Epilogue Billie Hartley #2
But she did not walk away either.
Billie’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
Mason smiled. “You sound like Luca.”
“Take that back.”
“Immediately.”
She watched Sophie say something that made Luca’s smile fade into something real.
Then Billie looked away because spying on someone else’s emotional disaster before noon was rude.
Even if informative.
Mason leaned against the wall beside her, careful with his knee out of habit now, not pain. “Gabe called this morning.”
Billie’s pulse changed.
There it was.
The hard thing.
First.
She lifted her chin. “Okay.”
“He confirmed the later evaluation window. Eight weeks from now. Not next week. Not rushed. They reviewed Sophie’s report and the video. They’re willing to wait.”
Billie breathed in slowly.
Eight weeks.
Not no.
Not gone.
Not now.
“What do you want?” she asked.
His mouth curved faintly. “I love that you ask that before telling me the sensible option.”
“I can do both.”
“I know.”
“What do you want?”
He looked through the glass at the ice.
“I want to keep rehabbing here,” he said. “With Sophie scaring me and Alby insulting my decision-making.”
“Excellent program.”
“I want to play out the Blades block properly, not like I’m half out the door.”
Her throat tightened.
“And I want to take the evaluation when it comes, if my knee is ready. Not because I’m desperate to prove the old version of me still exists. Because I want to know what the next version can do.”
Billie nodded.
That was fair.
That was healthy.
That still hurt a little.
Both.
Sophie would be unbearable if she knew how often Billie used that word now.
Mason turned toward her. “And I want us to keep choosing this honestly. No promises we aren’t ready for. No pretending the evaluation doesn’t matter. No pretending this doesn’t matter either.”
Billie looked at him.
This.
Them.
The slow-built, coffee-fed, rink-haunted thing between them.
She could do honest.
Maybe.
She was learning.
“I want that too,” she said.
His face softened.
“And I want,” she added, “for you to stop bringing me banana bread like I cannot feed myself.”
“No.”
“Mason.”
“That is a hard boundary from me.”
“You are impossible.”
“I am community useful.”
“Max has ruined you.”
“Max improved me.”
She laughed.
Mason reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.
Billie stared at it. “If that is a grand gesture, I’m leaving.”
“It is not.”
“Suspicious envelope.”
“Operational envelope.”
She took it cautiously.
Inside was a photo.
The restored image of Billie at seventeen, mid-spin in the blue competition dress.
Not the stolen version.
Not the one Ryan had used.
This copy was clean, carefully printed, and placed in a simple sleeve. On the back, in Mason’s handwriting, were four words.
You were already flying.
Billie stopped breathing.
“Mason.”
“I asked Harper where to get it printed properly. She yelled at me for secrecy, then cried, then approved the paper stock.”
Billie stared at the photo.
Her younger self looked powerful.
Exhausted, yes.
Imperfect, probably.
But not trapped.
Not performing for Ryan. Not reduced to a caption. Not a weapon.
A girl in motion.
A girl who had loved something, survived leaving it, and still became someone worth watching.
Her eyes burned.
“Mason.”
“You don’t have to display it,” he said quickly. “Or keep it. Or feel anything specific about it. I just hated that the only version back in your hands was the one he damaged.”
Billie looked up.
His face was careful.
Nervous, almost.
The man had faced Luca D’Amato, viral outrage, security threats, sponsor dinners, and medical uncertainty, but he looked genuinely afraid of getting this wrong.
That undid her more than the photo.
She stepped closer.
“Mason.”
“Yeah?”
“This is the kind of thing that makes it very difficult to maintain emotional distance.”
His breath caught.
“Is that a complaint?”
“Yes.”
“Should I apologise?”
“No.”
His smile started.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
Not a sponsor-dinner kiss.
Not careful because people were nearby.
This one was still sweet, still closed-door, still theirs, but deeper in the way honesty was deeper. In the way trust was. In the way choosing did not need to be loud to be serious.
Mason’s hand came to her waist, light, asking.
She stepped closer.
Answering.
Behind the glass, someone shouted.
