Chapter Ten Mason Reed #2
“You think they’re involved?”
“I think they wouldn’t know Billie’s photo existed. But they’d love a storyline about me being manipulated by a rink manager or getting distracted by a woman during a comeback.”
Harper typed. “They liked the post eighteen seconds after it went live.”
“That’s fast.”
“Very.”
“Could have alerts set on my name.”
“Do they cover Australian hockey?”
“Not unless they can use it to talk about North American players.”
Harper clicked to another screen. “They also reposted the morning show clip with the caption, ‘Mason Reed’s Sydney reboot comes with built-in PR romance.’”
Mason’s hands went cold.
Gabe’s text flashed through his mind.
Don’t get attached to a rink that can’t get you back.
His agent would not leak Billie’s photo. Gabe was too smart, too controlled, and too focused on Mason’s value to do something this messy.
But would Gabe push a storyline?
Would he let North American media frame Sydney as a soft reboot with a charming local handler?
Mason did not know.
And he hated that he did not know.
Harper watched him carefully. “You just thought of someone.”
“My agent.”
Her brows lifted.
“I’m not accusing him,” Mason said quickly. “He wouldn’t have access to the photo. But he’s been pushing hard for me to keep Sydney temporary, controlled, useful. He hates the shootout. Hates the romance angle unless he can manage it. Hates anything that makes me look like I’m staying.”
Harper absorbed that. “Would he contact an account like PuckSideDoor?”
Mason laughed without humour. “Not directly.”
“Through someone?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
The words tasted bad.
Harper sat back. “You need to tell Billie.”
“I know.”
“Before she hears it another way.”
“I know that too.”
Mason stood too quickly.
His knee sent a bright line of pain up his leg.
He grabbed the edge of the desk.
Harper said, “Ice pack.”
“I need to find Billie.”
“You need to not limp into her trauma looking like an avoidable medical bill.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled. “You and Billie take the same management course?”
“She teaches it.”
Harper grabbed the ice pack from the small freezer in the corner and shoved it at him. “Go. But steady.”
There was that word again.
Steady.
Mason took the ice pack and headed down the back corridor toward the archive.
He did not follow Billie earlier.
This was different.
He had information now.
At least, that was the argument he made to himself as he walked.
The archive corridor sat behind the operations office, past two storage rooms and a door labelled STAFF ONLY in fading blue letters.
It was quieter back here. Warmer too, away from the rink’s bite.
The walls were crowded with old posters for public skate nights, faded tournament brackets, and a framed photo of the original Harbour Ice Centre opening.
Mason stopped at the corner.
Billie stood in front of an open cupboard.
Inside were banker boxes, old binders, rolled posters, trophies missing labels, and framed photos stacked against the wall. One box sat on the floor at her feet, lid removed.
She held a photo frame in both hands.
Her back was to him.
Mason could have spoken.
He did not.
For one second, he let himself see what she would never show a crowd.
The tilt of her head. The stillness. The way her thumbs rested against the frame like touching the past might cut her.
Then she said, “You were told not to follow me.”
He closed his eyes.
Of course.
“I didn’t. At first.”
She turned.
Her expression was cool, but her eyes were bright.
Not tears.
Billie did not do tears, apparently.
Just storms held at the edge of weather reports.
“I found something,” Mason said.
“That better be the reason.”
“It is.”
Her gaze dropped to the ice pack in his hand. “And the knee?”
“Harper bullied me.”
“Good.”
He stayed several feet away. “Can I come closer?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard.
She looked at him.
Then at the open cupboard.
Then at the photo in her hands.
“Yes,” she said.
He stepped forward slowly.
The photo she held was not the same one posted online.
This one showed a man Mason guessed was her father standing beside teenage Billie near the rink boards.
He had one arm around her shoulders. She was holding flowers and wearing the same competition dress from the leaked photo. Her smile was small, tired, proud.
Her father looked like a man trying not to cry.
Mason’s chest tightened.
“Your dad?”
Billie nodded.
“Tom Hartley,” she said. “He hated figure skating music and still sat through every program. Said if his girl was willing to spend that many hours jumping on frozen water, the least he could do was clap off beat.”
Mason smiled faintly. “Sounds like a good dad.”
“He was.”
The words were clean.
The grief beneath them was not.
She set the frame carefully on top of the box.
“The posted photo is missing,” she said.
Mason looked into the cupboard. “The actual frame?”
“Yes.”
“So someone opened this, took it out, photographed or scanned it, and posted it.”
“Or gave it to someone who did.”
The fluorescent light hummed.
Mason wanted to say he was sorry.
