Chapter Two Mason Reed
The Problem Had Excellent Aim
Mason Reed had been in Sydney for exactly ninety-two minutes, and already a woman in a white tank top had threatened his legs, shaken his hand like she was signing his death warrant, and turned him into a public relations experiment called The Sydney Ice Bet.
Honestly, Australia was moving faster than advertised.
He stood in the media room of the Harbour Ice Centre with jet lag behind his eyes, a knee brace under his jeans, and Billie Hartley’s hand still burned into his palm like a bad decision with excellent grip strength.
Across the room, Harper Lane was making a noise over her laptop that sounded less like social media management and more like possession.
“Oh,” Harper whispered. “Oh, this is disgusting.”
Mason glanced at Theo Brooks, the Blades assistant captain, who stood beside the door with his arms folded and the resting expression of a man who had watched too many hockey players make avoidable choices.
“Disgusting good?” Mason asked.
Theo did not blink. “Never ask Harper that.”
“Disgusting great,” Harper said. “We gained twelve hundred followers in six minutes.”
Billie’s head turned slowly.
Harper straightened. “Which is not the point, obviously.”
“It had better not be.”
“It is adjacent to the point.”
Billie looked like she wanted to throw the laptop into the harbour.
Mason had known women like her before.
Not exactly like her, because Billie Hartley appeared to be built from rink ice, black coffee, and the kind of rage people only got when they loved something more than was sensible.
But he knew the type. Capable. Overworked.
Sharp enough to cut through a room without raising her voice.
The sort of woman who could spot weakness in a man faster than a scout could clock a slap shot.
He respected that.
He also had the deeply inconvenient urge to make her smile again, preferably at him and not while imagining his administrative death.
That was probably the jet lag.
Or the concussion he definitely did not have.
Or the fact that he had not slept on the flight, because every time he closed his eyes he saw the clip again.
It’s Australia. How serious can the hockey be?
He had meant it as a joke.
A stupid joke, sure. A lazy joke. The kind a man made when he was tired of explaining why his career had taken a detour so sharp it needed hazard lights. The host had been laughing. The studio had been warm. Mason had been answering the same questions for twenty minutes.
What happened to the knee?
Was Sydney a reset?
Was he still hoping for a North American comeback?
Did he see the Blades as a stepping stone?
He had felt the old fear crawl up the back of his neck. The one that showed up whenever people started asking what came next, because next had stopped being a promise and started being a threat.
So he had smiled.
He was good at smiling.
He had joked.
He was less good at knowing when to stop.
Now his joke had a hashtag.
Billie Hartley had a spreadsheet.
And Mason had thirty days to prove to an entire country that he was not the arrogant idiot he had sounded like online.
Which was unfortunate, because he was occasionally the arrogant idiot he sounded like online.
“Reed.”
Billie’s voice snapped him back.
She stood by the media room door with her arms folded, chin lifted, and eyes that looked dark brown until the rink lights hit them and pulled gold out of nowhere.
Not helpful.
“Yes?” he said.
“You’re staring.”
“At what?”
“At the consequences of your own actions.”
“That’s a broad category.”
Her mouth almost twitched.
Almost.
Mason felt like he had scored.
Then she pointed toward the hall. “Welcome skate starts in twelve minutes.”
“Great.”
“You’ll meet the team.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“You’ll apologise to them.”
“Also looking forward to it, in a less fun way.”
“You’ll apologise to the under-twelves.”
Mason paused. “The kids?”
“They have formed opinions.”
“They’re twelve.”
“Some are eleven.”
“That makes it worse?”
“Their memes are meaner.”
Theo coughed into his fist.
Mason looked at him. “Is she serious?”
Theo nodded once. “Always.”
Billie’s phone buzzed. She checked it, exhaled through her nose, and shoved it into the pocket of her pink skirt with the kind of control usually reserved for hostage negotiations.
“What now?” Harper asked.
“The compressor noise is back.”
Harper winced.
“The one that sounds expensive?” Theo asked.
Billie pointed at him. “Do not say expensive in this building. It hears you.”
Mason glanced toward the rink through the media room window.
The Harbour Ice Centre was smaller than the arenas he was used to. Smaller than the American League barns. Smaller than the Canadian junior rink where he had spent two winters learning how to get hit by grown men while pretending not to miss his mother.
But it had something.
He had felt it the second he walked in.
Not polish.
Not money.
