Elena Ray
The First Match
The campus was alive with a kind of energy that only a sports festival could bring. Banners of bright colors fluttered in the late March wind, and the entire cricket ground glowed under the warmth of the early afternoon sun. Students crowded the stands, voices rising in a chorus of cheers, laughter, and that familiar rhythm of drums that echoed across the field. For most, it was just another inter-college cricket tournament. For Meera Kapoor, however, it was a story waiting to be told.
She sat at the very edge of the press box, her notebook balanced on her lap, pen poised. A final-year journalism student with her eyes set on sports reporting, Meera was determined to cover every ball, every run, and every slip of drama that unfolded. But it wasn’t just the match that caught her attention—it was the captain of the university cricket team.
Arav Malhotra.
Tall, with an athletic frame that seemed sculpted for the game, Arav was the kind of player who made heads turn the moment he walked onto the pitch. His presence carried a certain gravity, and his confidence radiated through every gesture—the tilt of his cap, the focus in his eyes as he marked his run-up, the effortless way he spoke to his teammates. But what struck Meera most was not his popularity or his looks. It was the sheer intensity with which he played. As if cricket wasn’t just a sport, but the only language his heart understood.
The whistle blew, and the match began. Meera’s pen danced across the page. She noted down Arav’s opening overs, the tension in his shoulders, the slight smile when he bowled his first wicket. The crowd erupted, and Meera found herself clapping before she could stop. She quickly bit her lip, glancing down at her notes. She was here as a journalist, not a fan. She reminded herself of that, but her eyes betrayed her, following Arav’s every movement.
“Focusing a bit too much on the captain, aren’t we?” a voice teased from beside her.
Meera turned to see Rhea, her best friend and fellow student, leaning against the railing with a knowing grin. “I’m focusing on the game,” Meera protested, cheeks warming.
“Sure,” Rhea chuckled, rolling her eyes. “The game. That’s why your notebook has his name underlined twice.”
Meera snapped her notebook shut, glaring. “Go back to the stands.”
Rhea laughed and left, her laughter fading into the crowd’s roar. Meera shook her head and tried to concentrate. But then came the moment she hadn’t expected.
During the drinks break, Arav jogged off the field, sweat glistening across his forehead, his jersey clinging to his shoulders. His gaze swept across the stands before settling—unexpectedly—on the press box. For a brief, breathless second, his eyes met hers. Meera froze, her pen slipping from her hand. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. He simply looked at her as though he was trying to read her thoughts. And then he was gone, back onto the field, leaving Meera with her heart racing and her notebook forgotten.
The match carried on, the sun dipped lower, and the tension rose. It was the kind of game that seemed destined for drama—last over, ten runs needed, the crowd on its feet. And there was Arav again, bat in hand, determination etched into every line of his face. The bowler charged, the ball flew, and Arav’s bat met it with a crack that seemed to split the sky. The ball soared over the boundary for a six, and the stadium exploded in cheers. Two balls later, he secured the win with another boundary. Victory belonged to them.
Students rushed the field, hoisting Arav on their shoulders. His teammates surrounded him, chanting his name. From her seat, Meera scribbled furiously, trying to capture every detail of the celebration. But her words kept slipping into something more personal, less professional. She wrote about the way his smile lit up the ground, about how his eyes burned with fire and relief, about how it felt impossible to look away.
When the crowd finally calmed and the field began to empty, Meera packed her things, determined to avoid any unnecessary encounters. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
As she walked toward the exit, notebook tucked under her arm, she collided with someone rounding the corner. Papers scattered, her pen rolled onto the ground, and she nearly lost her balance. Strong hands steadied her, and she looked up—straight into the eyes she had been trying not to write too much about.
“Sorry,” Arav said, his voice low and smooth, carrying the same confidence she had seen on the field. “Didn’t mean to run into you.”
Meera blinked, completely caught off guard. “I—it’s fine. My fault, really.”
He bent down, picked up her pen, and handed it back. His gaze fell on her notebook, the corner of which still revealed his name scribbled in bold ink. His lips curved into the faintest smile. “Journalist?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, trying to sound professional. “Final year. I was covering the match.”
“Well, I hope the coverage is kind,” he teased lightly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You know, we players live on how you people write about us.”
Meera felt her composure slipping. “I don’t write flattery. Just facts.”
“Good,” he said, studying her as though testing the weight of her words. Then, with a small nod, he added, “Facts are harder to find these days. I’ll look forward to reading them.”
