Chapter Twenty-One Billie Hartley
Friday Arrived Wearing Lip Gloss and a Security Badge
Billie Hartley had survived viral humiliation, stolen photos, old financial leaks, sponsor politics, one fired nephew with villain posture, and Mason Reed holding her hand in an empty rink like it was a promise he was trying very hard not to call one.
So naturally, Friday arrived with a coffee machine failure.
Before the charity shootout.
Before the sponsor dinner.
Before Luca D’Amato’s stupid face crossed the property line.
Before Ryan Vale discovered whether professional security guards were immune to entitlement.
Before Mason Reed could look at her with that careful, dangerous expression and make her forget that temporary men were not meant to feel like home before breakfast.
Billie stood in front of the Vale Community Partners coffee station, watching steam hiss sideways from the rented machine while a terrified catering assistant whispered, “It wasn’t doing that yesterday.”
“No machine does anything yesterday,” Billie said. “That is how they trap you.”
The assistant blinked.
Harper appeared beside Billie with three phones, a lanyard around her neck, and a full face of media-day makeup that made her look both exhausted and powerful.
“Problem?” Harper asked.
“The coffee machine has chosen violence.”
Harper looked at the steam. “Can we brand that?”
“No.”
“Emergency coffee sponsor?”
“No.”
“Respect required before repairs?”
“Harper.”
“Right. Not now.”
From behind the counter, Evie leaned in wearing the Ice Queen hoodie sample, black jeans, and lip gloss so shiny it could probably redirect rink lights.
“I know a guy,” Evie said.
Billie turned slowly. “Why do you know a coffee machine guy?”
“I’m young. We have networks.”
“You work in skate rental.”
“Skate rental people contain multitudes.”
Billie narrowed her eyes. “Is this guy reliable?”
Evie looked offended. “He fixed the slushie machine at my friend’s twenty-first in under ten minutes.”
“That is not a professional qualification.”
“It is in Australia.”
Harper nodded. “Culturally persuasive.”
Billie checked the time.
7:05.
The doors opened to volunteers at eight.
Security briefing at eight-fifteen.
Media call at eleven.
Public entry at three.
Charity shootout at four.
Sponsor dinner at six-thirty.
The coffee machine could not become the day’s first collapse.
“Call him,” Billie said.
Evie saluted with the confidence of someone who had been waiting years to weaponise social connections.
Billie looked at Harper. “Backup plan.”
“Already messaging the café across the road.”
“Good.”
“No romance content today unless approved.”
Billie’s eyes narrowed.
Harper lifted both hands. “I am saying it for discipline, not because you came in looking hand-held.”
Billie froze.
“Hand-held?”
Harper’s mouth curved.
“No,” Billie said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said hand-held.”
“Descriptive.”
“Illegal.”
Evie looked up from her phone. “Wait. Did something happen?”
“No,” Billie said.
Harper said, “Nate saw.”
Evie gasped. “Nate saw before me?”
“Nothing happened,” Billie snapped.
“Then what did Nate see?” Evie asked.
“Nothing.”
Harper sipped from her own takeaway coffee. “A deeply meaningful nothing.”
Billie pointed at both of them. “Coffee machine. Focus.”
Evie grinned down at her phone. “My guy is coming.”
“Do not call him your guy near machinery.”
“Fine. My technician of mysterious credentials.”
“Worse.”
The staff entrance opened behind them.
Billie did not turn.
She knew before he spoke.
Which was a problem.
“Should I be worried about the steam or the lip gloss?” Mason asked.
Billie closed her eyes for half a second.
No.
Absolutely not.
She would not turn around and react to his voice.
She would not remember the way his fingers had linked with hers on the boards Wednesday night.
She would not remember the word never following always like a man placing dangerous things carefully on a shelf within reach.
She would not think about the fact he had texted once yesterday morning, once yesterday evening, and both times had obeyed her when she said Friday needed focus.
She turned around.
Mistake.
Mason Reed stood in the lobby wearing a navy Blades quarter-zip, black joggers, fresh tape visible at the edge of his left knee brace, and a security lanyard Harper had apparently already given him that read APPROVED PLAYER.
His hair was damp.
His face was tired.
His smile was careful.
Her heart made a choice without authorisation.
Billie lifted her chin. “Both.”
His eyes warmed. “Noted.”
Harper looked between them with the contained delight of a woman standing near flammable material.
Evie mouthed, Hand-held?
Billie’s glare could have stripped paint.
Evie looked back at her phone.
Mason stepped closer, then stopped at a respectful distance.
Good.
Infuriating.
“How’s the knee?” Billie asked.
“Sophie-approved for warmup, shootout, and public humiliation.”
“That is not a medical category.”
“It is now. She wrote it on my schedule.”
Harper checked her tablet. “She did, actually.”
