Chapter Twenty Mason Reed #3
She rolled her eyes.
But softly now.
Always softly when she was tired.
He should let her go home.
He should.
Instead, because his survival instinct had become unreliable at Harbour Ice Centre, he said, “Did your dad really hate asking for money?”
Billie looked back at the ice. “More than anything. He said if people needed something, you gave it. If you needed something, you found a way not to.”
“Sounds familiar.”
She shot him a look.
He lifted both hands. “Observation, not psychoanalysis.”
“You have been spending too much time with Sophie.”
“Everyone here is terrifying.”
“Good.”
Billie’s gaze returned to the ice.
After a moment, she said, “He was wrong about that.”
Mason stayed quiet.
“Not about giving,” she said. “About needing. He was wrong that needing makes you a burden.”
Her voice was soft.
Not fragile.
Something braver.
“I think I learned the wrong lesson from him for a while.”
Mason’s chest tightened.
“What lesson do you want instead?”
Billie looked at him.
No joke.
No armour.
No public version.
“I don’t know yet.”
The honesty felt like trust.
Mason nodded. “That’s okay.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds inefficient.”
“Probably.”
Her laugh was quiet.
The rink lights hummed above them.
Outside, Sydney summer pressed against the building. Inside, the cold held because stubborn people kept choosing it.
Billie’s hand rested on the boards.
Mason’s was a few inches away.
He noticed.
She noticed him noticing.
Neither moved.
The air changed.
Slowly this time.
Not with chaos. Not with viral comments. Not with interruption or collision or accidental chest contact.
With choice.
Billie looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
“Mason.”
His name sounded like a warning again.
But softer.
“I know,” he said.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep knowing this is a bad idea and wanting to make it careful anyway.”
Her breath caught.
Careful.
Not safe exactly.
Not guaranteed.
Careful.
Billie looked away, and for one terrible second he thought she would step back into operational distance.
Instead, she slid her hand across the boards.
One inch.
Not touching his.
But closer.
His heart punched hard.
He did not move.
Barely breathed.
Billie’s fingers flexed.
“I am not good at this,” she said.
“Neither am I.”
“You seem very practiced.”
“At flirting, maybe.”
Her mouth twitched.
“At this?” he said. “No.”
She looked at him then.
The space between their hands disappeared when she moved the last inch.
Her fingers brushed his.
Light.
Deliberate.
Mason’s whole body went still.
She looked startled by her own courage, but she did not pull away.
So he turned his hand slowly, giving her every chance to retreat, and linked his fingers with hers.
Her palm was warm.
Strong.
Real.
No cameras.
No captions.
No one yelling chest contact.
Just Billie choosing one small point of contact in the empty rink after the longest day either of them had survived in a while.
Mason’s throat tightened.
“I’m not asking for always tonight,” she whispered.
He looked at her.
The word sat between them.
Always.
His fault.
His hope.
His risk.
“I know,” he said.
Her fingers tightened around his.
“But maybe,” she said, barely audible, “don’t stop meaning it yet.”
Mason could not breathe.
He turned toward her fully.
Still holding her hand.
Still careful.
“I won’t.”
Her eyes searched his face.
For temporary.
For escape routes.
For pretty lies.
He gave her none.
Just himself, unfinished and uncertain and standing beside.
The front lobby door opened.
Mason closed his eyes.
Billie’s mouth tightened.
“Whoever that is,” she said, “I’m banning them.”
Nate’s voice floated in. “Forgot my phone!”
Billie looked at the ceiling. “Of course.”
Mason laughed.
Billie tried to pull her hand back.
He let her.
Mostly.
But her fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary.
Nate rounded the corner, stopped dead, and stared at them.
Mason stared back.
Billie turned slowly.
Nate lifted both hands. “I saw nothing.”
Billie’s eyes narrowed.
He backed away. “But spiritually, I support the junior gear fund.”
“Nate.”
“Leaving.”
He grabbed his phone from the bench and fled.
Billie covered her face with one hand.
Mason leaned against the boards, laughing silently.
“This is your fault,” she said.
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
“Probably.”
She lowered her hand and looked at him.
Her smile was tired.
Real.
A little doomed.
“Go ice your knee, Tall Regret.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Do not make me regret the hand thing.”
His smile softened.
“Never.”
She pointed at him. “That is alarmingly close to always.”
“I know.”
She walked away shaking her head.
But at the door, she looked back.
Just once.
And Mason, who had flown to Sydney to hide from what he had lost, realised he had started hoping for something that would hurt far more to leave.
Friday was still coming.
Ryan was still out there.
Luca still had to arrive.
The shootout still had to happen.
His future still had an agent, a knee, and a question mark.
But for one quiet moment in Harbour Ice Centre, Billie Hartley had chosen his hand.
And Mason knew the rest of him was already following.