Page 18

As I finish with my boots, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The familiar scent of liniment and sweaty gear fills my nostrils, centering me. I can do this. I have to do this.

"Don't push yourself too hard out there, mate," Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We need you for the long haul."

I look up, meeting his concerned gaze. "I won't let the team down, Coach," I assure him, my voice steadier than I feel.

As the rest of the team files out towards the field, I linger for a moment. My hand unconsciously reaches for my phone, thumb hovering over Liv's name in my contacts. A part of me wants to hear her voice, to draw strength from her unwavering belief in me.

But no. I can't distract her from her own competition. Instead, I pull up the last photo she sent me—a steaming cup of coffee next to a delicate pastry, the early morning light of her Ponsonby cafe softening the edges. It's a slice of calm amidst the storm of my pre-game jitters.

"You've got this, Elliott," I mutter to myself, channeling my inner Liv. "Just like kicking stones into the river back home. One play at a time."

With one last deep breath, I tuck my phone away and stand. The roar of the crowd filters through the tunnel, calling me forward. It's time to be the Iceman they all expect me to be.

As I join my teammates, I wonder if Liv's feeling the same mix of excitement and terror. Whatever happens out there on the field or in her kitchen, I know we're in this together—even when we're apart.

The whistle pierces the air, and suddenly, the world explodes into motion. Bodies collide with bone-jarring force, the thud of impact mixing with the thunderous roar of the crowd.

I dart forward, my eyes locked on the ball as it arcs through the air. My legs pump harder, muscles straining as I weave between opposing players.

"Snow! On your left!" comes a shout from one of my teammates.

I pivot, narrowly avoiding a tackle that would've sent me sprawling. The ball slams into my chest, and for a split second, time seems to slow. I can see every blade of grass, feel every bead of sweat on my brow.

This is what I live for.

"Go, go, go!" I yell, tucking the ball under my arm and sprinting towards the try line.

The crowd's cheers swell, becoming a physical force that propels me forward. My lungs burn, and my recently healed knee twinges with each step, but I push through it all.

In my mind, I see Liv's face, her eyes sparkling with that mix of determination and mischief I love so much. I wonder if she's facing her own challenges right now, fighting through with that stubborn grace of hers.

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 that competition 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."