Page 23 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
I roll my eyes but can't help grinning. "Sorry, mate. My autograph's reserved for rugby balls and the occasional napkin. Wouldn't want to devalue the Snow brand, you know?"
The lads burst into laughter, a few of them miming dramatic fainting spells. It's a relief, their banter cutting through the tension that's been building since those vultures with cameras showed up.
"Alright, you muppets," I call out, clapping my hands. "Less yapping, more tackling. We've got a game to win this weekend, remember?"
As we line up for the next drill, I catch Coach Finnegan's eye. His weathered face is set in its usual stoic expression, but there's a glint in his eye that I recognize all too well. He jerks his head, beckoning me over.
"Snow," he says gruffly as I jog up. "A word."
I nod, bracing myself. Finnegan's 'words' are rarely long, but they always pack a punch.
"Those cameras bothering you?" he asks, his voice low enough that the others can't hear.
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Nothing I can't handle, Coach."
The weight of it settles over me, heavy and undeniable. Once, I played the fame game to my advantage—smiling for cameras, making the right connections, securing deals that kept my future steady. I knew how to spin a story, how to control the narrative. But now? Now, the wrong headline could unravel everything. One misstep, one viral moment, and I could lose more than a sponsorship or a place on the team. I could lose her.
Liv doesn’t care about the spotlight. She never signed up for this circus. And if I drag her into it—if my name in the headlines makes her life harder—what happens then?
I push the thought down and square my shoulders. “Crystal,” I reply, forcing certainty into my voice. I can’t afford to slip. Not now.
He nods once, then claps me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. "Right then. Get back out there and show these boys how it's done."
I rejoin the team and glance at the sidelines again. The cameras are still there, waiting. I take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Liv and the media circus out of my mind. For now, there's only the field, the ball, and the game I love.
The rhythmic thud of my footfalls on the treadmill echoes through the nearly empty gym. Sweat trickles down my back as I push myself, each stride a deliberate attempt to outrun the thoughts swirling in my head.
"Keep your head in the game, Snow," I mutter, Coach Finnegan's words from earlier still ringing in my ears.
I crank up the speed, my muscles burning. It's just me and the machine now, no cameras, no expectations. Just the steady beat of my heart and the whir of the treadmill.
But even as I run, I can't shake the image of Liv's face when that photographer ambushed her cafe. The way her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she rallied.
"Bloody vultures," I growl, increasing the incline.
As I round the thirty-minute mark, my phone chirps. It's Liv.
"Hey, Iceman. How's the solo sweat session?"
I grin. "Better now. How's my favorite baker?"
There's a pause, and I can almost see her biting her lip. "Oh, you know. Just off to have a lovely chat with Mum about 'important family matters.' Should be a real hoot."
My stride falters. "Want me to tag along? I could use my rugby skills to tackle any disapproving relatives."
Liv's laugh crackles through the speaker. "Tempting, but I think I'll face this one solo. Save those tackles for the field, yeah?"
I slow to a cool-down, but I can't shake the knot in my stomach. "You've got this, Liv. Remember, you're tougher than Mum's fruitcake."
"Don't I know it," she quips. "Alright, I'm off to face the music. Wish me luck! I’ll see you this weekend."
The call ends, and I step off the treadmill, my muscles pleasantly sore but my mind still racing. I towel off and I wonder if all this – the media circus, the family drama – is worth it.
Then I think of Liv's smile, of the way her eyes light up when she talks about her latest baking creation, and I know. It's worth every damn minute.
The press conference room buzzes with anticipation, a sea of eager faces and poised cameras. I stand at the podium, my teammates flanking me, trying to channel the icy focus that earned me my nickname. But beneath my calm exterior, my stomach's doing more flips than I've ever managed on the field.
"Mr. Snow," a reporter pipes up, "your recent relationship with Liv Garner has caused quite a stir. How do you balance your personal life with your professional commitments?"
