Page 19

LIV

The streets of Ponsonby are alive with an electric energy I've never felt before. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, strung between the Victorian-era buildings like a canopy of stars. The air is rich with the scent of my winning bolognese pie, mixed with the earthy aroma of coffee from nearby cafes.

"Liv! Liv!" A chorus of voices calls out as I make my way down the crowded sidewalk. I wave, my cheeks aching from smiling so much.

"Mia cara!" Nonna Sofia appears at my side, her eyes sparkling. "Your nonno would be so proud. He always said you had magic in your fingers."

I squeeze her hand. "And in my heart, Nonna. That's all you."

The celebration spills out of my cafe onto the street. Friends, family, and what seems like half of Ponsonby have gathered to share in the joy. Music pulses from somewhere, a lively song that has people spinning and laughing.

I scan the crowd, searching for one face in particular. My heart does a little flip when I spot him, his tall frame easy to pick out. Elliott. He's wearing sweats, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, looking deliciously rumpled and utterly out of place among the fashionable Ponsonby crowd.

Our eyes lock across the sea of people. In that moment, it's like everyone else fades away. I see the pride in his gaze, mirroring what I feel for him. We've both achieved our dreams today, and somehow, inexplicably, we've done it together.

I start to make my way towards him, but I'm waylaid by a group of elderly ladies from the neighborhood.

"Oh, Liv dear," Mrs. Watkins coos, patting my arm. "That pie of yours was simply divine. You simply must share the recipe!"

I laugh, shaking my head. "Ah, but then I'd have to kill you, Mrs. Watkins. Nonna's recipes are more closely guarded than the crown jewels."

As I chat, my eyes keep drifting back to Elliott. He's talking with some of his teammates now, but his gaze continually finds mine. There's a softness there I've never seen before, a warmth that makes my insides feel like freshly baked bread.

I wonder if he feels it too, this strange, wonderful connection we've forged. From flour-covered hands to grass-stained jerseys, we've supported each other through it all. And now, here we are, celebrating our victories together.

The music swells, and I find myself swaying to the beat. I catch Elliott's eye again and raise an eyebrow, silently asking if the great 'Iceman' can dance. He grins, a challenge accepted.

He weaves his way towards me, and I think: win or lose, with Elliott by my side, every day feels like a celebration.

The flash of cameras is blinding, turning the warm Ponsonby evening into a dazzling spectacle. I squint, momentarily disoriented by the barrage of light and shouted questions.

"Liv! Over here!"

"Elliott, a word about the match?"

"How does it feel to be rugby's new power couple?"

I feel a warm, steady hand on the small of my back. Elliott. His touch grounds me, and I take a deep breath, letting the chaos fade into background noise.

"Oh my," I mutter, leaning into him. "Is this what it's like to be a rugby star all the time?"

Elliott chuckles, his voice a low rumble. "Usually there's more mud involved. You holding up okay, pastry queen?"

I nod, mustering a smile for the cameras. "Just imagining them all as cannoli waiting to be filled. Much less intimidating that way."

We pose for a few more photos, answering questions with practiced ease. It's overwhelming, but there's an undercurrent of joy that can't be dampened. We've both achieved our dreams today, and sharing this moment... Well, it's sweeter than any dessert I've ever created.

As the crowd's attention shifts, Elliott gently steers us towards a quiet corner of the celebration. The fairy lights strung above cast a soft glow, reminding me of fireflies in Nonna's garden back in Italy.

"So," he says, his eyes twinkling. "Bolognese pie, huh? Sounds like something I'd eat after a match."

I laugh, swatting his arm playfully. "Don't knock it till you've tried it, Iceman. I'll have you know it's a perfect blend of comfort food and culinary innovation."

"I don't doubt it," he says softly, his expression growing serious. "You're pretty incredible, you know that?"

My heart does a little flip. "Look who's talking, Mr. Game-Winning Kick. We make quite the team, don't we?"

Elliott nods, taking my flour-dusted hand in his calloused one. "We do. Who'd have thought a rugby player and a baker..."

"Stranger things have happened." I squeeze his hand. "Like you actually learning to knead dough without turning my kitchen into a war zone."

We burst out laughing, the sound of our shared mirth rising above the din of the celebration.

In this moment, surrounded by the twinkling lights and the warm Ponsonby air, I feel invincible.

With Elliott by my side, I'm ready to take on whatever challenges come our way – on the rugby field, in the kitchen, or in life.

Elliott's laughter fades to a chuckle as he pulls me closer, his cologne mingling with the scent of fresh-baked bread that seems to follow me everywhere.