And just like that, he walked away, leaving Meera standing in the corridor, her pen clenched tightly in her hand, her heart thudding against her ribs. She had come here to write about cricket, about the spirit of the game, about players and scores. But what she hadn’t expected was that the captain of the team would notice her.
As she walked back toward her hostel that evening, the cheers from the ground still echoing faintly behind her, Meera knew two things. First, this tournament was going to change everything for the team. And second—though she refused to admit it to herself just yet—it was going to change everything for her too.
Unexpected Rivalry
The next morning, the buzz of the victory still lingered across the campus. Posters of the winning moment, captured in blurry phone cameras, were plastered all over social media groups. Students walked through the corridors humming chants from the match, and the cricket team basked in their newfound heroism. For everyone, it was a festival. For Meera, it was an assignment.
She sat in the library with her laptop open, typing out the article she had promised the college newsletter. Her fingers moved quickly, the words flowing with unusual ease. She wrote about the match, the atmosphere, the thrilling last over. Yet somehow, every sentence seemed to circle back to the name Arav Malhotra. His calm under pressure. His leadership on the field. The way the entire stadium seemed to breathe in his rhythm. Meera frowned, rereading her draft. Too many mentions. Too personal. She hit backspace, trying to pare it down into something more objective.
Halfway through her rewrite, a shadow fell across her desk. She looked up, and there he was again. Arav Malhotra. In a navy blue hoodie this time, a backpack slung casually over one shoulder. His hair was damp, as though he had just come from practice.
“You write fast,” he said, pulling out the chair across from her without asking. “Didn’t think I’d see the match report this soon.”
Meera blinked. “It’s for the newsletter. Deadline’s in an hour.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “So, what’s the verdict? Did we play well enough to impress the critic?”
“I’m not a critic,” she replied sharply, though her pulse had quickened. “I’m a reporter. My job is to write facts, not opinions.”
“Facts?” His lips curved into a smirk. “Like the fact that you underlined my name twice yesterday?”
Meera’s eyes widened, heat flooding her cheeks. “You saw that?”
“I notice things,” he said lightly, leaning back in his chair. “And I’m guessing you notice more than most. Which means I should probably be careful what I do on the field.”
Her embarrassment quickly turned into annoyance. “Don’t flatter yourself. I pay attention to everyone, not just you.”
Arav chuckled, unbothered. “Good to know.” He stood up, swinging his bag onto his shoulder. “Anyway, see you at practice this evening. I hear you’re covering that too.”
Meera stiffened. “Practice? No, I wasn’t—”
“You are now,” he interrupted with a grin. “Coach likes media coverage. Said it helps morale. You’ll get your facts. I’ll get my headlines. Works out for both of us.”
And before she could protest, he walked off, leaving her fuming at his audacity. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, and certainly not by some overconfident cricket captain.
That evening, Meera dragged herself to the ground, notebook in hand. The field looked different under the orange glow of sunset. Fewer spectators, only the team and their coach running drills. Arav spotted her instantly, raising a hand in casual acknowledgment, as though her presence were inevitable.
She sat on the bleachers, scribbling notes as the players sprinted, batted, and bowled. She made it a point not to focus on Arav, though it was almost impossible. He was everywhere—bowling thunderous deliveries, correcting a teammate’s stance, shouting encouragement across the field. He carried himself with authority, and the team responded with respect.
Still, Meera noticed cracks. The pressure on him was immense. Every mistake, however small, landed heavier on his shoulders. When a young batsman missed a simple catch, Arav’s jaw tightened, his words sharp. “Focus, Rohan! This isn’t street cricket.”
Meera scribbled the exchange down. Later, when another teammate hesitated between runs, Arav threw his hands in frustration. “You’ve got to commit! Half-decisions lose matches.”
From the bleachers, Meera frowned. Leadership was one thing, but arrogance was another. Was he too hard on them? Was his confidence tipping into ego? The questions scribbled themselves in her notes, underlined and circled.
When practice ended, the players jogged off the field, exhausted. Meera packed up her notebook, but before she could leave, Arav approached her, still sweating, his expression unreadable.
“So, what’s the headline this time?” he asked. “Captain Malhotra yells too much? Or maybe, Arav’s ego bigger than his sixes?”
Meera met his gaze steadily. “If you don’t want the truth written, maybe don’t act like that in front of a journalist.”
For a second, his smirk faltered. Then he let out a short laugh. “Sharp. I like that.”
“This isn’t about what you like,” she shot back. “It’s about what people deserve to know. You’re a good player, maybe even a great one. But leadership isn’t just about winning. It’s about how you treat your team.”
