Chapter Seven Billie Hartley #2
“Good morning, Sydney. We are live at Harbour Ice Centre, home of the Sydney Blades, where a viral podcast insult has turned into something nobody saw coming: a charity showdown for local junior hockey, a city rivalry, and yes, maybe the most entertaining apology tour in Australian sport.”
Billie smiled.
Professional. Calm. Not murdery.
Mostly.
Kara turned slightly. “With me are Mason Reed, the North American import now known online as Tall Regret, and Billie Hartley, the rink operations manager who put him to work. Good morning to both of you.”
“Good morning,” Mason said.
“Good morning,” Billie said.
Kara faced Mason. “Mason, I have to start with the quote. You said, ‘It’s Australia. How serious can the hockey be?’ When you watch the reaction now, what do you understand that you didn’t then?”
Good.
Real question.
Mason’s shoulders settled.
Billie felt herself breathe.
“I understand that I treated not knowing like a joke,” Mason said.
“That was careless. Hockey is serious wherever people love it enough to build it, fund it, coach it, play it, and protect it. I came here thinking I could keep my head down and figure out my own next step. Instead, I found a community that deserved better from me before I even arrived.”
Billie stared at the camera.
Not at Mason.
Absolutely not.
Kara nodded. “That sounds like a man who has had media training.”
Mason smiled slightly. “Billie had a marker.”
Kara laughed.
Billie’s stomach tightened.
Careful.
Kara turned to her. “Billie, when that clip went viral, what was your first reaction?”
“The man was going to apologise or bleed.”
Mason choked.
Kara burst out laughing.
The camera operator grinned.
Billie froze internally.
That was the chapter title in her head, not the approved talking point.
Who allowed her to speak before 8 a.m.?
Mason recovered first. “For legal reasons, I chose apology.”
Kara wiped under one eye. “So this was mercy.”
“Strategic mercy,” Billie said, because apparently she had decided to continue.
Mason looked at her.
There was the face.
The almost romantic one.
The one that said he liked her sharp edges exactly as they were.
Billie’s eyes narrowed.
He looked back at Kara immediately, but his mouth twitched.
Kara pounced. “The chemistry between you two has become part of the viral story.”
“No,” Billie said instantly.
Kara laughed again. “That was fast.”
Mason said, “Billie moves quickly when the internet is wrong.”
“Is the internet wrong?” Kara asked.
Billie opened her mouth.
Respect. Fund. Rink.
Mason got there first.
“The internet is having fun,” he said. “But the real story is the junior gear fund. I made a bad comment. Billie and the Blades turned it into a way to support kids who love hockey here. That’s what matters.”
Billie’s chest loosened.
Good answer.
Very good answer.
Annoyingly good answer.
Kara tilted her head. “That was very respectful.”
“I’m on probation.”
“From Billie?”
“And several children.”
“Max,” Billie added, “is the strictest.”
Kara smiled toward the camera. “Max, if you’re watching, we respect your standards.”
Behind the camera, Max, who was absolutely supposed to be at school and absolutely hiding near the skate counter in a Blades hoodie, gave a thumbs-up.
Billie saw him.
Of course she saw him.
She pointed without breaking her smile.
Max ducked.
Mason coughed again.
Kara turned. “Friday’s charity shootout has taken on a life of its own. Luca D’Amato from the Melbourne Kings has accepted the challenge. Mason, are you ready?”
Mason’s expression sharpened.
There.
Billie saw the competitive thing rise.
She stepped in before it could become stupid.
“He’s ready within Sophie Chen’s modified medical restrictions,” she said.
Mason looked at her.
Kara blinked. “That sounded very specific.”
“It is.”
Mason nodded. “Billie is making sure I’m useful, not reckless.”
Kara’s eyes flicked between them. “Useful seems to be a theme.”
“It’s what the rink needs,” Billie said. “The event isn’t about Mason proving he’s tougher than Luca. It’s about raising money for junior gear, bringing more families into Harbour Ice Centre, and showing that hockey here has depth, pride, and a future.”
Kara turned fully toward her. “Tell us about that. What does this rink mean to the community?”
Billie could answer that.
She could talk about ice time and youth programs, sponsorship and accessibility, the strange miracle of kids choosing a cold room in a hot city.
She could talk about parents who stretched budgets, volunteers who showed up before sunrise, women’s development sessions, public skate nights, the Blades making do with less and still building more.
So she did.
And while she spoke, Mason looked at her.
Not at the camera.
At her.
She felt it like warmth along her side.
Do not look, she ordered herself.
She looked.
His face was not romantic.
Not exactly.
It was worse.
It was respectful.
Like she was not a punchline, not a viral character, not the woman making Tall Regret behave, but the person who knew this place down to its seams.
