Page 14

A week later

LIV

The words on my phone screen blur as I blink rapidly, trying to process what I'm reading. My fingers tap a nervous rhythm against the glass display case, sending tiny vibrations through the rows of carefully arranged pastries.

"No way," I mutter, squinting at the review as if that might somehow change its contents. "This can't be right."

But there it is, in stark black and white: "Disappointing stodge from an overhyped newcomer. Save your money and your taste buds."

My stomach lurches. I've poured my heart and soul into this café, into every cannoli and pastry that leaves my kitchen. Stodge? How can someone dismiss it so casually?

A customer approaches, and I plaster on what I hope is a convincing smile. "Hello! What can I get for you today?"

I box up their order, and my mind races. What if this review drives people away? What if all my hard work crumbles like... well, like badly-made biscotti?

No. I take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of coffee and warm pastry. Nonna Sofia's voice echoes in my head: "Liv, mia cara, remember - a good baker never lets her dough fall flat. You knead it, you shape it, you make it rise again."

I straighten my shoulders. One bad review doesn't define me or my café. I think of the way Nonna's eyes crinkled with pride when I told her I was opening this place, of the countless hours we spent perfecting family recipes together.

"Thank you," I say to the customer, handing over their package with a genuine smile this time. "Enjoy your day!"

As they leave, I glance around my cozy café. The early morning sunlight streams through the windows, glinting off the polished espresso machine. The air is rich with the aroma of fresh-baked pastries and brewing coffee. This is my dream, my passion - and no nasty review can take that away.

I roll up my sleeves, determination settling in my chest like a warm cornetto. "Alright, universe," I mutter, heading towards the kitchen. "You want to challenge me? Bring it on. I've got some seriously delicious revenge to bake."

"Order up!" I call out, sliding a plate of my signature scones across the counter. The customer, a regular with a passion for floral flavors, beams at me.

"Liv, you've outdone yourself again," she gushes, inhaling deeply. "These smell divine!"

I flash her my brightest smile, pushing down the nagging worry that's been plaguing me all morning. "Thanks! I hope they taste even better than they smell."

As I turn to grab the next order, I catch a glimpse of a phone screen over a patron's shoulder. My heart sinks as I recognize that blasted review, its harsh words seeming to leap off the screen.

"Everything okay, love?" An elderly gentleman peers at me over his newspaper, concern etched on his weathered face.

I force my lips into a cheerful curve. "Absolutely! Just thinking about my next baking experiment. How about a slice of tiramisu on the house?"

His eyes light up, and I bustle off to the kitchen, grateful for the momentary distraction. But as I reach for the mascarpone, I wonder – is my passion enough to keep this dream alive? Or am I just fooling myself, like Nonna's stories of magical kitchen spirits that helped her bake?

I shake my head, dusting my hands with cocoa powder.

No. I won't let one nasty review break me.

I've got flour in my veins and determination in my heart. And right now, I've got a cafe full of hungry customers who deserve nothing but my best. I let myself get distracted; that’s the only reason that bad review happened. But if I stay focused from here out, I’ll be fine.

"Chin up, Liv," I mutter to myself, channeling Nonna's no-nonsense tone. "Time to show them what you're made of."

With renewed purpose, I throw myself back into the rhythm of the cafe, each smile a little more genuine, each pastry a testament to my resilience. And if I happen to add an extra sprinkle of love to every dish... Well, that's just the Garner family secret ingredient.

ELLIOTT

The rugby ball spirals towards me, a blur of brown against the azure Auckland sky. I stretch, muscles screaming, fingertips just grazing leather –

And miss. Again.

"Come on, Snow!" Coach bellows from the sidelines. "My gran could catch that, and she's been dead for ten years!"

I grit my teeth, jogging back into position. The turf beneath my cleats feels like concrete, every step sending jolts of pain through my healing knee.

"You alright there, mate?" Jonah asks as he jogs past.

"Never better," I lie, forcing a grin.

The whistle blows, and we're off again. I push myself harder, faster, ignoring the way my body protests. The ball comes my way once more, and this time, I snag it. A brief flare of triumph before –

WHAM!

I hit the ground hard, the air driven from my lungs. For a moment, all I can see are stars.

"Snow! You're supposed to dodge, not hug the guy!"

I roll to my feet, wincing. "Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again."

But it will. Because right now, I'm moving like a geriatric sheep, not the star player I'm supposed to be. The guys are counting on me, the team needs me at my best, and I'm... not.

As I line up for the next drill, I think of Liv's cafe.

The way her eyes light up when she talks about her latest creation, how she pours her heart into every pastry.

Maybe I should swing by after practice, grab a flat white and one of those heavenly ricotta tarts.

The thought of her smile is almost enough to make me forget the ache in my knee.

Almost.

The whistle blows again. I take a deep breath, ignoring the doubts gnawing at the edges of my mind. One more drill. One more chance to prove I've still got what it takes.

"Alright, lads!" I shout, clapping my hands. "Let's show 'em how it's done!"

I channel every ounce of determination I've got, picturing the rocky banks of the river where I used to practice my footwork as a kid. The ground may have been uneven, but I never let it slow me down. I won't let this injury slow me down either.