He had apologised enough to know when the words would not help.
Instead, he said, “Harper found a North American gossip account boosted the post immediately.”
Billie’s face changed. “North American?”
“PuckSideDoor. They ran stories on me last year. Ugly ones.”
Her eyes sharpened, shifting from pain to analysis. “Would they know you’re here?”
“Definitely.”
“Would they care about me?”
“Only if they can use you to make a story about me.”
Billie looked away.
He hated that sentence.
Hated himself for being the reason it could be true.
“My agent has been messaging me,” Mason continued. “He wants the shootout controlled or cancelled. He doesn’t like the romance angle. He wants Sydney to look like a clean comeback stop, not a place where I’m getting attached.”
Her gaze returned to him slowly.
Attached.
He had said it without meaning to.
Or maybe he had meant to.
Billie did not blink. “Do you think your agent posted that photo?”
“No.”
“Do you think he pushed the story?”
Mason swallowed. “I don’t know.”
That was the honest answer.
It cost him.
Billie looked back at the open cupboard.
A long silence passed.
Then she said, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“We don’t know. So we don’t accuse. Harper keeps tracking. Mark checks internal access. You call your agent.”
His stomach tightened. “Billie.”
“You call him, Mason. And you ask.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
He nodded once.
Fair.
More than fair.
But he did not move.
Billie noticed. “What?”
“I don’t want this touching you.”
“It already did.”
“I know.”
His voice came out rougher than intended.
She looked at him.
He set the ice pack down on a stack of boxes and held her gaze.
“I’m sorry my mess brought attention to your locked doors.”
For once, she did not correct the apology.
She only looked at the photo of her father.
Then back at him.
“You didn’t open the cupboard,” she said.
“No. But the spotlight followed me here.”
“And I turned it on the rink.”
“For the kids.”
“For the rink,” she said. “For all of it.”
“Yes.”
“So stop trying to carry all the blame.”
He almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because of course Billie Hartley would stand in front of a violated archive cupboard and tell him not to carry everything.
“You first,” he said.
Her mouth tightened.
“Low blow,” she said.
“Accurate.”
“Rude.”
“Also accurate.”
For one fragile second, her eyes warmed.
Then she looked away.
“I used to hate that photo,” she said.
Mason stayed quiet.
Billie touched the edge of the empty space where the missing frame must have been. “Not because of how I looked. Because everyone said I looked powerful. Beautiful. Like I knew exactly where I was going.”
She laughed once, soft and bitter.
“I didn’t. I was exhausted. My hip hurt all the time. My coach wanted more. The judges wanted cleaner. Dad wanted me happy, but I could tell he was scared of how much it cost. Mum wanted me safe. I wanted to be chosen for something other than how well I could perform under pressure.”
Mason’s chest ached.
Billie’s voice thinned, but held.
“Then Dad got sick. And skating became the first thing that had to go. Not in one dramatic moment. Just less training. Fewer competitions. More shifts here. More appointments. More bills. More being useful.”
Mason did not move.
She glanced at him. “You understand that word.”
“Yes.”
“Too much?”
“Yeah.”
The quiet was not empty now.
It was full of every version of themselves they had performed until it became easier than admitting they were tired.
Billie set the frame down gently.
“That photo was from my last serious competition,” she said. “Dad put it on his wall because he said it proved I could fly.”
Mason’s throat tightened.
He wanted to touch her.
He did not.
Billie turned toward him. “Someone stole it to make me look calculated.”
“I don’t believe them.”
“I know.”
She said it quickly.
Like she did know.
Like his trust had already become a fact in the room.
Mason could not breathe quite right.
Billie looked at him, and the air changed.
Not into flirtation this time.
Something deeper.
More dangerous because it was not playful at all.
His phone rang.
The sound cut through the corridor like a puck off glass.
Mason glanced down.
GABE.
Billie saw the name.
Her face closed halfway.
“Answer it,” she said.
Mason did.
On speaker.
Not because Gabe deserved privacy. Because Billie deserved transparency.
“Mason,” Gabe said, voice sharp. “Finally.”
Mason kept his eyes on Billie. “You’re on speaker.”
A pause.
“With who?”
“Billie Hartley.”
Another pause.
Then Gabe’s tone changed. Smoother. Agent-polished. “Ms Hartley. I wish we were speaking under better circumstances.”
Billie’s face did not move. “So do I.”
Mason said, “Did you feed anything to PuckSideDoor?”
Silence.
Billie’s gaze sharpened.
Gabe exhaled. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I asked a question.”
“I’ve made calls to manage your narrative. That is my job.”
Mason’s stomach went cold. “What calls?”