Page 38 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
A massive defender looms in front of me, but I'm ready. With a quick sidestep—a move that would make Liv proud if she could see it—I dodge past him.
"That's it, Iceman!" Coach bellows from the sideline. "Show 'em what you've got!"
As I sprint the final meters to the try line, I grin. Liv was right—coming back from this injury, it's just like learning to bake all over again. You might burn a few pies along the way, but in the end, it's all about getting back up and trying again.
And right now? I'm ready to make this the sweetest victory yet.
The roar of the crowd fades to a dull hum as I stand before the goalposts, the rugby ball cradled in my hands. This is it. The moment that could turn the tide of the entire match.
I take a deep breath, feeling the twinge in my knee. Push through it, mate, I tell myself. You've kicked penalties with worse.
As I set up for the kick, I hear Liv's voice in my head: "You've got this, Iceman. Just pretend the ball is a perfectly risen soufflé, and those posts are the oven it needs to go into."
I smile. Leave it to Liv to turn a crucial rugby moment into a baking metaphor.
Focus narrows to a pinpoint. The world shrinks until it's just me, the ball, and those tantalizingly distant goalposts. I block out the pain, the pressure, the thousands of eyes watching. In this moment, I'm not Elliott Snow, rugby star. I'm the Iceman, cool and collected.
I take three steps back, two to the left. My routine, as familiar as breathing. As I prepare to launch into my approach, I think of Liv again. She'd be facing her own challenges right now, in thatcompetition kitchen. But if I know her, she's tackling them head-on, with that fierce determination that first drew me to her.
Right, then. Time to make her proud.
I exhale slowly, channeling every ounce of focus into this single, critical kick. The whistle blows, and I spring into action.
The moment my foot connects with the ball, I know. It's good. It's bloody perfect.
Time seems to slow as the ball sails through the air, a perfect arc that has the entire stadium holding its breath. I watch its trajectory, my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the collective gasp of the crowd.
Then, in a moment that feels both eternal and instantaneous, the ball strikes the post with a resounding 'thwack' that echoes through the stadium like a thunderclap.
For a split second, the world stands still. My teammates, the opposition, even the ref – we're all frozen, watching as the ball ricochets off the post.
'Come on,' I think, willing it with every fiber of my being. 'Do it for Liv. Do it for that little dance she does when she pulls a perfect loaf from the oven.'
And then, as if guided by some unseen hand –possibly wearing oven mitts– the ball spins lazily through the air and just... drops. Right between the posts.
The stadium erupts. It's like someone's turned the volume up to eleven after that moment of suspended silence. My teammates are on me in an instant, a tangle of sweaty limbs and ecstatic shouts.
"You beauty!" roars our captain, nearly lifting me off my feet. "Iceman strikes again!"
I grin, allowing myself a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. As the team starts to disperse, heading back to our positions, I glance up at the sky.
"That one was for you, Liv," I murmur. "Hope your pie turns out just as sweet."
15
LIV
The streets of Ponsonby are alive with an electric energy I've never felt before. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, strung between the Victorian-era buildings like a canopy of stars. The air is rich with the scent of my winning bolognese pie, mixed with the earthy aroma of coffee from nearby cafes.
"Liv! Liv!" A chorus of voices calls out as I make my way down the crowded sidewalk. I wave, my cheeks aching from smiling so much.
"Mia cara!" Nonna Sofia appears at my side, her eyes sparkling. "Your nonno would be so proud. He always said you had magic in your fingers."
I squeeze her hand. "And in my heart, Nonna. That's all you."
The celebration spills out of my cafe onto the street. Friends, family, and what seems like half of Ponsonby have gathered to share in the joy. Music pulses from somewhere, a lively song that has people spinning and laughing.
I scan the crowd, searching for one face in particular. My heart does a little flip when I spot him, his tall frame easy to pick out. Elliott. He's wearing sweats, a light sheen of sweat onhis brow, looking deliciously rumpled and utterly out of place among the fashionable Ponsonby crowd.
