Chapter Six Mason Reed #3
Harper left to edit a media brief. Mark went to take Graham’s call.
Nate and Theo disappeared into the equipment room to either help or create a second crisis.
Evie claimed she was taking the kangaroo costume home “for restoration,” which nobody believed and nobody had the energy to stop.
Sophie left Mason with an ice pack and a look that said she expected obedience and would know if he lied.
Mason ended up alone near the stands, knee elevated on the lowest bench, ice wrapped tight, watching Billie move around the rink below.
She checked the gate latches. Picked up a stray glove. Straightened a sign. Tested a door. Paused by the boards and looked across the ice.
Not busy now.
Just still.
The rink lights glowed over her hair. The ice reflected pale under her.
Outside the high windows, Sydney evening pressed warm and gold against the glass, but in here everything held that impossible contrast: summer outside, winter kept alive by stubborn machinery and people who loved it too much to quit.
Mason understood the place more every hour.
That scared him.
He checked his phone.
Gabe had called four more times.
His last message read:
GABE: You went there to rebuild. Don’t get attached to a rink that can’t get you back.
Mason stared at it.
Then put the phone face down.
Too late, maybe.
Billie climbed the stands with two takeaway coffees and the expression of someone trying to pretend bringing him one was not kindness.
She held one out. “Decaf.”
He took it. “Cruel.”
“Your agent has called Mark six times. You don’t need caffeine.”
“You talked to Mark?”
“Mark talks loudly.”
Mason sipped.
It was terrible.
He loved it.
Billie sat one row down, not beside him. A deliberate distance. Safe. Professional. Cowardly, maybe, but he valued the attempt.
For a while, they watched the ice.
“You did well today,” she said.
He looked over.
She kept her eyes forward.
Mason’s chest tightened. “That sounded almost painful.”
“It was.”
“I’m honoured.”
“You should be. I ration praise.”
“I noticed.”
She blew on her coffee. “You listened. With Max. With Graham. With Sophie.”
“With you.”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“Yes,” she said. “With me.”
The quiet settled again.
This time, it did not feel like danger.
It felt like being let into the rink after hours.
A privilege.
Mason took another sip of awful coffee. “Tomorrow’s interview will be fine.”
Billie laughed under her breath. “That is what men say before making women’s lives harder.”
“I’ll stick to the points.”
“You’d better.”
“Respect. Fund. Rink.”
“No flirting.”
He looked at her. “No flirting.”
She looked back.
Big mistake.
The space between them might have been a full row of seating, but it did not feel that way.
Not with the lights low and the rink quiet.
Not with her looking tired enough that some of the steel had slipped.
Not with him sitting there wanting things he had no business wanting on his first day in a city he was supposed to use as a stepping stone.
Billie’s phone buzzed.
She checked it.
Her face went blank.
Mason’s stomach tightened. “What?”
She stared at the screen for a second too long.
Then turned it toward him.
It was the morning show producer.
Final segment tease for tomorrow:
COMING UP TOMORROW: The viral import. The rink manager who put him in his place. The charity showdown bringing Sydney and Melbourne to the ice. And yes, we’ll ask the question everyone wants answered: Is The Sydney Ice Bet turning into Sydney’s newest love story?
Mason read it twice.
Billie lowered the phone slowly.
“No,” she said.
He nodded. “No.”
“No love story.”
“Absolutely not.”
“No flirting.”
“No looking.”
He paused.
Her eyes narrowed. “Mason.”
“I can try.”
“Mason.”
“I’ll work on it.”
She stood so fast her coffee nearly spilled. “We need a stronger answer.”
“We have one.”
“We need armour.”
“Billie.”
“What?”
He looked up at her from the bench, ice pack on his knee, awful coffee in his hand, and a feeling in his chest that was becoming harder to explain away by jet lag, gratitude, or proximity to a woman who could scare sponsors into generosity.
He should have said something safe.
The fund.
The kids.
The rink.
Instead, because he was apparently committed to causing problems, Mason said, “What if the safest answer is the truth?”
Billie stared at him.
“The truth,” she repeated.
“Yeah.”
“And what, exactly, is the truth?”
Mason looked at her in the quiet rink, with Sydney burning summer gold beyond the windows and the ice between them reflecting every terrible idea he should not have.
“The truth,” he said carefully, “is that I respect you too much to use you for a headline.”
Her face softened.
For half a heartbeat, he thought he had chosen the right words.
Then the phone buzzed again in her hand.
A second producer message appeared.
Great chemistry in public clips. Please lean into banter if comfortable. Segment title now: THE ICE BET: RIVALS, ROMANCE, AND REDEMPTION.
Billie closed her eyes.
Mason looked at the ceiling.
From somewhere downstairs, Nate’s voice echoed through the empty rink.
“I JUST SAW THE SEGMENT TITLE!”
Billie opened her eyes and pointed at Mason with deadly calm.
“If you make one romantic face on live television tomorrow, I will personally feed you to Australian hockey.”
Mason nodded.
Then, because he was doomed, he smiled.
“I’m starting to think Australian hockey likes me.”