollar raised through Friday’s fundraiser is restricted to the Harbour Ice Junior Gear Fund.
Tom chose independence. We choose community. See you Friday.
The post included three photos.
Tom Hartley tying a tiny girl’s rental skates.
Tom at the first girls’ skate day, the undamaged version from an old scan Evie found.
Tom standing outside Harbour Ice Centre with Billie as a teenager, both holding coffees, both looking annoyed at whoever took the photo.
Mason stared at that last one longest.
Young Billie looked tired, guarded, fierce.
Tom looked proud.
So proud Mason’s throat tightened.
The post went live.
The rink waited.
There was no explosion at first.
Just comments.
Slow.
Then faster.
Then everywhere.
My daughter learned to skate here. Donated. Tom gave my son used pads and told him to return them when he outgrew them. Donated. No sponsor should own community ice. Donated. This is bigger than hockey. Protect Harbour Ice. See you Friday.
Graham posted his confirmation two minutes later.
Kara Finch shared it with: This is how you answer rumours with receipts and heart.
SportNow posted a cleaner article within ten minutes.
PuckSideDoor ignored it, which Mason considered a blessing.
Ryan posted once.
Just one line.
Ask them what else they’re hiding.
The replies turned on him so fast even Nate looked impressed.
Mate, log off. You are embarrassing yourself. Kids need gear. What are YOU doing? The rink brought receipts. Donate or hush.
Max’s mum posted a donation receipt and wrote: Some adults need consequences and bedtime.
Max was clearly hereditary.
By 10:41, donations crossed twenty thousand.
The room went quiet.
Harper whispered, “Twenty.”
Evie covered her mouth.
Mark sat down hard.
Alby turned away, but Mason saw him wipe one hand over his eyes.
Billie stood in the centre of the meeting room, phone in hand, whiteboard behind her, Tom Hartley’s name glowing from the post on every screen.
She did not cry.
She did not cheer.
She looked like a woman who had been carrying a cold room in a hot city for years and had just discovered other people had hands too.
Mason wanted to go to her.
He stayed seated.
Then Billie looked at him.
Across the room.
Through everyone.
At him.
The look said too many things for public translation.
Thank you.
I am terrified.
Do not make me regret trusting you.
Please understand what this costs.
He nodded once.
I do.
Or at least, I’m trying.
Her mouth curved.
Small.
Real.
Then Nate ruined it.
“Does this mean the bridge is still architecturally stable?”
Billie laughed.
Not a tiny almost-laugh.
A real one.
Tired and bright and sudden.
The whole room froze to appreciate it, which made her stop immediately.
“Do not make that face,” she snapped.
Nate put both hands over his heart. “Joy witnessed again.”
Theo nodded solemnly. “Historic.”
Evie whispered, “Tom would be smug.”
Billie’s smile faded into something softer. “Yes. He would.”
At 11:12 p.m., Billie finally declared the rink closed.
People began leaving in slow, exhausted waves.
Harper hugged Billie. Evie hugged her longer.
Mark apologised again, and Billie said, “Tomorrow,” which was not forgiveness but not rejection either.
Alby told her, “Good work,” then left like the words had cost him money.
Nate saluted the whiteboard. Theo made him erase one inappropriate doodle first. Sophie gave Mason a final knee warning, then gave Billie one look that seemed to cover every emotional topic in the building without using a single word.
Gabe lingered near the lobby with his phone in hand, watching Mason.
Mason braced himself.
Gabe approached and sat in the chair beside him.
That alone was new.
Gabe Mercer did not sit when he could loom.
“You really care about this place,” Gabe said.
Mason looked toward Billie, who was at the front desk locking the cash drawer with Evie.
“Yes.”
“Not just her.”
Mason’s mouth tightened. “No.”
Gabe nodded. “But also her.”
Mason did not answer.
He did not have to.
Gabe sighed. “There is still a path back. Scouts are watching now, more than before. If Friday goes well, if your knee holds, this could actually help you.”
Mason stared at him. “You are incredible.”
“I said actually because I’m surprised, not because I planned it.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m trying honesty. Everyone here seems alarmingly fond of it.”
Mason looked back at the rink.
The ice glowed under low lights.
Billie moved near the boards, checking one last gate.
Of course.
Gabe followed his gaze. “Do not promise her something you haven’t decided.”
Mason’s jaw tightened.
Gabe added, “And do not leave without telling her if you decide.”
Mason looked at him.
Gabe’s face was serious.
Not strategic.
Just tired and, maybe, trying.
“That is my new representation advice,” Gabe said. “Radical clarity. Apparently.”
Mason nodded slowly. “I can do that.”
“Can you?”
He deserved that.
“I have to.”
Gabe stood. “Good. Because she looks like a woman who can survive a lot, but that does not mean you should become one more thing she has to.”
The sentence landed hard.
Mason watched Gabe walk toward the front doors.
Maybe the man really was evolving.
Annoying.
By the time Mason made it to the boards, Billie was tightening a latch that did not need tightening.
“You’re supposed to be leaving,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I was delayed by personal growth from my agent.”
“That sounds painful.”
“Deeply.”
“Will he recover?”
“Unclear.”
She smiled faintly.
Mason leaned against the boards, careful with his knee. “Twenty thousand before the match.”
Billie looked across the ice. “I know.”
“That’s huge.”
“I know.”
“You did that.”
Her eyes cut to him. “We did that.”
We.
There it was.
Mason tried not to react too visibly.
Failed, probably.
Billie saw. “Do not look touched.”
“I’m incredibly touched.”
“I said do not.”
“Too late.”