Page 17

Two weeks later

LIV

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg dances through the air as I work the dough beneath my fingertips, its soft elasticity a familiar comfort.

All around me, the competition kitchen buzzes with nervous energy—whisks clanging against metal bowls, ovens humming to life, and the occasional muffled curse from a frazzled contestant.

I catch Maia's eye across our shared workstation, and we exchange a quick smile. Her reassuring nod bolsters my confidence. "We've got this, tesoro," I whisper, the Italian endearment slipping out unconsciously.

"You bet your biscotti we do," Maia replies with a wink.

I giggle, my hands never stopping their rhythmic kneading. "Ouch, that was terrible."

"Hey, I'm trying here! Not all of us can drop Italian phrases as effortlessly as flour on our aprons."

I glance down at my flour-dusted front and grin. "It's my badge of honor, remember?"

As I shape the dough into a perfect circle, my mind wanders to Elliott. I wonder if he's as nervous about his match as I am about this bake-off. The thought of his steely determination—that look he gets when he's in "Iceman" mode—steadies my hands.

"Earth to Liv," Maia's voice cuts through my reverie. "Your dough's going to turn into bread if you keep working it like that."

"Oh! Thanks," I say, hastily setting the dough aside to rest. "Just got lost in thought for a moment."

"Thinking about a certain rugby player, perhaps?" Maia teases, her eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. "Maybe," I admit. "But right now, this pie is my only focus. Nonna's recipe is going to knock their socks off!"

"That's the spirit!" Maia cheers, raising her rolling pin like a trophy. "Now, let's show these amateurs how it's done!"

With a determined nod, I turn my attention back to the task at hand. The competition kitchen may be a far cry from my cozy cafe in Ponsonby, but with Nonna's recipes in my heart and Maia by my side, I'm ready to rise to any challenge.

I slide my bolognese pie into the oven, a satisfied smile playing on my lips. The aroma of simmering meat and herbs fills the air, mingling with the buzzing energy of the competition kitchen. But as I turn back to my workstation, something catches my eye.

"That's odd," I mutter, frowning at my spice rack. "Where's my?—"

My heart skips a beat as I realize my signature blend of Sicilian chili flakes is missing. I always keep it on the far left, a fiery pop of color among the earth-toned spices. But now there's just... empty space.

"No, no, no," I whisper, frantically rifling through my ingredients. "This can't be happening."

As panic begins to set in, a memory flashes through my mind: my ex-fiance Ricky's smug smile as he passed by the cafe earlier.

"That snake," I hiss, my fingers curling into fists. "He wouldn't dare..."

But even as I say it, I know he would. Ricky's never been one to play fair, especially not when his pride's on the line.

I take a deep breath, channeling my inner Elliott. What would he do in a moment like this? Probably something impossibly calm and collected, the jerk.

"Okay, Liv," I tell myself, "time to improvise. You've got this."

As I reach for my backup stash of red pepper flakes (always be prepared, that's my motto), I wonder how Elliott's match is going. Is he feeling as off-kilter as I am right now?

I sprinkle the flakes into my sauce, tasting carefully. It's not quite the same, but it'll have to do. Take that, Ricky, you cheating swine.

"Game on," I mutter, a determined grin spreading across my face.

"Maia!" I hiss, grabbing my friend's arm. "The nutmeg - it's been swapped with cinnamon!"

Maia's eyes widen. "No! That sneaky cheating twat..."

"I know, right? My bolognese will taste like Christmas threw up in it!" I'm trying not to panic, but my heart's racing faster than Nonna chasing a runaway meatball.

Maia's face suddenly lights up. "Wait, I've got it! Remember that trick your Nonna taught us? The one with the red wine and..."

"...and the secret blend of herbs!" I finish, a grin spreading across my face. "Maia, you're a genius!"

We spring into action, moving around each other like we're in some kind of culinary ballet. I grab the wine while Maia raids the herb garden.

"You know," I say, chopping basil at lightning speed, "this reminds me of that time Elliott and I tried to make tiramisu in the dark."

Maia snorts. "Did you end up wearing more of it than eating it?"

"Let's just say coffee liqueur makes an interesting hair gel."

As we work, I wonder how Elliott's game is going. Is he facing his own challenges on the field? I hope he remembers what I told him - sometimes the best plays are the ones you improvise.

"Earth to Liv!" Maia waves a spoon in front of my face. "Less daydreaming about your rugby hunk, more sauce saving!"

I laugh, refocusing on our culinary rescue mission.