Her words seemed to catch him off guard. For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, charged and unsteady. Then Arav tilted his head, studying her with something that wasn’t quite amusement anymore. “You’re not afraid to challenge me.”
“Why should I be?” she replied. “You’re just another player. I’m just another writer.”
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then softened into something almost like respect. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re both more than that.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Meera rooted to the spot. She exhaled shakily, clutching her notebook to her chest. She had expected arrogance, maybe even dismissal. What she hadn’t expected was the spark of recognition that flickered in his eyes—the acknowledgment that she wasn’t going to be easy to impress, or easy to ignore.
Back in her room that night, Meera replayed the conversation over and over. The rivalry between them had begun, unspoken but undeniable. He was a challenge—infuriating, magnetic, impossible to dismiss. And she, she realized with a mix of irritation and excitement, was ready to meet it head-on.
The Practice Sessions
The sun had barely begun its climb when Meera found herself back at the cricket ground, notebook in hand. Dew clung to the grass, sparkling like a thousand tiny mirrors, and the faint smell of wet earth filled the morning air. She wasn’t exactly a morning person, but the coach had insisted on documenting the early practice sessions for the newsletter. Meera couldn’t decide if she should thank Arav for dragging her into this or curse him.
The team was already assembled, running laps across the field. Arav led them, his long strides cutting through the cool air effortlessly. Even from the bleachers, Meera could see the intensity in his movements. He was relentless, pushing himself as much as he pushed others. She scribbled notes mechanically, though her mind kept wandering to the conversation they’d had two nights ago. His arrogance had annoyed her, but the way he had listened—really listened—still lingered in her thoughts.
“Miss Reporter, you’re early,” Arav’s voice called out suddenly.
She looked up, startled, to see him jogging toward her, sweat dripping down his forehead. He grabbed a bottle of water, downed half of it in one go, and flashed her a grin. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”
“I’m not here for you,” Meera said, lifting her pen like a shield. “I’m here for the story.”
“Same thing,” he replied with a wink, and jogged back to the pitch before she could retort.
The drills began. Nets were set up, fielders positioned, and the ground filled with the sharp crack of bat against ball. Meera found herself fascinated, not just by the game but by the rhythm of it—the easy camaraderie between teammates, the shouts of encouragement, the laughter after a misfield. And at the center of it all was Arav, both commanding and encouraging, the sun catching on the edges of his damp hair.
At one point, the coach asked Meera to step closer to the nets, to get a clearer view of the players’ techniques. Reluctantly, she moved down, notebook clutched tightly, careful to stay out of the way. Arav was batting now, facing a string of fast bowlers. Each delivery met his bat with effortless precision—drives that split the field, hooks that soared, the occasional defensive block that drew murmurs of appreciation from his teammates.
Meera scribbled rapidly, trying to capture it all. But her focus was broken when Arav suddenly glanced her way after smashing a cover drive. For just a moment, his eyes met hers through the netting. He didn’t say anything, but the slight lift of his eyebrow made her stomach flip. She quickly looked down at her notebook, furious with herself for reacting.
The session stretched on. After nearly two hours, the coach finally blew the whistle. “Pair up for partner drills!” he shouted.
Meera gathered her things, assuming she was done for the morning. But before she could leave, Arav was already at her side, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“What?”
“Partner drills,” he said casually, tossing her a practice bat. “You’re my partner.”
She blinked, gripping the bat awkwardly. “You must be joking. I don’t play cricket.”
“Good time to learn,” he said, walking her toward the nets. “Think of it as research for your article. First-hand experience.”
Meera opened her mouth to argue, but the coach—watching with amusement—nodded approvingly. “Good idea, Arav. Let her try.”
And so she found herself inside the net, helmet too big, bat too heavy, heart racing faster than it had any right to. Arav stood close, his hands lightly adjusting her grip on the bat. His touch was brief but firm, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm.
“Relax,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing. “You’re holding it like it’s a sword. Cricket’s about balance, not battle.”
“It feels the same to me,” she muttered, trying to sound composed.
He chuckled, stepping back. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”
The bowler rolled in a soft delivery, clearly toned down for her. Meera swung too early, missing completely, the bat slicing through thin air.
“Timing,” Arav said, biting back a grin. “Wait for the ball. Watch it, then swing.”
The second ball came. This time, Meera connected—barely. The ball dribbled a few feet in front of her. Her face lit up with triumph.
“Not bad,” Arav admitted. “You’ve got potential.”
They continued, with Arav patiently guiding her, correcting her stance, encouraging her with every small improvement. By the fifth ball, she managed a decent shot that sent the ball rolling past the bowler. The cheer that escaped her lips was unintentional, but genuine.
