Page 8

A few days later

LIV

The roar of the crowd hits me like a wall as I step into the stadium. It's a sea of red and black. The colors of Elliott's team swirl around me in a dizzying display. I clutch my ticket tightly, feeling both exhilarated and overwhelmed.

"Excuse me," I mutter, trying to weave my way through the throng of excited fans.

I spot my seat and slide into it, heart pounding with anticipation. The energy in the air is electric, crackling with excitement and anticipation. I've never experienced anything quite like this before.

A booming voice over the loudspeaker announces the teams, and I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of Elliott. When I finally spot him, my breath catches in my throat. He looks so different on the field – focused, intense, every inch the "Iceman" I've heard about.

"First time at a match?" The woman next to me asks, noticing my wide-eyed expression.

I nod, unable to tear my gaze away from the field. "Is it always this... intense?"

She laughs. "Oh, poppet, you ain't seen nothing yet. Just wait 'til the game starts!"

As the teams take their positions, I feel a surge of pride. That's my Elliott out there, I think, before catching myself. When did I start thinking of him as mine?

The whistle blows, and the crowd erupts. I find myself swept up in the excitement, cheering and clapping along with everyone else. As I watch Elliott move across the field with grace and power, I realize I'm seeing a whole new side of him – and I can't wait to learn more.

ELLIOTT

I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar pre-game tension coil through my muscles. The roar of the crowd fades to a distant hum as I focus on my breathing. In and out, slow and steady. But today, something's different. My focus keeps darting to the stands. I’m searching for a familiar face.

"Oi, Snow! You looking for your girlfriend?" Josh, our scrum-half, elbows me with a cheeky grin.

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. "Just scanning the crowd, mate. Gotta know our audience, right?"

But inside, my heart's racing. Is she here? Did she make it? What if she thinks rugby's boring? What if?—

No. Focus, Elliott. You've got a job to do.

I shake out my arms, trying to channel that icy concentration that earned me my nickname. But as I jog onto the field, I can't help one last glance at the sea of faces. And there she is – Liv, her dark hair catching the sunlight, her smile bright enough to outshine the stadium floodlights.

"Alright, boys," I call to my teammates, a new fire igniting in my chest. "Let's give them a show they won't forget."

LIV

I gasp as Elliott intercepts a pass. He sprints toward the try line, his powerful legs eating up the field. The crowd around me surges to their feet, a wall of sound that vibrates through my bones.

"Go, Elliott!" I shout, caught up in the moment. "Run!"

The woman next to me – Sandra, I've learned – grabs my arm. "He's going to do it! Your boy's going to score!"

My boy. WE’ve only been dating for a few weeks. I should correct her, but I'm too busy holding my breath as a player from the opposing team bears down on Elliott. There's a heart-stopping moment where I think he'll be tackled, but then –

"He's through!" Sandra screams, and I'm screaming too, jumping up and down as Elliott touches the ball down over the line.

The stadium explodes with cheers. Elliott's teammates mob him, slapping his back and ruffling his hair. Even from here, I can see the fierce joy on his face, so different from his usual quiet demeanor.

"Quite a sight, isn't he?" Sandra says, nudging me with a knowing look.

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away. "He's... incredible," I breathe, and I'm not just talking about his rugby skills. His kindness and compassion take my breath away. Combined with his physical power, his passion—I’m falling hard.

As if sensing my gaze, Elliott turns towards the stands. Our eyes meet, and even across the distance, I feel a jolt of electricity. He raises a hand in a small wave, and I wave back, grinning like an idiot.

"Oh, honey," Sandra chuckles beside me. "You've got it bad."

Elliott jogs back to his position, all fire and focus and grace. I can’t look away, and I think she might be right.

I wait by the stadium exit, my heart racing faster than it did during the match. When Elliott emerges, still flushed from the game, his eyes light up as they find mine.

"Liv!" He jogs over, a grin breaking across his face. "You came!"

"As if I'd miss seeing the great Iceman in action," I tease, raising an eyebrow. "Though I have to say, you didn't seem very icy out there."

Elliott chuckles, running a hand through his damp hair. "Ah, well, I had some extra motivation today." His eyes meet mine, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest.

"Oh?" I step closer, unable to resist. "And what might that be?"

"I'll give you a hint," he says, his voice lowering. "She makes the best pastries in Ponsonby."