Those were easy to spot, and this place did not have much of either. The boards were nicked. The bench doors had been repaired more than once. The sign above the skate rental counter leaned slightly to the left, like it had been through things and planned to keep its secrets.
But the ice was clean.
The logo at centre was sharp.
The kids on the far end skated like they owned the place.
And every person Mason had met so far looked ready to defend the rink with improvised weapons.
He had played in places with more money.
He had not always played in places with more heart.
That was what made the joke worse.
He should have known better before he even landed.
“Billie,” he said.
She looked up from her phone. “What?”
“I am sorry.”
The room quieted by half a degree.
Her expression did not soften.
Good.
He had not earned that.
“You already said that,” she said.
“I know. I’m saying it again without an audience.”
Harper’s fingers froze above the keyboard.
Theo looked at the floor, suddenly fascinated by tile.
Billie studied him.
Mason made himself not fill the silence. That was another bad habit. Charm was easier than quiet. Jokes were easier than letting the truth sit there and see if it could survive.
So he stood still and let Billie Hartley decide whether she believed him.
Finally, she said, “You don’t have to convince me you’re sorry, Reed.”
He nodded. “No?”
“No.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You have to convince them.”
She nodded toward the glass.
On the ice, the under-twelves were gathered near the boards now, whispering, pointing, pretending not to stare at him with the brutal judgment only children and sports fans could achieve before breakfast.
One kid held up a handmade sign.
HOW SERIOUS CAN THIS BE?
Under it, someone had drawn a kangaroo holding a hockey stick.
Mason stared.
“That’s actually pretty good.”
Billie’s eyes narrowed.
“Not the situation,” he said quickly. “The drawing.”
“That is Max. He bites.”
“He bites?”
“Only when underestimated.”
“That feels symbolic.”
“It’s going to feel dental if you keep talking.”
Mason laughed before he could stop himself.
Billie did not laugh.
But the corner of her mouth moved again.
Second almost-smile.
Definitely a win.
A small one.
Probably not worth celebrating out loud unless he wanted the pen in her hand embedded in his shoulder.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get your apology tour started.”
The apology tour began badly.
Not because Mason refused to apologise. He did. Properly. To Coach Alby. To Theo. To the cluster of Blades players gathered at the bench. To the staff. To the under-twelves, who were small, suspicious, and terrifyingly organised.
It began badly because Nate Callow existed.
Nate was twenty-four, blond, grinning, and apparently the team’s designated chaos gremlin. Mason had known him for eight minutes before deciding every locker room had one, and every coach pretended they did not secretly rely on him to keep morale from collapsing.
Nate skated backward in front of Mason during warmups, stick draped over his shoulders, grin wide.
“So,” Nate said. “How unserious are we feeling?”
Mason sighed. “Deserved.”
“On a scale of one to viral?”
“Very viral.”
“Excellent. I respect self-awareness in a man who has already endangered our sponsor brunch.”
“Do you always talk this much?”
“Only when awake.”
Billie stood near the boards with a tablet in one hand and a whistle around her neck, watching the ice like she personally owned friction.
Maybe she did.
Mason pushed off into an easy lap, testing the ice and his knee at the same time.
The ice felt good.
Better than he expected.
Fast in the middle, softer near the boards, a little chewed from morning programs but cared for.
He could feel the difference in his edges.
This was not a novelty rink. Not a mall sheet slapped down for tourists.
This place had been maintained by people who knew what they were doing and probably cried over equipment invoices in private.
His knee twinged on the turn.
Not pain.
A warning.
Mason adjusted his weight before anyone could see.
Billie saw.
Of course she did.
Her eyes dropped to his left leg for one second, then returned to his face.
No pity.
No fuss.
Just inventory.
He appreciated that more than he wanted to.
Theo skated beside him. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“Try again.”
Mason glanced at him.
Theo was not big in the North American way. He was lean, balanced, efficient. The kind of player easy to underestimate until he took your angle, your time, and your dignity before you knew you had lost them.
Mason liked him immediately.
He also hated that.
“Stiff from the flight,” Mason said.
Theo nodded. “And the knee?”
Mason smiled. “You always ask strangers personal questions?”
“When they’re on my roster.”
“Fair.”
Theo gave him a look. “You don’t have to impress anyone today.”
Mason looked toward Billie.
She was now speaking to Max, the biting child, who was nodding with all the solemnity of a tiny judge preparing sentencing.
“Yes,” Mason said. “I do.”
Theo followed his gaze.
Something like amusement moved across his face. Barely. “Ah.”
“No ah.”
“That was definitely an ah.”