“See?” Arav said, eyes sparkling. “Not so hard.”
Meera tried to hide her smile, lowering her bat. “Don’t get used to me playing. I’m still a writer.”
“Writers can be players too,” he replied, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.
The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Meera quickly looked away, pulling off the oversized helmet. Her cheeks were warm, though the morning air was still cool.
After practice, as the players dispersed, Arav walked beside her toward the exit. “You did well today,” he said, tone softer now.
“I missed more balls than I hit,” she replied dryly.
“Still,” he said, glancing at her. “You didn’t quit. That’s what matters.”
She paused, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For the first time, she saw beyond the arrogance. There was something else in him—something driven, perhaps even vulnerable.
As they reached the gate, Rhea appeared out of nowhere, arms folded, smirking. “So, Meera, you’re batting with the captain now? Should I prepare a headline for that?”
Meera groaned. “Rhea, not now.”
But Arav only grinned, unfazed. “Go ahead. Headlines are good for me.”
Rhea raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, before walking off. Meera turned to glare at Arav, but he only shrugged, still smiling. “See you tomorrow, partner.”
And with that, he left, his footsteps echoing on the pavement.
That night, as Meera flipped through her notes, she realized they were messier than ever. Facts and observations were tangled with stray thoughts she hadn’t meant to write—words about his smile, his patience, the way his voice softened when he encouraged her. She quickly crossed them out, annoyed with herself. But deep down, she knew the truth: practice wasn’t just sharpening the team’s skills. It was pulling her closer to the one player she had sworn to keep at arm’s length.
Whispers in the Stands
By the time the next weekend rolled around, the tournament was in full swing. The cricket ground transformed into something larger than life—a carnival of colors, chants, and restless anticipation. Students filled the stands early, armed with banners, face paint, and drums. It wasn’t just a match anymore; it was campus pride on display.
Meera adjusted her press badge and notebook, weaving through the crowd toward the reserved press seats. Her job was simple: cover the semi-final. But nothing felt simple anymore. Ever since the practice session with Arav, she hadn’t been able to silence the flicker of electricity that sparked whenever he was near. The bat in her hand, his voice guiding her grip—it played like a loop in her mind. She hated herself for replaying it, but her heart betrayed her every time.
As she sat down, the noise of the crowd pressed in. The girls in the row behind her were giggling loudly. “Did you see Arav this morning? He looked so good in that white jersey. Honestly, I’d skip lectures every day just to watch him practice.”
Another chimed in, “Forget practice. I heard he’s dating someone from the Economics department. Priya Sharma. They were seen at the café last week.”
Meera stiffened, pen hovering over the page. She didn’t mean to listen, but the words dug under her skin like thorns. Was it true? Arav never mentioned anyone, but then, why would he? He was barely an acquaintance. Still, the idea of him with someone else left an unexpected sting.
She forced herself to focus on the game as the players walked out. Arav, leading the team once again, received the loudest cheer. His bat rested casually against his shoulder, confidence oozing from his stride. The girls behind Meera screamed his name until her ears rang. She clenched her notebook tighter. This was work. She was here for facts. Nothing more.
The match began, and the air grew heavy with tension. The opposition was strong, their bowlers sharp. Early wickets fell, and nerves spread through the crowd. But Arav remained unshaken. His calm presence anchored the team, his shots steady and precise. Every time his bat met the ball, the stadium roared.
Meera wrote diligently, but her notes betrayed her. She found herself describing more than just numbers and shots. Words like “grace,” “focus,” and “fire” slipped into the margins. She scowled at her own writing. A journalist wasn’t supposed to sound like a poet.
During the drinks break, Rhea slid into the empty seat beside her, holding a bag of popcorn. “You look tense,” she teased, offering her some.
“I’m fine,” Meera said flatly.
Rhea followed her gaze to the field, where Arav stood laughing with his teammates. “Ah. That explains it. Still trying to convince yourself you’re only here for the story?”
“Rhea—”
“Relax. I’m not judging. But, word of warning—people talk. Especially about him. Half the girls on campus think they’ve got a chance. And some of them actually try.”
Meera glanced at her sharply. “You mean Priya?”
Rhea raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve heard too. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s true. But don’t let gossip mess with your head.”
“I’m not letting it mess with my head,” Meera insisted. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Mm-hm.” Rhea popped another handful of popcorn. “Tell that to your expression right now.”