"Speaking of war zones," he murmurs, his eyes darting to the swarm of reporters still hovering nearby, "how's it feel to be Auckland's newest celebrity chef? "

I roll my eyes, but can't help the grin tugging at my lips. "Oh, please. I'm hardly a celebrity. Though I suppose I could get used to signing pie crusts instead of autographs."

"Better work on your signature then, love," Elliott teases, his thumb tracing circles on my hand. "Can't have your fans confusing your autograph with a flour doodle."

I raise an eyebrow, feeling that familiar spark of playful competition ignite between us. "At least my fans can spell 'bolognese.' Unlike some rugby hooligans I know who think it's a type of shoe polish."

Elliott's eyes widen in mock offense. "Oi! I'll have you know we're very cultured. Why, just last week, the lads and I had a riveting discussion about... uh... the aerodynamics of meatballs."

I can't hold back my laughter, the sound bubbling up from deep in my chest. It's moments like these – ridiculous, perfect moments – that make everything we've been through worth it.

As our laughter subsides, I notice a shift in Elliott's gaze. The playfulness is still there, but it's joined by something deeper, more intense. My breath catches as he cups my face with his free hand, his touch impossibly gentle for someone known as the 'Iceman' on the field.

"Liv," he murmurs, and suddenly the noise of the celebration fades away. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart as Elliott leans in, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that's both tender and electrifying.

The world around us disappears. There's no crowd, no cameras, no pressure – just us, wrapped in a moment that feels like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once.

I melt into the kiss, my hands finding their way to the nape of Elliott's neck, anchoring myself to him as the rest of Ponsonby falls away.

As we finally break apart, I'm breathless and giddy. The world slowly comes back into focus, and I realize we're surrounded by a sea of smiling faces. Our friends, family, and what seems like half of Ponsonby are beaming at us, their joy palpable in the warm evening air.

Elliott squeezes my hand, his blue eyes dancing with mischief. "Well, that's one way to make the front page, eh?"

I laugh, leaning into him. "Oh please, as if your game-winning kick wasn't enough."

He pulls me closer, his arm wrapping around my waist. "Nah, this is better. Much better."

I scan the crowd, my heart swelling as I take in the familiar faces.

There's Maia, my sous chef, giving me an exaggerated wink.

And Oscar, Elliott's brother, raising a glass in our direction.

Even Mr. Scott, my curmudgeonly neighbor who swears he hates sweets, is here, discreetly wiping at his eyes.

"We did it," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. "We really did it."

Elliott's voice is low, just for me. "We sure did, love. Though I think 'weathering storms' is putting it mildly. More like survived a category five cyclone of drama, yeah?"

I snort, very unladylike. "Says the man who thought hiding in my walk-in fridge was a good escape plan."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

As we banter, I marvel at how far we've come. From that first meeting in a bar to this moment of pure, uncomplicated happiness. It hasn't been easy, but standing here, surrounded by love and the twinkling lights of Ponsonby, I know it's been worth every struggle.

My eyes finally land on Nonna Sofia, standing a little apart from the crowd. Her weathered face is alight with a smile that could outshine the sun. As our gazes meet, she gives me a small nod, filled with pride and something that looks suspiciously like 'I told you so.'

"Elliott," I murmur, "let's go say hi to Nonna."

We make our way through the crowd, the scent of fresh pastries from nearby cafes mingling with the crisp evening air. Elliott's hand is warm in mine, a steady anchor in the sea of well-wishers and flashing cameras.

Nonna Sofia's eyes twinkle as we approach, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. "Ah, i miei cari ," she says, her accent thick with emotion. "Come here, let me look at you both."

I step forward, enveloped in the comforting scent of rosemary and olive oil that always clings to her. "Nonna, I couldn't have done this without you."

She cups my face in her flour-dusted hands. "Nonsense, my Livia. The talent was always in you, like yeast in dough. I just helped it rise."

Elliott chuckles beside me. "I think I'm starting to speak fluent baking metaphor now."

Nonna's eyes crinkle with mischief. " Bene, bene . Then you know, young man, that the best recipes are passed down through generations."

I feel my cheeks flush, catching her not-so-subtle hint. "Nonna!"

But as I watch her gaze move between us, I'm struck by the depth of love in her eyes. It's not just pride in my accomplishments or approval of Elliott. It's a profound joy at seeing family – old and new – coming together.

"You know," Elliott says softly, "I think I'm finally understanding what you meant about tradition being the heart of good baking."

Nonna nods sagely. " Sì , because like love, the best traditions adapt. They grow stronger with each generation that embraces them."

As we stand there, bathed in the warm glow of Ponsonby's fairy lights, I feel a sense of rightness settle over me. This is where I belong – creating new traditions while honoring the old, with the people I love most in the world.