Chapter Nine Billie Hartley
The Ice Queen Required Better Enemies
“It has frost texture,” Harper said, turning her laptop toward the front desk like she was presenting evidence in court.
Billie stared at it.
The graphic showed her from the morning show clip, arms folded, Blades logo behind her, expression sharp enough to cut a sponsorship contract in half. Across the bottom, in clean block letters, it read:
BILLIE HARTLEY ICE QUEEN OF SYDNEY HOCKEY
Below that, smaller:
Respect required before refills.
“No,” Billie said.
Harper sighed. “You didn’t even look properly.”
“I looked spiritually.”
“It’s powerful.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“It raised eight hundred dollars in pre-orders.”
Billie went still.
Harper’s smile widened carefully. “Hypothetical pre-orders.”
“Harper.”
“I may have posted a poll.”
Billie put both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “You may have what?”
“It was research.”
“It was unauthorised merchandise research.”
“For charity.”
“That is not a magic phrase.”
“In this building, it kind of is.”
Evie appeared behind the skate counter wearing the kangaroo costume feet over her boots. “I would buy one.”
“You are not helping,” Billie said.
“I never claimed to be.”
Harper clicked to the next slide. “There is also a version without your face. Just text. Cleaner. Less personally invasive. More premium charity drop.”
Billie’s attention sharpened despite herself.
That was annoying.
Harper saw it and pounced. “Black hoodie. White lettering. Small Blades mark. ICE QUEEN OF SYDNEY HOCKEY on the back. Respect required before refills on the sleeve.”
Evie put one hand over her heart. “I need it.”
“You need supervision,” Billie said.
“Also the hoodie.”
Billie looked at the donation tracker on the wall.
Eleven thousand, four hundred and sixty-two dollars.
Before the match.
Before Friday.
Before Luca even put his smug skates on their ice.
Her chest tightened.
Money for gear. Money for families. Money for yes.
She hated that charity made bad branding persuasive.
“Fine,” she said.
Harper froze. “Fine?”
“One limited run. Pre-order only. Proceeds to the junior gear fund. No photo of me. No crown emoji.”
Harper’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “What about a tiny skate blade crown?”
“No crown.”
“Snowflake?”
“No.”
“Subtle sparkle?”
“Absolutely not.”
Evie raised a hand. “Could the kangaroo wear the crown?”
Billie turned slowly.
Evie lowered her hand. “I withdraw with dignity.”
“You’re wearing kangaroo feet.”
“Dignity is internal.”
From the lobby, Nate’s voice carried. “ICE QUEEN!”
Billie closed her eyes.
Harper whispered, “The title has entered the ecosystem.”
Nate came around the corner with Max beside him, both wearing expressions that suggested conspiracy had been mentoring them. Theo followed behind, which meant society had not yet fully collapsed.
Max carried a handmade sign.
It read:
ICE QUEEN COURT Tall Regret may apply for citizenship after Friday.
Billie pointed at him. “No.”
Max hugged the sign to his chest. “It’s civics.”
“It’s treason.”
“We’re not a monarchy.”
“You made me queen.”
“Symbolically.”
Nate nodded solemnly. “The court recognises your authority.”
Billie looked at Theo. “You allowed this?”
Theo lifted both hands. “I confiscated the glitter version.”
Fair.
Unfortunately fair.
Billie turned back to Max. “Why are you not at school?”
“I was at school.”
“It is three-fifteen.”
“School ended.”
“At three.”
“I travelled briskly.”
Nate ruffled his hair. “The boy has commitment.”
“The boy has too much access to laminating supplies,” Billie said.
Max brightened. “So I can laminate it?”
“No.”
Evie whispered, “I’ll help you later.”
Billie spun toward her.
Evie looked at the ceiling. “The rink acoustics are wild.”
The front doors opened, bringing in a rush of warm Sydney air and a family with two beginner skaters. Billie forced herself out of chaos mode and into customer mode, which was less a switch and more a survival skill.
“Welcome in,” she called. “Public skate check-in is at the desk. If you need rental skates, Evie will help you as long as she removes the kangaroo feet first.”
Evie looked down. “But they’re welcoming.”
“They’re a trip hazard.”
“So is love, apparently,” Nate said.
Billie did not even look at him. “Lost property inventory.”
Nate vanished.
Theo gave a faint smile. “That remains effective.”
“Fear is a management tool.”
“Noted.”
He guided Max away from the front desk, likely toward an area with fewer witnesses and more sensible adult oversight. Harper tucked her laptop against her chest and followed Billie into the meeting room with the expression of someone who had more news and knew it was dangerous to deliver.
Billie could smell it.
“What?” she asked.
Harper closed the door behind them.
Ah.
Private news.
The annoying kind.