Billie sighed. “Of course she did.”
Mason glanced at the coffee machine. “Want me to help?”
“No.”
“Because I’m injured?”
“Because I have seen men try to fix machines with confidence and no knowledge. It always ends in water damage.”
“I can hold things.”
Billie looked at him.
The air changed.
Because both of them remembered the boards.
The hand.
The thing they were not discussing because Friday had too many moving parts and not enough emotional hazard cones.
Mason’s expression shifted first.
A tiny, private smile.
Billie pointed at the coffee machine. “Do not make that sentence a problem.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You absolutely would dare.”
“Not before coffee.”
Harper whispered, “Growth.”
Billie turned on her. “Media zone. Now.”
Harper fled, smiling.
Evie’s phone pinged. “Technician of mysterious credentials is nine minutes away.”
Billie looked at the steaming machine. “The building may survive.”
Mason stepped beside her, not too close, both of them facing the coffee disaster like it was an opposing goalie.
“Big day,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You sleep?”
“No.”
“Eat?”
She looked at him. “Do not become Sophie.”
“I fear her too much to compete.”
“Smart.”
He held out a paper bag.
Billie stared at it.
“No.”
“Banana bread.”
“No.”
“From the café. Not vending machine.”
“You cannot keep feeding me.”
“I’m not. I’m presenting options.”
“Options with emotional implications.”
“Carbs with structure.”
She hated that he remembered.
She took the bag.
Mason’s mouth curved.
“Do not look pleased,” she said.
“I’m extremely neutral.”
“You look like a golden retriever who got tax deductions.”
“That is specific.”
“You inspire description.”
He looked down at her then, and the lobby noise blurred just enough to make her nervous.
“Billie,” he said quietly.
No.
Not in the lobby.
Not with steam, lip gloss, and sponsor signage.
Not with always sitting between them like it had brought a chair.
She held up one finger. “Friday first.”
His expression softened.
He nodded. “Friday first.”
The fact that he understood made it worse.
Because if he had pushed, she could have stepped back.
If he had flirted, she could have snapped.
But he simply accepted the boundary and stood beside her, and Billie Hartley had no defence prepared for a man who learned.
By eight-fifteen, the coffee machine was fixed by Evie’s mysterious technician, a lanky twenty-year-old named Josh who wore work boots, three bracelets, and the expression of someone who had not expected to become important to Australian hockey.
Billie paid him from petty cash.
Evie paid him with a smile that made Nate, passing by with signage, walk into a folding chair.
“Smooth,” Theo said.
Nate straightened. “The chair moved.”
“It did not.”
“It sensed threat.”
Billie pointed at the donor table. “Both of you, signage.”
Nate looked at Mason. “Tall Regret, she’s extra bossy today.”
Mason glanced at Billie. “Good.”
Billie’s head turned.
Nate’s eyes widened. “Oh. He’s worse now.”
Theo took the sign from him. “Walk.”
“I saw vibes.”
“You see lawsuits.”
“Same lighting.”
The security briefing went better.
Two professional guards arrived in black polos and serious shoes. Billie walked them through the access list, Ryan Vale’s photo, the banned-entry notice, the staff-only doors, the archive corridor, the sponsor zone, the player entrance, and the emergency plan.
One guard, Talia, listened without interrupting, then said, “You’re organised.”
Billie felt something in her unclench.
“Thank you.”
Mason, standing near the doorway with Gabe and Mark, said, “High praise.”
Billie did not turn. “Do not narrate my validation.”
Talia’s mouth twitched.
The second guard, Omar, looked at Ryan’s printed photo. “If he comes, we deny entry and call police if he refuses.”
“Yes.”
“If he claims sponsor access?”
“Denied.”
“Family access?”
“Denied.”
“Media?”
“Denied.”
“Donation?”
Billie paused.
Mason’s brows lifted.
Talia smiled faintly. “He can donate online from elsewhere.”
Billie nodded. “Exactly.”
Gabe, who had been very quiet, added, “I’ll stay near media check-in. I know some of the external press. If anyone is fishing on Ryan’s behalf, I’ll flag it.”
Billie looked at him.
He looked almost normal now.
Still polished. Still too expensive. Still capable of saying narrative containment without irony if unsupervised.
But useful.
“Thank you,” Billie said.
Gabe blinked. “You’re welcome.”
Evie, walking past with wristbands, whispered, “Redemption arc active.”
Gabe sighed. “I heard that.”
“Good,” Evie said.
By nine-thirty, volunteers arrived.
By ten, donor cards lined the tables.
By ten-thirty, the Ice Queen hoodie display went up, tasteful and not embarrassing, because Harper was infuriatingly good at her job.
By eleven, the media area was staged.
By eleven-fifteen, Luca D’Amato arrived.
Billie saw him through the front windows before the guard radio even crackled.