I laugh, swatting his arm playfully. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Snow. Speaking of pastries, how about we head back to mine? I promised to teach you the art of cannoli-making, remember?"

Elliott's eyes light up. "I thought you'd never ask. Though I warn you, I'm rubbish in the kitchen."

"Don't worry," I say, linking my arm through his as we start walking. "I'll be gentle with you. Can't risk damaging those star player hands, after all."

As we make our way through the bustling streets of Auckland, I steal glances at Elliott. The fierce competitor I saw on the field has melted away, replaced by the warm, slightly shy man I've come to adore.

Back at my apartment, I lead Elliott into the kitchen. The familiar scents of vanilla and almond envelop us as I gather ingredients. Miss Lemon, my shaggy cat, welcomes us with chirps and purrs.

I watch with delight as Elliott soothes her and pats her. Even she likes him.

“What a nice pussycat you are.” Elliott rubs her cheeks, and Miss Lemon lies down, exposing her belly.

"Right, before my cat Miss Lemon steals you away," I say, clapping my hands together. "Ready to become a master pastry chef?"

Elliott eyes the array of bowls and utensils warily. "I make no promises."

I laugh, handing him an apron. "First step, measure out the flour. Think you can handle that?"

He washes his hands thoroughly, then takes the measuring cup, a determined set to his jaw. "I've faced down 300-pound forwards. I can handle a bit of flour."

I watch, amused, as he carefully scoops the flour. His brow furrows in concentration, reminding me of his intense focus on the field. It's endearing, seeing this softer side of the 'Iceman'.

"Perfect!" I exclaim as he finishes. "Now, for the real challenge – mixing the dough."

As I guide Elliott through the steps, I marvel at how natural this feels. The way he listens intently to my instructions, the brush of his arm against mine as we work side by side – it all feels right in a way I never expected.

"You know," I say, watching him struggle adorably with the dough. "For someone so graceful on the rugby field, you're surprisingly clumsy with pastry."

Elliott grins sheepishly. "Different skill set, I suppose. Though I have to admit, I'm enjoying this a lot more than tackling practice."

I feel a flutter in my chest at his words. "Is that so?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light. "And why's that?"

He pauses, his flour-dusted hands stilling. When he looks at me, there's a warmth in his eyes that takes my breath away. "The company, for one," he says softly.

For a moment, we stand there, the kitchen fading away around us. Then, a dollop of dough plops onto the counter, breaking the spell.

I clear my throat, fighting back a blush. "Right, well, let's see if we can salvage these cannoli. Nonna would never forgive me if I let you ruin her recipe."

As we continue working, laughter and the sweet scent of pastry filling the air, I think that this – flour-covered hands, shared smiles, and all – might just be the start of something wonderful.

I giggle as Elliott's brow furrows in concentration, his tongue peeking out slightly as he works the dough. For all his athletic prowess, he's endearingly out of his element here.

"Come on, Iceman," I tease, bumping his hip with mine. "Where's that legendary focus now?"

He shoots me a playful glare. "I'll have you know, this is far more challenging than any lineout I've ever faced."

"Oh, really?" I arch an eyebrow. "I thought rugby players were supposed to be good with their hands."

Elliott's cheeks flush slightly, but his eyes sparkle with mischief. "Maybe I just need the right... motivation."

My heart skips a beat at his suggestive tone. I clear my throat, trying to keep things light. "Well, how about this: the first one to roll out a perfect circle gets to lick the spoon?"

"You're on." He grins, his competitive nature kicking in.

We work side by side, so close our elbows brush occasionally, sending little jolts of electricity through me.

At one point, Elliott reaches across me for the rolling pin, his chest pressing briefly against my back.

I inhale sharply, catching the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the sweet aroma of the cannoli filling.

"Sorry," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

"No problem," I manage to squeak out, my hands suddenly feeling clumsy as I sprinkle more flour on the counter.

We fall into a comfortable rhythm, the kitchen filled with the soft sounds of dough being rolled and the occasional burst of laughter when one of us makes a particularly misshapen circle.

It's easy, being with Elliott like this.

Natural. Like we've been doing this together for years instead of hours.

"You know," I say softly, stealing a glance at his profile, "for someone who claims to be hopeless in the kitchen, you're not doing too badly."

He looks up, a smudge of flour on his cheek that I have to resist the urge to wipe away. "I've got a good teacher," he says, his voice warm.