Page 11

ELLIOTT

The crisp Christchurch morning nips at my skin as I sprint across the dew-covered field. My lungs burn, muscles screaming in protest, but I push harder. This is where I belong—on the pitch, chasing that oval ball like my life depends on it. Because, in a way, it does.

"Snow! Pick up the pace!" Coach Finnegan's gruff voice cuts through the air.

I grit my teeth, digging deep for that extra burst of speed. The familiar weight of the rugby ball settles into my arms as I weave between my teammates, ducking and dodging imaginary opponents.

Just as I'm about to score, a flash catches my eye. I falter, nearly dropping the ball as I spot a cluster of long-lensed cameras at the edge of the field. Paparazzi. Brilliant.

"Oi, Iceman!" Jakey, our cheeky halfback, jogs up beside me. "Looks like you've got an audience. Wanna wave for the cameras?"

I roll my eyes, tossing him the ball. "How about you give 'em a show instead, mate? I hear they love a good moon shot."

Jakey's laughter rings out as we rejoin the drill, but I can't shake the unease settling in my gut.

"Oi, Snow!" Josh's booming voice cuts through my concentration as I jog back to the center of the field. "Reckon you could sign my forehead? It'll be worth a fortune online!"

I roll my eyes but can't help grinning. "Sorry, mate. My autograph's reserved for rugby balls and the occasional napkin. Wouldn't want to devalue the Snow brand, you know?"

The lads burst into laughter, a few of them miming dramatic fainting spells. It's a relief, their banter cutting through the tension that's been building since those vultures with cameras showed up.

"Alright, you muppets," I call out, clapping my hands. "Less yapping, more tackling. We've got a game to win this weekend, remember?"

As we line up for the next drill, I catch Coach Finnegan's eye. His weathered face is set in its usual stoic expression, but there's a glint in his eye that I recognize all too well. He jerks his head, beckoning me over.

"Snow," he says gruffly as I jog up. "A word."

I nod, bracing myself. Finnegan's 'words' are rarely long, but they always pack a punch.

"Those cameras bothering you?" he asks, his voice low enough that the others can't hear.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Nothing I can't handle, Coach."

The weight of it settles over me, heavy and undeniable.

Once, I played the fame game to my advantage—smiling for cameras, making the right connections, securing deals that kept my future steady.

I knew how to spin a story, how to control the narrative.

But now? Now, the wrong headline could unravel everything.

One misstep, one viral moment, and I could lose more than a sponsorship or a place on the team. I could lose her.

Liv doesn’t care about the spotlight. She never signed up for this circus. And if I drag her into it—if my name in the headlines makes her life harder—what happens then?

I push the thought down and square my shoulders. “Crystal,” I reply, forcing certainty into my voice. I can’t afford to slip. Not now.

He nods once, then claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. "Right then. Get back out there and show these boys how it's done."

I rejoin the team and glance at the sidelines again. The cameras are still there, waiting. I take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Liv and the media circus out of my mind. For now, there's only the field, the ball, and the game I love.

The rhythmic thud of my footfalls on the treadmill echoes through the nearly empty gym. Sweat trickles down my back as I push myself, each stride a deliberate attempt to outrun the thoughts swirling in my head.

"Keep your head in the game, Snow," I mutter, Coach Finnegan's words from earlier still ringing in my ears.

I crank up the speed, my muscles burning. It's just me and the machine now, no cameras, no expectations. Just the steady beat of my heart and the whir of the treadmill.

But even as I run, I can't shake the image of Liv's face when that photographer ambushed her cafe. The way her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she rallied.

"Bloody vultures," I growl, increasing the incline.

As I round the thirty-minute mark, my phone chirps. It's Liv.

"Hey, Iceman. How's the solo sweat session?"

I grin. "Better now. How's my favorite baker?"

There's a pause, and I can almost see her biting her lip. "Oh, you know. Just off to have a lovely chat with Mum about 'important family matters.' Should be a real hoot."

My stride falters. "Want me to tag along? I could use my rugby skills to tackle any disapproving relatives."

