Chapter Eleven Billie Hartley #2
Mark’s phone buzzed. “Graham Vale says this is the right tone.”
Billie exhaled.
One fire held back.
For now.
Mason’s phone buzzed.
Everyone looked at him.
He checked it.
His expression went cold.
“Gabe?” Billie asked before she could stop herself.
“Yes.”
“What does he want?”
Mason read the text aloud, voice flat.
GABE: Saw the post. Clean pivot. Good. Do not discuss permanence publicly. Temporary line is already out. We can work with it if you stay disciplined.
Mason looked up.
His gaze found Billie.
She could not read it this time.
That scared her more than she wanted to admit.
“Reply?” Harper asked.
Mason’s thumb moved over the screen.
Billie’s heart kicked.
He read as he typed.
MASON: Stop speaking to media about Sydney, Billie, the Blades, or my future without clearing it with me first.
GABE: That’s not how representation works.
Mason typed again.
MASON: It is now.
He set the phone face down on the table.
Billie stared at it.
Then at him.
Mason did not look away.
“This is me staying disciplined,” he said.
Oh, this man.
This temporary, reckless, steady, impossible man.
Billie did not know whether to shake him or believe him.
Both seemed dangerous.
Mark broke the silence because owners had survival instincts. “Okay. Next action item.”
They worked for another hour.
Billie let the work save her.
It always did.
They built a revised event map. Harper monitored the clean post, which outperformed the gossip faster than expected.
Mark pulled staff schedules and requested camera footage.
Alby made a list of hockey restrictions for Luca’s participation, written in language that began formally and ended with “no clown behaviour,” which Billie edited against his will.
Sophie drafted medical-area rules. Mason reviewed hockey accounts for early signals of outside amplification.
Together.
That was the problem.
They worked well together.
Mason asked sharp questions when he remembered not to make jokes.
He caught that the PuckSideDoor article used two phrases Gabe had texted him previously, “disciplined comeback” and “market value,” which did not prove Gabe had given the exact quote but narrowed the path.
He recognised a Kings-adjacent fan account boosting the Luca drama but not the stolen photo.
He kept his answers calm, even when Billie could see the anger under his skin.
He iced his knee when Sophie told him to.
That should not have felt like emotional growth.
It did.
By the time the room cleared, the donation tracker had crossed thirteen thousand.
The clean post had taken over the conversation.
For now.
Billie stood at the whiteboard, staring at the two columns.
PUBLIC and PRIVATE.
Her life had become a communications strategy with emotional landmines.
The meeting room door clicked softly.
She knew without turning that Mason had stayed.
Of course he had.
She capped the marker. “You should go home.”
“I don’t have a home here.”
The sentence hit before she could shield herself.
She turned.
Mason stood near the door, one hand in his pocket, face tired. Not charming tired. Not camera tired. Real tired. The kind she recognised from hospital corridors, late invoices, and years of saying fine until the word lost meaning.
“Hotel,” she said.
“I know what you meant.”
“Then go there.”
“I will.”
But he did not move.
Billie folded her arms. “What?”
“I need to say one thing before you decide I’m too temporary to listen to.”
Her chest tightened.
“That sounds like exactly the kind of thing a temporary man would say.”
“Probably.”
“Mason.”
“I did come here thinking Sydney was temporary.”
There it was.
No dodge.
No softened edge.
Just the sentence.
Billie’s mouth went dry.
Mason stepped farther into the room, stopping on the other side of the table like he remembered her space.
Good.
Terrible.
“I came here because my agent said it was smart,” he continued. “Less pressure. Good ice. Chance to play real minutes, prove the knee, get my name clean again. I told myself that meant I didn’t have to care too much. About the city. The team. Anyone.”
Billie stared at him.
He swallowed.
“Then I got here and saw Max’s sign. And Isla telling me my left turn was dodgy.
And Harper turning a public mistake into money for kids.
And Sophie telling me to stop treating today like proof.
And Alby insulting me like it was a contract clause.
And Nate being Nate, somehow legally. And Theo watching everything that matters. ”
His eyes found hers.
“And you.”
Billie forgot how to breathe properly.
Mason’s voice softened. “You made it hard not to care.”
The room tilted slightly.
Not in a dramatic way.
In the way the body reacted when a locked door heard a key.
Billie’s first instinct was to make a joke. Her second was to make a rule. Her third was to leave.
She did none of those things.
She stood there and let the words exist.
That felt terrifyingly close to bravery.
“Mason,” she said, and hated how rough it sounded.
“I’m not asking you to trust that I know my whole future after one day.”
“Good. Because that would be ridiculous.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Agreed.”
“And concerning.”
“Also agreed.”
“And possibly jet lag.”
“Still a factor.”
Her lips almost moved.
His eyes warmed, but he did not chase the almost-smile.
He was learning.
Unfair.
“I’m saying,” he continued, “I don’t want Gabe or PuckSideDoor or Luca or some anonymous coward deciding what Sydney is before I do.”
Billie looked down at the table.
“You might decide it is temporary anyway,” she said.
“I might.”
The honesty hurt.
But it helped too.
He did not dress it up for her.
Billie could work with truth.
Painful truth was still cleaner than pretty lies.
“Then you understand why I’m not building anything on maybe.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Billie.”
She looked up.
His expression was steady.
“I’m not asking you to.”
That was the problem.
He was not asking.
He was simply standing there, letting her know the ground beneath him was shifting, and somehow trusting her not to laugh at the instability.
She hated and admired it.
Both.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
They both looked down.
Billie expected Harper.
Expected Mark.
Expected disaster, because disaster had become the day’s ringtone.
It was Evie.
EVIE: Don’t be mad.
Billie closed her eyes. “No.”
Mason’s mouth twitched. “That phrase again.”
“It haunts me.”
Another text arrived.
EVIE: I found something in the archive corridor rubbish bin.
Billie’s eyes opened.
The air changed.
Mason straightened. “What?”
Billie typed fast.
BILLIE: What?
Evie sent a photo.
A torn corner of glossy paper. White border. A scrap of blue competition dress visible. Not enough to be the whole stolen photo, but enough.
Billie’s stomach dropped.
EVIE: Also found a staff access badge under the old schedule cabinet.
Second photo.
A plastic badge.
Faded.
Old logo.
Name scratched across the bottom, but still readable.
RYAN VALE.
Billie stared.
Her skin went cold.
Mason leaned in.
“Ryan Vale,” he read. “Any relation to Graham?”
Billie’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “His nephew.”
Mason’s face darkened. “Does he work here?”
“Not anymore.”
“When did he leave?”
Billie looked at the badge again, old and scratched and suddenly more dangerous than any public post.
“After I fired him.”