Page 21 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
Then, crash. It's like the heavens have opened and rained down pure chaos. Paparazzi. All in my face, snapping shots, calling my name. The quiet café morphs into a maelstrom of cameras and demands.
"Over here, mate!"
"Iceman! Give us a shot!"
They're pressing in, pushing past bewildered patrons who look like they've just realized they could be having coffee with New Zealand rugby royalty. I'm not worried for myself—I've faced tighter packs than this. But Liv? I'm already moving before I finish the thought.
I've been at this long enough to know there's no stopping them. Best I can do is slow them down, make them work for it. My frame fills their lenses as I move to cover Liv, turning the bakery into a defensive drill. She stops mid-icing, her eyes finding mine. They're full of something I don't like seeing: surprise. Maybe even a little fear. I set my jaw and do what I can. It's not enough. They keep pressing, even as I shout back a few lines of my own.
"Iceman! Look this way, mate!"
"Elliott! Over here!"
"Where's your rugby kit, eh?"
Their voices overlap, a constant pressure, each one another hit to fend off. I shuffle right, and they're already shifting left, ready for the next play. In the middle of it all, Liv is just standing there, spatula in hand, like she's forgotten it exists. And maybe me, too.
I close the gap between us, set a final pick, and give her my best pass under pressure. "I'll see you after the game," I murmur, keeping my voice low, my eyes on hers. She's wide-eyed, caught completely off guard. That's the thing with this kind of tackle; it always comes from nowhere.
My exit strategy is the rear door. Not graceful, but effective. One last look and Liv is still there, still astonished, still surrounded by the hungry pack. This isn't how I want to leave her, but it's how it has to be today. I slip into the back alley andtake a breath. I've done all I can, left her with a promise. If it were a match, I'd say I'm playing injured, but I'm still playing.
Liv stands in the chaos, and the sounds of the game are replaced with quiet once more. My frame isn't there to shield her anymore, and I imagine the questions hitting her like blows. She watches me go, and I'm sure she wonders how long until she sees me again.
The bakery is in bits. No tables upended, but the calm is gone, along with half the customers. Liv's still there, unmoving, the confusion of the past few minutes lingering around her. She's got that look again. Uncertain. I don't blame her. Fame's the worst kind of intruder, and it just walked right into her home. I hope my words meant something, even with all the noise. The cameras flash and pop, each one a reminder that I'm gone and she's in this alone.
My exit might've been quick, but the scene in the bakery plays in slow motion. Liv puts the spatula down, flour dusting her hands. She wipes the counter, like tidying up will clear the rest of the mess. Her eyes stay on the spot where I stood, even as she moves. She bites her lip, shakes her head. No, I imagine her saying, we’re not seeing each other. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Just like we agreed. Wait until after the season to go public. The flashes keep coming.
Outside, I keep to side streets, take it slow to where I've parked. The lot will catch up eventually, and I've got a plane to catch anyway. Inside, Liv stays right where I left her, exactly as I knew she would. Watching the door. Thinking too much.
I hate that the cameras got to her, hate it even more that I can’t be the shield she needs right now. But she's strong. I see it every time she takes the field in her own way, every time she sets up her life exactly the way she wants it. My leaving feels too much like the other kind of game I play—one with too manymoves and never enough time. I'm afraid of the scoreboard at the end.
LIV
I cower behind the espresso machine, breathing in chocolate and breathing out a thousand worries. In the temporary peace of the bakery's back room, Maia my employee tilts her head, eyes round with concern. "I don't suppose it's been quiet around here, too?" I say, finding refuge in sarcasm. This morning's blitz of photographers still crackles in my head, an explosive mix of flashbulbs and Elliott's determination.
"How bad was it?" Maia asks. I picture her already crafting headlines: Flour Child of Rugby Superstar. Local Pastry Chef in Way Over Her Head. Maia doesn’t ask that one out loud. She can already see my answer in my freaked-out face.
"Let’s just say it was some creative reporting," I sigh. "They pounced on us the moment we opened the front door, took up every seat in the cafe, waiting for the Iceman to saunter in. I didn’t even have time to warn him about the ambush." I tug at my apron, wishing I could erase the morning’s chaos as easily as flour dust. Maia leans in, setting her phone down like it's ready to spring into action.
"And Elliott? How did he handle it?" Her voice is like a knitted blanket of sympathy.
"He was fine, amazing actually." I roll my eyes at my own frazzled self. "Blocked me from every lens like an All Blacks fullback." The vision of Elliott, calm and solid against the whirlwind, fills me with a confused mix of admiration and self-doubt.
"You’re the one who wasn’t fine, then?" Maia knows me too well, catching the tremor under my attempt at bravado.
I take a breath, the scent of chocolate pushing back the panic. "The more he tries to protect me, the more I feel like... I don’t know, like maybe I can’t handle all this."
Maia nudges me with a gentle shoulder. "Liv, you can handle anything. Maybe even him." The corners of her lips lift, but her eyes stay serious.
I shake my head, half laughing, half despairing. "You know how they say opposites attract? Is there a saying for opposites making complete idiots of themselves?"
Maia crosses her arms, settling into supportive-friend mode. "Pretty sure you made that one up. You're being too hard on yourself."
"You think so?" I want to believe her, need to believe her, but a fresh wave of insecurity pulls me under. "What if he gets sick of it, Maia? Sick of me?"
"Stop. You're worth every second of it," she insists, with a conviction that starts to poke little holes in my balloon of doubt.
The air is heavy with sweetness and my apprehension, and I open my mouth to spill more worries when a new voice slices through.