Liv's laugh crackles through the speaker. "Tempting, but I think I'll face this one solo. Save those tackles for the field, yeah?"

I slow to a cool-down, but I can't shake the knot in my stomach. "You've got this, Liv. Remember, you're tougher than Mum's fruitcake."

"Don't I know it," she quips. "Alright, I'm off to face the music. Wish me luck! I’ll see you this weekend."

The call ends, and I step off the treadmill, my muscles pleasantly sore but my mind still racing. I towel off and I wonder if all this – the media circus, the family drama – is worth it.

Then I think of Liv's smile, of the way her eyes light up when she talks about her latest baking creation, and I know. It's worth every damn minute.

The press conference room buzzes with anticipation, a sea of eager faces and poised cameras. I stand at the podium, my teammates flanking me, trying to channel the icy focus that earned me my nickname. But beneath my calm exterior, my stomach's doing more flips than I've ever managed on the field.

"Mr. Snow," a reporter pipes up, "your recent relationship with Liv Garner has caused quite a stir. How do you balance your personal life with your professional commitments?"

I lean into the microphone, a wry smile playing on my lips. "Well, I'd say it's all about good time management. Luckily, Liv's an expert at scheduling – comes with running a bustling café. She's got me on a strict regimen of tackle practice and taste-testing."

A ripple of laughter courses through the room. I press on, steering the conversation back to safer waters. "But in all seriousness, my commitment to the team and our upcoming match remains my top priority. We've been training hard, and I'm excited to show what we can do on the field."

Another reporter jumps in. "Any truth to the rumors that your growing celebrity status is causing tension within the team?"

I feel a flicker of annoyance, but keep my voice steady. "The only tension in our team is deciding who gets the last protein bar after practice. We're a tight-knit group, focused on our shared goal. Any attention I'm getting is just noise – what matters is what happens on the pitch."

Coach Finnegan catches my eye from the back of the room, giving me an approving nod. I relax a fraction, knowing I'm treading the line well.

"One last question," the moderator announces, and I brace myself.

"Elliott, your farming background is quite different from your current lifestyle. How has that shaped your approach to both rugby and your relationship?"

This one hits closer to home, and I pause, considering my words carefully.

"You know, growing up on a farm, you learn the value of hard work, of nurturing something and watching it grow.

I apply that same dedication to rugby, to my teammates, and to my relationship with Liv.

It's about putting in the effort every day, through all kinds of weather.

And at the end of the day, there's nothing quite like the satisfaction of seeing what you've built together. "

As the conference wraps up, I exhale slowly, feeling like I've just come off a particularly grueling match.

But there's a warmth in my chest too, knowing that somewhere in Ponsonby, Liv's probably laughing at my farming analogies and planning how to work them into her next batch of rugby ball-shaped cookies.

I collapse onto my couch, every muscle screaming in protest. The press conference feels like it happened a lifetime ago, but the tension still lingers in my shoulders.

I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Liv's contact.

Will she be busy? Is it too late? Before I can second-guess myself further, her face fills my screen.

"Iceman!" she chirps, flour dusting her cheek. "You look like you've been tackled by the entire NZ squad."

I chuckle. "Feels like it too. How's my favorite baker?"

"Oh, you know," Liv grins, waving a wooden spoon, "just plotting world domination via cupcakes. The usual."

Her smile falters slightly. "Saw bits of your press conference. You handled those vultures like a champ."

I run a hand through my hair, sighing. "It's not the reporters I'm worried about. It's... everything else. The pressure, the spotlight. I don't want it to change us, Liv."

She leans closer to the camera, her eyes soft. "Hey. Remember after we met, you came and bought out all the pastries to impress me?"

"In my defense, I do like pastries.," I protest, feeling warmth spread through my chest at the memory.

"My point is," Liv continues, "we can handle anything. Even nosy paparazzi and my mother's disapproving glares."

I nod, tension easing from my body. "You're right. We've got this. Together."

"Damn straight," Liv winks. "Now, get some rest, superstar. I hear you've got a big game coming up."

As we say our goodnights, I feel a renewed sense of determination. Whatever challenges lie ahead, Liv and I will face them head-on. Just like we always have.