Chapter Twenty-Four Mason Reed #3
Then laughed once, helpless and emotional. “That is such an inconveniently good sentence.”
“I worked hard on it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No. It just happened.”
“Worse.”
He smiled.
She stepped closer.
Just one inch.
His heart responded like a rookie.
Billie looked down at his mouth.
Then up.
“This is not under the donation tracker,” she said.
“No.”
“Not a grand gesture.”
“No.”
“No cameras?”
Mason glanced around.
Harper stood near the far table, back turned but phone suspiciously lowered.
“Harper,” Billie called.
Harper jumped. “I was not filming!”
Billie waited.
Harper sighed, lifted both hands, and walked backward into the kitchen area. “Respecting privacy. Against my instincts.”
Billie looked back at Mason. “No cameras.”
“No cameras,” he said.
Her fingers brushed his.
Then held.
“Mason.”
“Yeah?”
“I am still scared.”
“I know.”
“But I’m here.”
His chest tightened.
“So am I.”
She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
Soft.
Brief.
Careful.
The kind of kiss that did not solve distance, teams, injuries, fear, or futures.
The kind that made solving them matter.
Mason did not grab. Did not crowd. Did not turn it into proof.
He let Billie set the pace.
Then, when she stayed, he kissed her back with everything he could safely give in the middle of a public-adjacent dining area at a community rink in Sydney where at least six people were definitely pretending not to notice.
Her hand tightened in his.
His world narrowed to cold air, warm fingers, and Billie Hartley choosing him without making herself smaller.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright and startled.
“Well,” she whispered.
He smiled, barely breathing. “Full praise?”
Her laugh shook.
“Acceptable.”
He grinned.
“That is becoming my favourite word.”
“It should not be.”
“Too late.”
From somewhere behind the kitchen door, Nate shouted, “I FELT A VIBE!”
Billie closed her eyes.
Mason laughed against her forehead.
Harper yelled, “NATE!”
Theo yelled, “STOP HELPING!”
Evie yelled, “WAS THERE A KISS?”
Billie opened her eyes and stared at Mason with exhausted resignation.
“Your team is a disease.”
“Our team,” he said.
She froze.
He did too.
Our.
The word had slipped out easily.
Too easily.
But Billie did not correct him.
After a second, she smiled.
Small. Real. Still scared.
“Our team,” she said.
Mason’s heart went quiet and enormous.
The kitchen door burst open, and Nate stumbled out holding both hands over his eyes.
“I saw nothing,” he said loudly. “But spiritually, I support community intimacy.”
Billie pointed toward the lobby. “Out.”
“Gladly.”
Theo appeared, grabbed Nate by the shoulders, and guided him away. “We discussed wording.”
“I panicked.”
“You always panic poetically.”
Evie poked her head out. “I am happy for you, but also I need details later.”
“No,” Billie said.
“Some details.”
“No.”
“Tone details?”
“Evie.”
Harper appeared behind Evie, teary and smug. “This is going to test so well.”
Billie grabbed Mason’s hand. “We are leaving.”
“Are we?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Bossy.”
“Correct.”
They walked through the lobby together, past the donation tracker, past the sold-out hoodie table, past the youth ambassador badge Max had left on the counter with a note reading:
TALL REGRET PROMOTION PENDING.
Outside, the Sydney night was warm.
The rink glowed behind them.
Billie stopped at the edge of the car park, the same place she had stood after the bridge loan leak, exhausted and braced and trying not to need anyone.
Tonight, she still looked tired.
Still scared.
Still responsible.
But when Mason reached for her hand, she gave it.
Gabe leaned against his rental car a few metres away, phone in hand.
He looked at Mason. “Call tomorrow?”
Mason nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Gabe glanced at Billie. “Goodnight, Billie.”
“Goodnight, Gabe.”
He hesitated. “The rink did well tonight.”
Billie smiled faintly. “The rink knows.”
Gabe’s mouth twitched. Then he got into the car and left.
Mason and Billie stood under the sign.
No cameras.
No cheering.
No decisions fully made.
Just the first honest quiet after the loudest week of his life.
Billie looked up at him. “Tomorrow, we talk properly.”
“Yes.”
“About teams.”
“Yes.”
“About Sydney.”
“Yes.”
“About us.”
His chest tightened. “Yes.”
“And no making speeches before coffee.”
“I can try.”
“Mason.”
“I will try harder.”
She smiled.
He loved that smile.
The thought landed without warning.
Not a dramatic crash.
A quiet truth.
Too soon to say.
Too real to ignore.
Mason kept it where it belonged for now, not hidden, just held carefully until it had earned daylight.
Billie squeezed his hand. “You’re looking fond again.”
He looked down at her.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
This time, she did not tell him to stop.
And when they stood there together outside Harbour Ice Centre, with the Sydney heat pressing in and the cold rink glowing behind them, Mason finally understood the bet had never really been whether he could respect Australian hockey.
It was whether he could become the kind of man who respected what mattered before he lost it.
For the first time in a long time, he liked his odds.