Before Meera could reply, the whistle blew, and play resumed. The tension in the game thickened, runs hard to come by, pressure mounting. Arav played on, shoulders carrying more than just the weight of the ball. The opposition bowled aggressively, aiming short balls at him. One delivery struck dangerously close to his ribs. He winced but stayed on his feet, brushing it off.
The crowd gasped, murmurs spreading. Meera’s heart lurched into her throat. Without thinking, she stood halfway up, gripping the railing. For a second, she forgot she was a reporter. She was just someone afraid to see him hurt.
Arav caught her eye in the stands. Just for a heartbeat, their gazes locked. Then, as if fueled by something unspoken, he steadied himself and smacked the very next ball for a boundary. The crowd erupted, and Meera sank back into her seat, cheeks flushed.
By the end of the innings, Arav had guided his team to a solid total. The crowd buzzed with excitement, and chants of his name filled the air. Meera scribbled the score down, her hands trembling slightly. Rhea watched her, smirking knowingly.
During the changeover, whispers rippled through the stands again. “He’s unbelievable. No wonder Priya’s with him,” one girl said.
“Yeah, but did you see the way he looked at that reporter girl just now?” another replied. “Maybe Priya should be worried.”
Meera froze, her pen scratching across the page. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t want to be part of campus gossip. She wanted to be invisible, a neutral observer. But it seemed that, no matter how hard she tried, eyes were beginning to notice things she wasn’t even sure of herself.
The second half of the match was equally tense, but Arav’s leadership shone again. His field placements, his pep talks to bowlers, his shouts of “One more over, give it all!” echoed across the ground. Finally, the last wicket fell, and victory was theirs. The stadium erupted, the team piling onto the field in celebration.
Arav, lifted once again on his teammates’ shoulders, scanned the stands. For a brief moment, his gaze found Meera’s. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave—but the flicker of recognition was enough. It was dangerous, that look. It carried too much meaning in a sea of noise.
When the crowd began to disperse, Meera packed up quickly, eager to escape the whispers trailing in the air. But as she headed for the exit, she heard her name.
“Meera!”
She turned. Arav was jogging toward her, still in his jersey, sweat-soaked and exhilarated. Students watched, some whispering, some smirking.
“You were standing during my knock,” he said, breathless but amused. “Were you worried?”
She straightened, masking her nerves. “I was observing. It’s my job.”
He studied her, clearly unconvinced. Then his smile softened. “Well, in that case, thanks for observing. It helped.”
Before she could respond, Priya Sharma appeared, slipping her arm through Arav’s with practiced ease. “Come on, Arav. The team’s waiting for you.”
Meera’s chest tightened, though she forced her face to remain impassive. Arav glanced at Priya, then back at Meera. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between obligation and something unspoken.
“See you around, Reporter,” he said finally, before letting Priya lead him away.
Meera stood frozen, the chatter of the crowd swirling around her. Whispers in the stands weren’t just about cricket anymore. They were about her. About them. And though she told herself none of it mattered, the hollow ache in her chest told another story.
The Rain-Soaked Evening
The monsoon had arrived without warning. One moment the sky was painted in its usual shade of humid gray, the next it broke open with a violent roar, rain pouring down in sheets thick enough to blur the cricket ground into a watercolor painting. Practice was called off within minutes, players scrambling for cover as the downpour drowned the field.
Meera, who had come to interview the coach that evening, found herself stranded under the awning of the pavilion. Her notebook was tucked inside her sling bag, safe from the rain, but her kurti was already soaked at the edges, clinging uncomfortably to her arms. She sighed, watching the field disappear under a silver veil.
“Looks like the weather wanted a time-out,” a familiar voice said.
She turned, and there was Arav, droplets sliding down his hair, his jersey plastered to his frame. His grin was easy, as though the storm itself amused him.
“You should go home before it gets worse,” Meera said, hugging her bag.
“And leave you here alone?” He shook his head, stepping closer under the narrow shelter. “Not happening.”
The space under the awning was small, and with Arav standing there, it suddenly felt smaller. The rain roared around them, a wall of sound that drowned out the rest of the world.
For a while, neither spoke. They simply stood there, watching as water collected in small pools, the floodlights reflecting like broken glass. Finally, Meera broke the silence. “So, Priya Sharma.”
Arav raised an eyebrow. “Straight to the point, huh?”
“I heard things,” she said cautiously. “About you two.”
He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Ah, the infamous campus grapevine. It never sleeps.”
“Is it true?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself. Her heart thudded as she waited for his reply.
Arav’s grin faded. He leaned against the pillar, his eyes fixed on the rain. “Priya’s a friend. That’s it. But people like stories, so they make them up. And maybe I’m guilty of letting them believe whatever they want.”
