Chapter Three Billie Hartley #4
“Friday afternoon,” she said. “One-hour event. Ticketed gold-coin entry at the door, sponsor match for donations, livestream controlled by Harper, no rogue captions, kids involved safely, Sophie clears Mason’s participation, Alby approves the hockey side, and Nate does not touch the official account. ”
Nate gasped. “Censorship.”
“Survival.”
Graham nodded slowly. “Vale Community Partners will match donations up to ten thousand.”
Harper’s mouth fell open.
Mark sat back. “That’s generous.”
“It’s conditional,” Graham said. “Make it work.”
The call ended two minutes later with Graham not smiling exactly, but not withdrawing, which counted as a win in the polished-money world.
The office erupted.
Harper whooped. Nate shouted, “Kangaroo costume still pending!” Theo muttered that he was updating his will. Mark clapped Mason on the shoulder hard enough to make Billie watch his knee again.
Mason saw.
Of course he saw.
He waited until the others spilled downstairs in a burst of planning noise before he stepped closer.
“You okay?”
Billie laughed once. “That’s my line.”
“You use it like a weapon.”
“You say that like a complaint.”
“No.” His voice softened. “Like a concern.”
Billie did not know what to do with that.
She could handle flirtation. She could handle arrogance. She could handle a man who thought a smile was a universal key.
Concern was different.
Concern looked for the parts she kept tucked away behind rosters, repair quotes, and emergency schedules.
She moved to the desk and gathered the notes Harper had abandoned. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
Mason did not flinch, which was impressive or foolish. “You’re holding that paper like it personally betrayed you.”
Billie looked down.
The sponsor dinner list was crushed in her fist.
She released it.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Being strong enough that everyone keeps adding weight?”
The words hit too close.
Far too close.
Billie’s throat tightened with the kind of anger that came from being seen without permission.
“You’ve known me for less than three hours,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“So maybe don’t act like you’ve solved me.”
“I haven’t.” He held her gaze. “I just know what it looks like when people keep calling you reliable until they forget you’re tired.”
Silence dropped between them.
Downstairs, someone shouted about cupcakes. The compressor rattled like it had an opinion. A puck struck the boards with a hard, clean crack.
Billie hated him a little for saying it.
She hated him more for being right.
Mason’s expression shifted, regret moving in. “Billie, I didn’t mean to push.”
“You did push.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
The simple admission knocked some of the fight out of her.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him. Really looked.
No cameras. No kids. No sponsor. No audience.
Just a man standing in an old upstairs office at a Sydney rink, carrying some private wreckage of his own and trying, annoyingly, to be decent.
“Stop apologising so well,” she said.
His mouth curved, but he kept the smile small. “Bad for your anger?”
“Terrible for it.”
“I’ll try to be more irritating.”
“You don’t have to try.”
“There she is.”
The air changed again.
Warmer.
Closer.
Billie became extremely aware of the narrow office, the hum of the fluorescent light, the faint scent of cold air and coffee, the way Mason’s gaze held on hers without crowding.
Closed doors, she reminded herself, were for storage rooms and electrical panels, not feelings.
She stepped around the desk. “You need Sophie to check your knee before practice.”
“I need a lot of things.”
The words were quiet.
Too quiet.
Billie stopped.
Mason looked like he wanted to take them back.
Good.
She wanted him to take them back too.
Instead, her phone buzzed so violently on the desk that both of them startled.
Harper’s name flashed across the screen.
Billie grabbed it. “What?”
Harper’s voice came through breathless and delighted.
“Don’t be mad.”
Billie’s stomach dropped. “That is never the start of good news.”
“The charity shootout announcement went live.”
Billie froze. “Harper.”
“I scheduled it clean. Very professional. Very sponsor-friendly. No kiss language.”
“Why do I hear fear in your voice?”
“Because the official Blades account did not post the problem.”
Billie looked toward the stairs.
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Nate?”
Harper said, “Worse.”
Billie’s grip tightened. “Worse than Nate is not a category I recognise.”
“It’s Max.”
Billie closed her eyes.
Harper continued, “He made a video.”
“Mason,” Billie said slowly, “how fast can you run on that knee?”
“Depends who’s chasing me.”
“Everyone.”
Harper’s voice rose. “He challenged you to the shootout on behalf of Australian hockey, called you ‘Tall Regret,’ and ended the video by saying Billie would make sure you cried respectfully.”
Mason blinked.
Then, against every instinct for self-preservation, he laughed.
Billie pointed at him. “Do not.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are not.”
“I’m deeply not.”
Harper said, “It already has sixty thousand views.”
Billie’s eyes flew open. “Sixty?”
“And Graham Vale commented.”
Billie went cold. “What did he say?”
Harper took one dramatic breath.
“He said, ‘I’ll double the match if Tall Regret survives.’”
The office went silent.
Mason stared at Billie.
Billie stared back.
Downstairs, the under-twelves began chanting again, louder this time, until the whole rink seemed to shake with it.
“Tall Regret! Tall Regret! Tall Regret!”
Mason’s smile spread slowly, bright and doomed.
Billie pointed toward the door. “Congratulations.”
His eyes warmed. “Am I officially your problem again?”
“No,” she said, grabbing her keys, her phone, and what remained of her dignity. “Now you’re my headline.”
And when Mason Reed followed her down the stairs with the whole rink chanting his new name, Billie realised the worst possible thing.
She was starting to want him to survive it.