“Luca’s drop-in is everywhere,” Harper said. “SportNow framed you turning him away as a power move. Public sentiment is good for us, but the comments are shifting.”
“Toward what?”
“Less fundraiser. More triangle.”
Billie blinked. “Triangle.”
“Mason, you, Luca.”
Billie stared.
Then laughed once, because the alternative was damaging property.
“No.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“I super know.”
“Luca does not even like me.”
Harper tilted her head. “He might respect you.”
“Worse.”
“And he used your name publicly.”
“For attention.”
“Yes. And Mason looked like he wanted to eat a brick when he heard it.”
Billie sat in the nearest chair and rubbed her forehead. “That is not a triangle. That is two competitive men and one exhausted woman trying to fund children’s helmets.”
Harper softened. “I know.”
Billie looked up.
Harper’s face had shifted out of content mode and into friend mode. That was somehow more threatening.
“What?”
“I’m watching the line,” Harper said.
Billie’s throat tightened. “Which line?”
“The one between using viral attention to help the rink and letting people turn you into a thing.”
Billie swallowed.
Harper looked down at her laptop, then back up. “You tell me when it feels like too much. I’ll kill any post. I don’t care how well it performs.”
That should have been easy to accept.
It was not.
Billie had spent most of her adult life making sure too much did not become other people’s problem. Too much work, too much pressure, too much worry, too much memory. She had built a personality out of handling it.
People loved a capable woman until she asked to stop carrying something.
Then everyone looked confused.
Harper was not confused.
That made Billie’s chest ache.
“Thank you,” Billie said.
Harper nodded once. “Also, I still think the hoodie will sell out.”
Billie let out a breath. “You cannot give emotional support and merchandise projections in the same minute.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain push notifications.”
“Also that.”
Billie leaned back. “Where is Mason?”
“Training room. Sophie is doing another check before evening skate.”
“Good.”
Harper’s mouth twitched.
Billie pointed at her. “Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your eyebrows did.”
“My eyebrows are independent contractors.”
“Fire them.”
“They have a strong union.”
Billie stood, because sitting in the meeting room with Harper’s eyebrows was dangerous. “I’m going to check event floor flow.”
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Of course.”
“This has nothing to do with Mason.”
“I did not say it did.”
“I need you to stop not saying things loudly.”
Harper zipped her mouth.
Billie left before the grin escaped.
She did actually check event floor flow.
That was the problem with everyone assuming her motives were romantic. She still had a building to run. Friday’s event needed crowd lines, donation stations, sponsor signage, athlete entry points, emergency access, media zones, kids’ viewing areas, and at least three escape routes for staff sanity.
She walked the main concourse with her tablet, noting where the Vale coffee service could go without blocking the skate rental queue.
She measured space for donor QR signs. She marked where Max and the under-twelves could stand with their approved signs, far enough from the player path that no one could accidentally become a viral lawsuit.
She checked the gate latch near the benches twice.
She was not thinking about Mason.
She was thinking about crowd flow.
She was thinking about whether the Ice Queen hoodie should be navy or charcoal, because charity was clearly corrupting her.
She was thinking about Sophie’s boundaries, Luca’s arrogance, and the second anonymous message still sitting like a bad taste in her phone.
She was definitely not thinking about Mason saying he respected her too much to use her for a headline.
Or the look on his face when Luca said Friday.
Or the way his sleeve brushed hers during the interview, not enough to claim, just enough to anchor.
Absolutely not.
“Your tablet is asleep.”
Billie stopped.
Mason stood near the boards in track pants and a Blades hoodie, hair damp from the shower, knee freshly taped beneath the fabric. He held an ice pack in one hand and a protein bar in the other.
She looked down.
Her tablet screen was black.
Betrayal everywhere.
“I was thinking,” she said.
“Looked intense.”
“All my thinking is intense.”
“I believe that.”
She glanced at the ice pack. “Knee?”
“Managed.”
“That is not a medical answer.”
“It is a Sophie-approved word.”
“I will verify.”
“I assumed.”
He smiled, then held out the protein bar. “Peace offering?”
Billie looked at it.
“Why?”
“You looked like you hadn’t eaten since the live television hostage situation.”
“I had half a muffin.”
“At what time?”
“Time is a construct.”
“That sounds like a no.”
She took the bar because he was right and she hated being predictable.
“Thank you,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do not make it weird.”
“I am accepting gratitude respectfully.”
“You look smug.”
“I’m quietly moved.”
“Worse.”
He leaned one shoulder against the boards, careful with his weight. “How’s the kingdom?”
Billie took a bite of the protein bar and regretted it immediately. “This tastes like sweetened cardboard with ambition.”
“It was the best one in the vending machine.”
“That machine was installed in 2008.”
“Strong vintage.”