Meera frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s easier sometimes,” he said quietly. “People expect you to be someone larger than life. A hero. A star. If they want to imagine I’m dating someone, it keeps them entertained. Less pressure than proving I’m human.”
His voice carried a note she hadn’t heard before—weariness. For the first time, Meera saw him not as the confident captain, but as a young man caught in the weight of expectation.
“You don’t have to carry all of that alone,” she said softly.
He turned then, his gaze locking with hers. Rain drummed against the tin roof above, the only witness to the moment. “Maybe not,” he murmured. “But it feels like I do.”
The air between them thickened. Meera’s throat tightened, her words caught somewhere between sympathy and something she dared not name. She looked away, blinking rapidly, only to realize her feet were bare—the puddles had soaked through her sandals.
“You’ll catch a cold like that,” Arav said, noticing. Without waiting, he crouched, pulling his own jacket from his bag and placing it on the ground like a mat. “Stand here. At least your feet stay dry.”
Meera’s eyes widened. “Arav, that’s ridiculous—”
“Just do it,” he said firmly.
Reluctantly, she stepped onto the jacket. The gesture was absurd, yet strangely tender. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to let the lump in her throat spill over into tears.
Minutes passed, the storm showing no signs of mercy. The stadium was empty now, just the two of them cloaked in rain and silence. Then, suddenly, the floodlights flickered to life, bathing the drenched field in white glow.
Arav looked out at the shimmering ground. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Meera followed his gaze. The rain danced in the lights like falling stars. For once, she forgot her role as a reporter, forgot her notebook, her objectivity, her walls. She simply stood there, breathing in the moment.
When she turned back, Arav was already looking at her. His expression was unreadable—soft, intense, almost fragile.
“Meera,” he began, his voice low, barely audible against the storm. “I don’t usually talk about myself. I don’t let people in. But with you…” He paused, searching for words. “With you, it feels different.”
Her heart pounded. “Different how?”
“Like I don’t have to pretend,” he said simply.
The words hit her harder than any roar of thunder. She swallowed, her mind torn between instinct and desire. She wanted to stay guarded, to remind herself that this was temporary—that she was here to write, not to feel. But the look in his eyes made resistance impossible.
Before she could speak, a loud clap of thunder broke the moment. Arav chuckled softly, shaking his head. “The universe is dramatic tonight.”
Meera laughed, though her voice trembled. “Or maybe it’s warning us.”
“Maybe,” he said, his gaze lingering. Then, gently: “But sometimes warnings are just excuses to stop us from feeling what we already know.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time. The kind of silence that carried more meaning than words. For a fleeting second, Meera thought he might reach for her hand, or step closer. Her breath caught in anticipation.
But he didn’t. He turned away, breaking the moment, his voice steady once more. “Come on. I’ll walk you back before this storm decides to drown us.”
They left the pavilion, rain pelting down relentlessly. Arav held his sports bag above her head, shielding her as best as he could. They ran together through puddles, slipping, laughing breathlessly, drenched to the bone by the time they reached the hostel gates.
At the entrance, they stopped, both gasping for air, water dripping from their clothes. For a long second, they just stared at each other, caught in the glow of the streetlamp.
“Thanks,” Meera whispered.
Arav’s smile was small, almost shy. “Anytime.”
And then he was gone, jogging back into the rain, leaving Meera standing there, heart racing, skin tingling, mind spinning. She knew something had shifted that evening, something irreversible. The rain had washed away the lines she had drawn between them.
She walked into her hostel with wet clothes clinging to her, but it wasn’t the storm outside that left her shivering. It was the storm inside, the one she could no longer ignore.
The Breaking Point
The days after the rain-soaked evening carried a strange tension. On the surface, nothing had changed. Meera still showed up at the ground, notebook in hand, scribbling diligently as the team trained. Arav still led with his usual fire, shouting encouragement and rebuke in equal measure. To anyone else, the world remained the same. But for them—for Meera and Arav—the air felt charged, every glance heavier, every word edged with something unsaid.
The upcoming final was all anyone could talk about. The rival team, St. Dominic’s College, had a reputation for ruthless gameplay. They had knocked out last year’s champions and were hungry for another title. Pressure was mounting, and Arav bore it like armor strapped too tightly to his chest.
One evening, during a particularly grueling practice, Meera noticed the difference. Arav’s instructions were sharper than usual, his temper quick to flare. When a bowler missed his line, Arav snapped, “Are you even awake? Do you want to hand them the trophy already?” When another fielder fumbled a catch, he threw his cap to the ground in frustration.
