Page 4 of Sweet Rucking Temptation
She hesitates, then takes the box with a small nod. As the door closes behind her, I let out a long breath, the tension slowly ebbing from my shoulders.
I turn back to my waiting customers, plastering on a bright smile. But inside, a small part of me wonders if I'll ever be able to bridge the gap between my dreams and my mother's expectations.
As I lock up Dolce Vita, the scent of cinnamon and warm bread lingers in the air. I pause, my hand on the door, and glance back at the cozy interior. My little slice of heaven.
"Nonna would be proud," I whisper, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips.
I step onto Ponsonby Road, the fairy lights in shop windows twinkling like earthbound stars. The night air carries a hint of salt from the harbor, mingling with the aroma of nearby restaurants. It's a magical hour, when the day's bustle fades into evening's soft embrace.
"Buona notte, Ponsonby," I say, giving a little wave to my beloved district.
I continue my walk home, a new spring in my step. Tomorrow's another day, another chance to prove myself. To show the world – and Mamma – what Liv Garner is made of.
"Watch out, Ponsonby," I whisper with a grin. "Your favorite baker's just getting started."
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.