Billie almost forgot what she was saying.
Almost.
Then Kara asked, “And what would twenty-five thousand dollars mean?”
Billie’s voice caught.
Barely.
But caught.
“To some families,” she said, “it means yes.”
The words hung there.
The rink went quiet behind the cameras.
She could feel Harper freeze. Mark too. Even Coach Alby, standing near the boards, stopped pretending he did not care about television.
Kara softened. “Yes to what?”
Billie swallowed.
This was not in the talking points.
Maybe it should have been.
“Yes to gear they couldn’t otherwise afford,” she said. “Yes to a child trying hockey when cost would have been the no. Yes to extra ice time. Yes to girls who want more development sessions. Yes to parents who are tired of telling their kids maybe later.”
Mason’s sleeve brushed hers.
Just once.
A quiet touch.
Anchor, not claim.
Billie breathed.
Kara paused, and for the first time all morning, she did not chase the joke.
“That’s powerful,” she said. “So Friday matters.”
“Yes,” Billie said. “It does.”
Kara turned to the camera. “Friday, Harbour Ice Centre hosts the charity shootout featuring the Sydney Blades, Mason Reed, and Luca D’Amato of the Melbourne Kings, with Vale Community Partners matching donations.
Mason, last question. If Max is watching, what do you want to say to the child who named you Tall Regret? ”
Mason smiled into the camera.
Not the dangerous smile.
Not the flirty one.
The real one.
“Max,” he said, “that name was hurtful, accurate, and strong branding. I’ll see you Friday. Bring respect. Leave the fog machine at home.”
Max shouted from behind the skate counter, “Haze machine!”
The whole crew laughed.
Kara looked delighted. “Max is here?”
Billie closed her eyes.
Mason pointed toward the counter. “Allegedly.”
Kara laughed into the sign-off. “There you have it. Tall Regret, the rink manager with the marker, and one very serious eleven-and-three-quarter-year-old. Back to you in studio.”
The red light went off.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then the entire rink exploded.
Harper screamed first. “That was perfect!”
Mark shouted, “Donations are moving!”
Max yelled, “I was on television!”
Coach Alby yelled, “You are supposed to be at school!”
Max shouted back, “Civic duty!”
Evie appeared from nowhere wearing the kangaroo head under one arm. “I cried a little at the yes part, but emotionally, I am blaming the costume fumes.”
Kara turned to Billie. “You were fantastic.”
Billie blinked. “I was?”
“You were real. That always wins.”
Billie did not know what to do with that.
Thankfully, Mason stepped beside her.
“See?” he said. “Operational.”
She looked up at him. “Do not be smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You are internally smug.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You almost made a romantic face.”
“I made a respectful face.”
“It photographed suspiciously.”
“Your standards are impossible.”
“You knew that when you joined the bet.”
He smiled.
Billie pointed at him. “That one. That face. Illegal.”
Mason tried to flatten it.
Failed.
Harper appeared with her phone, eyes wild. “The clip of Billie saying, ‘To some families, it means yes,’ is already being shared by the station. Donations are spiking.”
Billie’s heart stumbled.
“How much?”
Mark looked at his tablet. “Three thousand in six minutes.”
The air left Billie’s lungs.
Three thousand.
In six minutes.
She turned toward the rink because looking at people was suddenly too much.
Three thousand dollars meant kids.
Real kids.
Not metrics. Not content. Not campaign recovery.
Kids.
The ones who taped their sticks wrong and forgot socks and believed ice could hold dreams even in a city built of heat.
Mason’s voice came quietly beside her. “Billie.”
She shook her head once. “I’m fine.”
“I know.”
The words were gentle.
Not arguing. Not exposing. Just there.
She hated and needed them in equal measure.
Kara and the crew packed up with a speed that felt insulting after the emotional damage they had caused.
Harper chased after Tessa to discuss getting clean clips.
Mark took a call from Graham Vale, whose assistant apparently wanted to add a donor QR code to the coffee station.
Coach Alby returned Max to his mother with a lecture about school attendance and broadcast rights.
Evie began asking whether the kangaroo could be interviewed next.
Billie escaped to the skate room.
Not dramatically.
She simply walked there with purpose, because purpose was camouflage.
The skate room was empty. Benches lined the wall. Rental skates sat in rows, some neater than others. The air smelled like leather, disinfectant, and faint defeat. It was not glamorous. It was quiet.
Billie set both hands on the counter and bowed her head.
She was not crying.
She was absolutely not crying.
Her eyes were just responding to recycled rink air, lack of sleep, and the emotional assault of saying true things on television before breakfast.
The door creaked.
“Go away,” she said.
“Okay,” Mason said.
The door started to close.
Billie squeezed her eyes shut.
“Wait.”
It stopped.