From the sidelines, Meera winced. Her pen paused over the page. The team wasn’t responding well—she could see it in their slumped shoulders, their nervous eyes. What worried her most was how different Arav looked. Gone was the confident ease, the playful smirk. In its place was a hardness, a weight she couldn’t quite name.
When practice ended, she didn’t wait for him to approach. She marched straight to where he was gathering his kit.
“Arav,” she said, arms folded.
He glanced up, sweat dripping from his forehead, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Not now, Meera. I’m busy.”
“Not now?” she repeated. “You just tore your team apart out there. What’s going on with you?”
“They need to toughen up,” he snapped, shoving his gloves into his bag. “Do you think Dominic’s is going to go easy on them? This isn’t a playground. If they can’t handle pressure from me, how will they handle it in the final?”
Meera stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There’s a difference between pressure and cruelty. You’re pushing them so hard they’re breaking.”
He straightened, eyes flashing. “And what would you know about it? You’re not a player. You sit on the sidelines and write. Easy job. No one depends on your words to win a match.”
The sting was immediate. Meera’s throat tightened, but she refused to back down. “That’s unfair. I may not be on the field, but I see what’s happening. I see how your team looks at you now—not with respect, but with fear. You think that’s leadership?”
For a moment, Arav looked as though he might argue. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t understand, Meera. You never will.”
The dismissal cut deeper than she expected. Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, blinking back the burn in her eyes. She had come to challenge him, to make him see sense. Instead, she had hit a wall she didn’t know existed.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind replayed his words over and over, each repetition heavier than the last. You’ll never understand. Why did it hurt so much? She told herself it was professional frustration, nothing more. But deep down, she knew it was because she cared—for him, for the boy behind the captain’s armor. And he had shut her out.
The next day, whispers around campus grew louder. Rumors swirled that the team was fracturing, that Arav’s temper was breaking them apart. Priya Sharma’s name surfaced again, this time with sharper edges. “He spends more time with her than with the team,” someone muttered in the cafeteria. “No wonder the others feel neglected.”
Meera tried to ignore it, but the words gnawed at her. She didn’t want to believe them, yet when she saw Arav walking across campus with Priya at his side, laughing at something she said, her chest tightened painfully. She hated herself for the jealousy, for caring so much about something that wasn’t hers to claim.
That evening, she skipped practice. Instead, she sat in her hostel room, staring at her unfinished article. Her notes were a mess—scribbled observations about the team, crossed-out lines about Arav, stray words that read more like confessions than reporting. His shoulders are heavier now. He looks like he’s drowning. I wish he’d let me in.
Frustrated, she slammed the notebook shut. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way. She was supposed to be objective. Detached. But somewhere along the way, she had blurred the line, and now she was paying the price.
The breaking point came two nights before the final. Meera had reluctantly dragged herself back to the ground, determined to keep her role separate from her feelings. She sat quietly, jotting down observations, avoiding Arav’s gaze.
Midway through the session, one of the bowlers misstepped badly, twisting his ankle. The boy cried out in pain, collapsing onto the grass. The team rushed forward, panic spreading. Meera stood too, concern etched across her face.
But Arav’s reaction shocked her. Instead of rushing to help, he exploded. “This is what happens when you don’t focus! We can’t afford injuries now! Do you even care about the team?”
The bowler looked stricken, his pain overshadowed by humiliation. The others exchanged uneasy glances, their silence louder than words.
That was it for Meera. She stormed onto the field, her notebook forgotten. “Arav, stop it!” she shouted. The entire team turned, stunned by her outburst.
“He’s hurt, and all you can think about is the final?” Her voice shook with fury. “You talk about leadership, but this—this isn’t leadership. It’s cruelty.”
Arav’s jaw clenched. “Stay out of this, Meera.”
“I can’t,” she said fiercely. “Because I care. Not just about the story. About the people. About you.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Silence fell, the kind of silence that crackled with unspoken truth. The team stared, whispers rippling through them. Arav’s eyes widened, his mask cracking for a fraction of a second.
Then he turned away. “Go,” he said flatly. “Before you make things worse.”
Meera’s chest tightened, tears stinging her eyes. She wanted to argue, to make him see, but the wall between them was too high. Without another word, she spun around and walked off the field, her footsteps echoing against the hollow ache inside her.
That night, alone in her room, she realized the storm had finally broken—not the one outside, but the one between them. And this time, she wasn’t sure if anything could be rebuilt.
