Page 22 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
"Livia. We need to talk." My mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like she's been exhumed from a tomb of Family Obligation Weekly.
I’m almost impressed by her stealth attack. "Hey, Carla," I say, trying to sound casual as my mother scrutinizes every inch of my soul.
"You’re needed at a family event this afternoon." Carla's eyes pin me with a you-know-this-is-not-optional look.
Maia stands up straighter, like she might try to run interference for me. "Liv’s had kind of a morning, and?—"
"I can speak for myself, Maia." My voice is too loud, too brittle. I’m mad at myself for sounding mad. "But thank you," I add, quieter.
Maia’s eyes are all concern, but I can’t look at her, because if I do, I might actually break down.
"Very well," Carla says, the edges of her mouth pulling into something that resembles approval. "We’ll leave shortly. Be ready." She sweeps out, a royal command performance.
I’m left staring at the space where she stood, knowing that resistance is futile and the Borg is my family. "I guess I’m going to a family thing."
"You can’t skip it?" Maia’s tone is hopeful, but she knows better.
"You heard Carla." I slump against the counter. "I’ll be disinherited if I’m late."
"So?" Maia raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like a win."
I laugh, a sad little thing that leaves me feeling hollow. "What about Elliott? Did you at least talk to him before you left?"
I grab my phone, thumbs flying over the screen. "Not yet," I say. "But I’m about to."
Maia watches me, her own phone buzzing with incoming texts, likely important. I pause before pressing send, my thumb hovering like I’m scared to cut the connection. "I won't be available after your match." The message feels inadequate, a flimsy Band-Aid for something that might need stitches.
"You should call him," Maia says, sounding so much like my conscience that I almost expect her to sprout angel wings.
"Yeah. I should." I pocket my phone, the small digital betrayal done.
"Call me if you need backup," she says as I drag myself toward my fate.
"I always need backup," I say over my shoulder. "And doughnuts."
Maia's voice is a thread of support as I reach the door. "I’ve got you covered on both." She’s already turning back to her task list, the mountain of things she’s handling while I stumble through the soap opera of my life.
I follow Carla, each step out of the bakery feeling like I'm being pulled from sanctuary to storm, from my world into everyone else's. My phone sits heavy in my pocket, the message to Elliott echoing with what I didn’t say.
8
ELLIOTT
The crisp Christchurch morning nips at my skin as I sprint across the dew-covered field. My lungs burn, muscles screaming in protest, but I push harder. This is where I belong—on the pitch, chasing that oval ball like my life depends on it. Because, in a way, it does.
"Snow! Pick up the pace!" Coach Finnegan's gruff voice cuts through the air.
I grit my teeth, digging deep for that extra burst of speed. The familiar weight of the rugby ball settles into my arms as I weave between my teammates, ducking and dodging imaginary opponents.
Just as I'm about to score, a flash catches my eye. I falter, nearly dropping the ball as I spot a cluster of long-lensed cameras at the edge of the field. Paparazzi. Brilliant.
"Oi, Iceman!" Jakey, our cheeky halfback, jogs up beside me. "Looks like you've got an audience. Wanna wave for the cameras?"
I roll my eyes, tossing him the ball. "How about you give 'em a show instead, mate? I hear they love a good moon shot."
Jakey's laughter rings out as we rejoin the drill, but I can't shake the unease settling in my gut.
"Oi, Snow!" Josh's booming voice cuts through my concentration as I jog back to the center of the field. "Reckon you could sign my forehead? It'll be worth a fortune online!"
