Page 34 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
Elliott takes another bite, closing his eyes in appreciation. "You know, this pie is a lot like you, Liv."
I cock my head, curious. "Hearty and full of carbs?"
He chuckles, shaking his head. "No, though that's not entirely inaccurate. I meant it's the perfect blend of tradition and innovation. Just like how you honor your family's recipes but aren't afraid to put your own spin on things."
“I thought I might use this for the competition.”
“You’re bound to win, then, Liv. Though I think everything you bake is perfect. Kind of like you.”
“Will you be there?”
“I’ll have to rush from the match, but”—he picks up her hand and kisses her knuckles—“I’ll make it. I promise.”
“Thank you.” It’s hard to rely on someone. I’ve struggled so much for my independence. Even this competition is anotherbattle to keep my own life, to protect my future from my mother. But Elliott doesn’t try to dominate my future; he helps me achieve it.
A warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the pie. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises today, Mr. Snow? First taking care of yourself, and now you're a food critic?"
"What can I say?" he grins, leaning in closer. "You inspire me to be my best self, on and off the field."
We laugh and share stories over the remnants of our meal. Maybe, just maybe, we're cooking up something even more special than bolognese pie.
13
ELLIOTT
The crisp Auckland morning air nips at my face as I sprint across the rugby field, my cleats digging into the damp grass. My lungs burn, muscles screaming, but I push harder. I've got to prove I'm still the Iceman, that this injury hasn't melted my resolve.
"Keep it up, Snow!" Coach Finnegan's gruff voice cuts through my labored breathing. "Two more laps!"
I grit my teeth, focusing on the rhythm of my feet pounding the earth. With each step, doubt tries to creep in. What if I'm not the same player I was before? What if this is the beginning of the end?
No. I shake my head, dispelling the thoughts. I'm Elliott Snow. I learned to tackle on river stones. I've faced tougher challenges than this.
As I round the final bend, I spot Coach's stocky figure on the sidelines, his arms crossed and trademark scowl in place. I slow to a jog, approaching him with a mix of anticipation and dread.
"How'd that feel, Iceman?" he asks, his steely eyes assessing me.
I take a deep breath, weighing my words. "Honest answer?"
He nods, a flicker of concern crossing his weathered face.
"Like I'm running through molasses, Coach. Fast molasses, but still..."
Coach Finnegan grunts, his version of a chuckle. "At least your sense of humor's intact." He claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Listen, son. You're pushing too hard, too fast. Your body's still healing."
I feel my jaw clench. "But the season?—"
"Will still be there when you're ready," he cuts me off. "You think I want my star player benched because he was too stubborn to take it slow?"
I let out a frustrated sigh. "So what's the plan, then?"
Coach's expression softens slightly. "We adjust. Work smarter, not just harder. I've got some ideas that'll have you match-fit without risking re-injury."
As he outlines his strategy, mixing tough love with genuine concern, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Maybe I'm not finished after all. Maybe, with the right approach, I can come back stronger than ever.
"Thanks, Coach," I say as he finishes. "I won't let you down."
He fixes me with that piercing gaze. "I know you won't, Iceman. Now hit the showers. You smell worse than my gran's compost heap."