I drag my battered body off the rugby field, every muscle screaming in protest. The coach's words echo in my head: "Snow, you're not the player you used to be. Maybe it's time to consider your options."

I grimace, tossing my gear into my bag. The Iceman, melting under pressure. What a headline that would make.

But as I start my truck, a different thought pushes through the fog of exhaustion and self-doubt. Liv. Her cafe. The way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, how she always seems to know exactly what I need before I do.

"Right," I mutter, shifting into gear. "Time to defrost."

The drive to Ponsonby feels longer than usual, anticipation building with each kilometer. I need her warmth, her unwavering belief in me. Maybe, just maybe, in her presence, I can remember the farm boy who once dreamed of greatness, who saw each obstacle as just another river stone to cross.

As I pull up outside Dolce Vita, I catch a glimpse of Liv through the window, flour dusting her cheek like stardust. My heart does a little skip, and suddenly, the aches in my body don't seem quite so bad.

"Alright, Iceman," I say to my reflection. "Time to let a little sunshine in."

I push open the cafe door, the familiar chime of bells mixing with the scent of freshly baked bread and espresso.

My eyes find Liv's instantly, as if drawn by some invisible force.

She's behind the counter, a smudge of flour on her cheek, and the moment our gazes lock, I feel the tension in my shoulders start to melt away.

"Ciao, bello," Liv calls out, her smile brightening the entire room. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

I chuckle, making my way to the counter. "That obvious, huh?"

She reaches out, her fingers brushing my hand. "To me? Always."

There's a moment of silent understanding between us, a shared language of unspoken worries and quiet support. I can see the shadows under her eyes, the slight tremble in her fingers as she reaches for a mug.

"How about we grab a quiet corner?" I suggest, nodding towards the cozy nook by the window. "I've got a feeling we both could use a chat."

Liv's eyes soften. "You read my mind, Iceman. Give me two minutes, okay?"

As she bustles around, preparing our usual orders, I settle into the corner booth. The late afternoon sun filters through the window, casting a warm glow over the cafe's weathered wooden tables and mismatched chairs. It's so quintessentially Liv – a perfect blend of comfort and charm.

She joins me moments later, sliding a steaming flat white across the table before cupping her own mug of chamomile tea.

"Alright, rugbyman," she says, her voice gentle. "Spill. What's going on in that handsome head of yours?"

I take a sip of coffee, buying time. "Training's been... rough. Coach thinks I'm losing my edge."

Liv's brow furrows. "And what do you think?"

"I think..." I pause, surprised by the lump forming in my throat. "I think maybe he's right. I'm not bouncing back like I used to. And the team, they're starting to look at me differently. Like I'm... fragile."

Liv reaches across the table, her warm hand covering mine. "Oh, Elliott. You're anything but fragile. You're the strongest person I know."

I manage a weak smile. "Says the woman who built this place from scratch."

She laughs, but it's tinged with something sadder. "Yeah, well... about that. I got a review today. Not exactly five stars, if you know what I mean."

My protective instincts flare. "What? Who would dare?—"

"It doesn't matter who," she interrupts, her voice wavering slightly. "What matters is... it made me question everything. Am I good enough? Is this place good enough?"

I squeeze her hand. "Liv, this cafe is your heart and soul. One bad review doesn't change that."

She nods, but I can see the doubt lingering in her eyes. "I know, I know. It's just... My family sacrificed so much for me to do this. What if I'm letting them down?"

"Hey," I say, leaning in closer. "You remember what you told me after that match in Christchurch? When I thought I'd blown our chance at the finals?"

A small smile tugs at her lips. "That you're more than just one game?"

I nod. "Exactly. And you, Liv Garner, are more than just one review. You're the heart of Ponsonby, the queen of tiramisu, and the woman who can make even a battered rugby player feel like he's home."

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but her smile is genuine now. "Thank you, Elliott. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably have a lot more pastries left at the end of the day," I tease, earning a playful swat on the arm.

As we sit there, sharing our fears and drawing strength from each other, I realize something. We might both be facing our own battles, but together, we're an unbeatable team.

I linger at the counter, watching Liv as she ties her apron with a flourish. Her eyes sparkle with renewed determination, and I smile.

"You're plotting something delicious, aren't you?" I ask, leaning in conspiratorially.

Liv grins, a dusting of flour already on her cheek. "Oh, you bet your rugby shorts I am. That bolognese pie isn't going to bake itself into legend."

She bustles into the kitchen, and I follow, drawn by her energy. The aroma of herbs and simmering sauce envelops me as Liv attacks a mound of dough with gusto.

"Take that, you naysayers," she mutters, kneading with fierce concentration. "I'll show you what real Italian passion tastes like."

I chuckle, leaning against the doorframe. "Should I be jealous of this pie?"

Liv looks up, her smile radiant. "Only if you can't handle a little competition, Iceman."

As I watch her work, I feel a surge of admiration. This is Liv in her element – creating, persevering, transforming setbacks into fuel for her fire. It's inspiring, and suddenly, I can't wait to channel this same energy into my own challenges.

"Well," I say, reluctantly pushing off from the door, "I should let you work your magic. Got some training to crush myself."