"Right, sorry! Let's show these judges what a real Italian comeback looks like!

" I toss a pinch of oregano into the simmering sauce, watching it dance on the bubbling surface.

"You know, Maia, if this works, we should rename it 'The Phoenix Pie' - rising from the ashes of sabotage! "

Maia chuckles, her hands a blur as she grates Parmigiano-Reggiano. "More like 'The Panic Pie' if you ask me. But hey, panic makes perfect, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," I say, giving the sauce a dramatic stir. "Nothing says 'Michelin star' quite like last-minute hysteria."

We share a laugh, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. I take a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma of tomatoes and herbs. It smells like home, like Nonna's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. I can almost hear her voice: "Liv, tesoro, cooking is like love. Sometimes you have to improvise."

"Liv," Maia interrupts my nostalgia, "I think we're ready for the grand assembly. Shall we?"

I nod, determination settling over me like a warm blanket. "Let's do this. For Nonna, for Ponsonby, and for the honor of perfectly crispy crusts everywhere!"

The oven door closes with a soft thud, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My bolognese pie, resurrected from the brink of disaster, now bakes away behind the smudged glass. I lean against the counter, my legs suddenly wobbly.

"Gosh," I mutter, wiping my flour-dusted hands on my apron. "That was closer than Nonna's secret ingredient to being discovered."

Maia shoots me a grin from her station. "You've got this, Liv. That pie's going to rise higher than Elliott's penalty kick."

I laugh, even as my heart does a little flip at the mention of Elliott. "Let's hope so. Though knowing him, he's probably already nailed it and is off celebrating with a protein shake."

My momentary mirth fades as I glance around the competition kitchen.

The stakes here are higher than a triple-decker wedding cake.

Winning could mean everything for my little Ponsonby café – exposure, expansion, maybe even my own cooking show.

'Liv's Kitchen: Where Every Meal is a Love Letter.

' A way to afford a new location in Ponsonby so that my mother doesn’t hold my future in her perfectly manicured hands.

I shake my head, chuckling at my own daydream. "Focus, Garner," I whisper to myself. "You didn't come this far to let a little sabotage ruin everything."

The memory of discovering the tampered ingredients makes my blood boil. Ricky's smug face flashes in my mind, and I have to resist the urge to turn one of my rolling pins into an impromptu cricket bat.

"Hey," Maia calls out, snapping me from my revenge fantasy. "Your timer's about to go off. Want me to check on your pie?"

I straighten up, squaring my shoulders. "Grazie, but I've got this. Time to face the music... or in this case, the pie."

As I reach for my oven mitts, I send a silent prayer to the culinary gods. 'Please,' I think, 'let this pie be as perfect as one of Elliott's tackles.'

The timer on the oven dings, its cheerful sound a stark contrast to the knot in my stomach. I exchange a glance with Maia, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"Well, here goes nothing," I mutter, slipping on my oven mitts. They're adorned with little cartoon sheep – a gift from Elliott that never fails to make me smile, even now.

As I pull the pie from the oven, the rich aroma of bolognese fills the air. It smells heavenly, but after the earlier sabotage, I worry.

"It looks perfect, Liv," Maia reassures me, already grabbing a cloth to wipe down our workstation. "Riccardo can stuff his missing spices where the sun don't shine."

I snort, setting the pie down to cool. "Maia! What would your nonna say?"

"She'd say 'Brava!' and then teach me how to curse in proper Sicilian." Maia grins, tossing me a damp cloth.

I laugh, my resolve strengthening. Whatever happens next, I know I've given it my all. Just like Elliott always does.

A quarter hour later, the judges glide toward my station, their faces as blank as freshly rolled pastry. My heart does a tap dance that would put Fred Astaire to shame.

"Ms. Garner," the head judge intones, her voice as crisp as a perfectly baked crust. "Your bolognese pie, if you please."

I present my creation with shaking hands. "Enjoy," I murmur, my nonna's words slipping out unbidden.

The judge takes a bite, and I hold my breath. His face remains impassive, and my stomach drops. But then—was that a twitch at the corner of his mouth?

ELLIOTT

The locker room echoes with pre-game chatter, but it's all white noise to me as I focus on lacing up my boots. Each pull of the laces is deliberate, a ritual that grounds me in the present moment.

"You good, Iceman?" Robbie, our scrum-half, calls out.

I give him a curt nod, not trusting my voice just yet. The truth is, I'm far from good. My knee throbs with a dull ache, a constant reminder of the injury that nearly ended my career last season.