Billie pulled back.
Mason closed his eyes. “Please let that not be Nate.”
“It was absolutely Nate.”
From the rink, Nate yelled, “I SAW NOTHING THROUGH REFLECTIVE GLASS!”
Theo shouted, “THEN WHY ARE YOU YELLING?”
Max’s voice joined in. “COMMUNITY USEFUL STATUS CONFIRMED!”
Billie buried her face against Mason’s chest.
He laughed, arms coming around her just enough to hold, not trap.
“Our team is still a disease,” she muttered.
“Our team,” he said again.
She smiled against him.
“Yes.”
They returned to the lobby hand in hand because hiding was exhausting and Harper already had eyes like a hawk with Wi-Fi.
Nobody made too much fuss.
That was a lie.
Evie made a lot of fuss silently, which was somehow worse.
Harper cried again.
Nate saluted with a rental skate until Alby shouted at him to put down equipment.
Max updated Mason’s badge from Community Useful to Community Useful, Under Romantic Review.
Billie confiscated the marker.
By late afternoon, the first Junior Gear Fund distribution had helped thirty-eight kids walk out with skates, pads, sticks, gloves, helmets, or vouchers for what could not be fitted immediately.
The girls’ development block filled its first waitlist. Graham’s grant paperwork was clean.
Mark had finally begun the painful process of telling Billie every old thing she should have been told years ago, one file at a time, with apologies and no excuses.
The rink was not fixed forever.
No rink ever was.
The compressor still rattled when offended.
The receipt printer remained dramatic.
The back storage needed rekeying.
Someone had put glitter in the skate sharpener again, and Billie had narrowed suspects to Nate, Max, and, worryingly, Evie.
But the cold held.
The kids showed up.
And at 5:30, as the final family left and the lobby settled into a golden, tired quiet, Billie stood beneath the Harbour Ice Centre sign with Mason beside her and watched the last child race back in to yell, “Thank you!” before disappearing into the Sydney evening.
Billie’s throat tightened.
Mason’s hand brushed hers.
“Prepared?” he asked softly.
She looked at him.
He smiled.
Not asking if she was okay.
Learning her language.
Loving her in it, though neither of them had said that word yet.
Not out loud.
Soon, maybe.
When it had more roots.
When it had more daylight.
When it had earned the kind of care both of them now knew it deserved.
Billie slipped her hand into his. “Yes.”
He squeezed once. “Good.”
She leaned into him.
Just a little.
Enough.
The rink hummed behind them.
Sydney heat waited outside.
Inside, the ice stayed bright, stubborn, impossible, and theirs.
Billie looked up at Mason. “You know the bet is technically over.”
He smiled. “Did I win?”
She considered him, because a Hartley woman should never give away full approval too easily.
“You were wrong about Australian hockey.”
“Deeply.”
“You apologised.”
“Repeatedly.”
“You became useful.”
“Community useful.”
“You listened.”
“I’m trying.”
“You stayed beside.”
His smile softened.
“So far,” he said.
Her heart warmed.
Honest.
Not overpromising.
Better.
Billie lifted one brow. “Then I suppose you may be upgraded.”
“To what?”
She stepped closer, smiling despite herself.
“Acceptable.”
Mason laughed.
Then kissed her again under the Harbour Ice Centre sign, while somewhere inside, Max shouted, “ACCEPTABLE IS BASICALLY A TROPHY!” and Nate yelled, “PUT IT ON A HOODIE!”
Billie broke the kiss only long enough to point toward the lobby.
“No hoodies!”
Harper’s voice floated back immediately.
“Too late!”
Mason laughed against her cheek.
Billie closed her eyes and let herself laugh too.
Because some bets were disasters.
Some became fundraisers.
Some saved rinks, humbled imports, exposed bitter men, and taught women who had carried too much that help was not illegal.
And sometimes, if you were very lucky and extremely well caffeinated, the man who started as your problem became the person standing beside you when the ice finally held.
The Sydney Ice Bet was over.
But Billie Hartley had a terrible feeling Sydney Ice was only getting started.