Page 2

ELLIOTT

The rugby ball spirals through the air, a perfect arc against the crisp Auckland sky. I snatch it, my fingers finding familiar purchase on the leather. Time slows as I plant my feet, muscles coiling like springs.

"Snow! On your left!"

I pivot, my body responding before my mind can catch up. The tackle comes hard and fast, but I'm ready. I duck, spin, and break free, my legs pumping as I sprint towards the try line.

This is what I live for. The burn in my lungs, the earth pounding beneath my feet, the single-minded focus that makes the world beyond the field fade away. They don't call me the Iceman for nothing.

I cross the line and slam the ball down, a grin breaking across my face despite my best efforts to maintain my stoic reputation.

"Nice one, Elliott!" Coach Finnegan bellows from the sideline. "Again!"

As I jog back to position, a twinge in my knee sends a jolt of panic through me. I grit my teeth, pushing the sensation aside. Can't let them see. Can't let them doubt.

"You good, mate?" Josh, our scrum-half, asks as he passes.

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "Never better."

But inside, a voice whispers: What if you're not? What if this is the beginning of the end?

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. I'm Elliott Snow. I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much to let a little discomfort derail me.

"Alright, lads!" I call out, my voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. "Let's run it again. Tighter this time!"

As we reset, I can feel eyes on me. Teammates, coaches, even a few early-bird fans who've come to watch practice. They're all waiting, watching, expecting greatness.

The whistle blows, and we're off again. I push harder, ignoring the protest from my knee. Each step is a battle against doubt, against the whispers that say I'm past my prime, that younger, hungrier players are nipping at my heels.

But with each successful play, each perfect pass, I silence those voices. At least for now.

"That's what I'm talking about, Snow!" Coach roars as I set up another try. "Show these youngsters how it's done!"

I allow myself a small smile, but inside, the pressure builds. How long can I keep this up? How many more seasons do I have in me?

For now, though, there's only the game. The next play. The next tackle. The next try.

I am the Iceman. And on this field, I will not melt.

I slump onto the bench, wincing as I stretch out my leg. The ice pack numbs my skin, but it can't touch the ache deep in my muscles. Or the one in my gut.

"Bloody hell," I mutter, watching my teammates sprint across the field. Stupid knee. I should be out there with them. They're a blur of black and red, moving with a fluid grace I used to take for granted. Now? I feel about as graceful as a newborn calf.

Coach's whistle pierces the air, and I flinch. Should be out there. Need to be out there. The doubts creep in, as sneaky as the autumn chill. What if I can't come back from this? What if?—

"Oi, Iceman! You're looking proper miserable, mate."

I look up to see my brother Oscar sauntering over, his easy grin a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

"Piss off," I grumble, but there's no real heat behind it.

Oscar plops down beside me, stretching his legs out. "Now, now. Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?"

"What would Leo say, you muppet."

He clutches his chest in mock horror. "And here I thought I'd won that title fair and square! I’ll have to fight Leo for it. Next you'll be telling me Mum's meat pies aren't the best in all of Canterbury."

Despite myself, I snort. "Don't let her hear you say that. She'd have your guts for garters."

Oscar's laugh is warm, like sunshine breaking through clouds. "There he is! Knew my surly little brother was in there somewhere."

I roll my eyes, but I can feel the tension in my shoulders easing a fraction. "Yeah, yeah. What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be decompressing?"

"Nah," Oscar says, leaning back on his hands. "Thought I'd come see how my superstar brother is getting on. Though..." He eyes my propped-up leg. "Seems I might've missed the show."

I grunt, a fresh wave of frustration washing over me.

"Some show. I'm about as useful as a blunt knife right now.It’s infuriating. Half an hour ago, I was at the top of my game. A single wrong fucking step, though, and I’m done for the day.

” I shook my head. “Doesn’t take much to make me crumple these days. ”

Oscar's quiet for a moment, his usual joviality fading into something more serious. "You know, El," he says softly, "it's okay to not be okay sometimes."

I bristle. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are. And I'm the bloody Queen of England."

I want to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business. But when I look at Oscar, all I see is genuine concern in those hazel eyes so like our mum's.

I deflate, suddenly bone-weary. "What if... what if I can't come back from this, Oz? What if this is it?"

Oscar's hand lands on my shoulder, warm and steady. "Then you'll find something else to be brilliant at. But let's not write off your career just yet, yeah? You're Elliott bloody Snow. If anyone can come back from this, it's you."

I swallow hard, fighting against the lump in my throat. "When did you get so wise, big brother?"

He grins, the serious moment passing like a cloud. "Must be all the cheese. Does wonders for the brain cells."

I laugh, surprised by how good it feels. "You're full of it, you know that?"

"Yep," he says cheerfully. "But you love me anyway."

As we sit there, watching the team wrap up practice, I feel something loosen in my chest. The doubts are still there, lurking. But with Oscar by my side, they don't seem quite so overwhelming.

Maybe, just maybe, I can get through this after all.

The grass is damp beneath my boots as I jog back onto the field. My teammates glance over, surprise evident on their faces.

"Oi, Snow!" Josh calls out. "Thought you were sitting this one out?"

I grit my teeth, pushing down the flare of pain in my shoulder. "Change of plans. I'm good to go."

Coach Finnegan frowns. "You sure about this, Elliott? No one's expecting you to push yourself too hard, too fast."

"I'm sure," I say, meeting his gaze steadily. The doubt in his eyes only fuels my determination. I'll show them all. I have to.

As we line up for the next drill, I take a deep breath. The familiar scent of grass and sweat grounds me, reminding me why I'm here.

'You're Elliott bloody Snow,' Oscar's words echo in my head. 'If anyone can come back from this, it's you.'

I nod to myself. Time to prove him right.

The evening air is cool against my skin as I trudge off the field, my muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a good workout.

"Nice one out there, Snow," Coach Finnegan says, clapping me on my good shoulder.

I nod, allowing myself a small smile. "Thanks, Coach."

As I head towards the locker room, I overhear a couple of rookies chatting.

"Did you see Snow today? Man's a machine."

"Yeah, but for how long? That injury's gotta be weighing on him."

I clench my jaw, picking up my pace. Their words sting, but I refuse to let them get to me. They don't know what I'm capable of.

In the shower, the hot water soothes my tired muscles, and I think back to the field. Sure, there were moments of doubt, flashes of pain. But there were also moments of pure, unadulterated joy. The feel of the ball in my hands, the rush of a perfect pass.

As I dress, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. The determination in my eyes surprises even me.

"You've got this, mate," I mutter to myself, channeling my inner Oscar. "One day at a time."

Stepping out into the cool Auckland night, I take a deep breath. The road ahead won't be easy, but I'm ready for the challenge. Top player or not, I'm still Elliott Snow. And that's enough.