The Big Game
The morning of the final arrived heavy with anticipation. Even the air on campus felt different—thicker, charged, every gust of wind carrying the weight of expectation. Posters with slogans and hand-painted banners lined the walls of the stadium entrance. Students poured in from every direction, drums and whistles in hand, their voices already raised in chants before the first ball had even been bowled.
For most of the crowd, it was a celebration. For Meera, it felt like walking into a storm she wasn’t ready for. She hadn’t spoken to Arav since the argument on the practice field. The memory of his cold dismissal still burned inside her. And yet here she was, notebook tucked under her arm, heading to the press box to document what could very well be the most important game of his life.
From her seat, she scanned the field. The players were warming up, stretching and running drills under the blazing sun. Arav stood apart, tossing a ball from one hand to the other, his jaw tight, his eyes distant. Even from afar, Meera could sense the weight on his shoulders. He looked like a man preparing for battle, carrying both his team’s hopes and his own inner turmoil.
When the coin toss ended in their favor, the university team chose to bat first. The crowd erupted. The openers strode confidently to the pitch, but the tension was palpable. Dominic’s bowlers were ruthless, their deliveries fast and unforgiving. The first wicket fell in the second over, silencing the stands.
Meera scribbled furiously, her eyes darting between the scoreboard and the players. Another wicket fell. Then another. By the tenth over, panic had set in. Only a handful of runs on the board, three wickets down. The crowd’s cheers turned to anxious murmurs.
And then Arav walked in.
The stadium roared back to life, chants of his name echoing from every corner. He adjusted his gloves, tapped his bat on the crease, and looked around as if daring the opposition to try and break him. The bowler ran in, fast and aggressive, but Arav met the ball with a clean, cracking cover drive that sped to the boundary. The roar that followed shook the stands.
Meera’s breath caught. She couldn’t deny it—he had a presence that transformed the game itself. Every swing of his bat, every steady glance between deliveries, pulled the entire match back into balance.
But it wasn’t easy. The bowlers targeted him relentlessly, peppering him with bouncers and yorkers. His body took the blows—one delivery struck his thigh, another grazed his arm—but he didn’t flinch. His bat answered each challenge with growing defiance. A six over long-on. A boundary past point. Slowly, the scoreboard ticked upward, hope rekindling in the crowd.
By the halfway mark, Arav had anchored the innings, steering his team out of collapse. When he finally raised his bat for a gritty half-century, the stands thundered with applause. Meera found herself clapping too, her professional mask slipping. For a moment, she forgot the hurt between them, forgot the walls. She was simply part of the crowd, swept up in the magic of his resilience.
Yet even heroes falter. In the thirty-fifth over, a mistimed pull shot sent the ball skyward. The entire stadium held its breath. A fielder sprinted, hands outstretched. For a terrifying second, it looked like the end. But the ball slipped through his fingers, crashing harmlessly to the ground. The roar of relief was deafening.
Meera exhaled sharply, realizing she had been holding her breath. She pressed a hand to her chest, heart racing. Why does it matter so much? she thought. But she already knew the answer.
By the end of their innings, the team had scraped together a competitive total. It wasn’t monumental, but it was defendable. Arav walked back to the pavilion, helmet under his arm, sweat streaming down his face. His teammates clapped him on the back, grateful. From her seat, Meera caught a fleeting glance in her direction. It wasn’t a smile, nor acknowledgment, but something deeper—a flicker of connection that said he knew she was watching.
The second innings began, and the tension only grew. Dominic’s openers came out swinging, their intent clear. The bowlers from Arav’s side struggled to contain them. Boundaries flew, the crowd’s energy swinging like a pendulum.
Arav’s voice cut across the field, sharp and commanding. He adjusted field placements, encouraged his bowlers, barked instructions with authority. His intensity was undeniable, but there was something different now—a steadiness, a focus honed by fire. He wasn’t breaking his team apart. He was holding them together.
Meera scribbled furiously, capturing not just the numbers but the transformation unfolding before her eyes. The same boy who had seemed consumed by pressure days ago was now channeling it into steel.
Midway through the innings, the breakthrough came. A sharp catch at slip sent one of Dominic’s openers back to the pavilion. The crowd erupted. The bowlers gained confidence. Momentum shifted.
Over by over, the tension mounted. The sun dipped lower, floodlights flickering on, casting long shadows across the ground. Dominic’s required runs narrowed, but so did their wickets. Every ball felt like destiny hanging in the air.
And then, the final over arrived. Dominic’s needed twelve runs to win. Arav, of course, took the ball.
The crowd roared his name, a deafening chant that reverberated through the stadium. Meera gripped her notebook so tightly her knuckles whitened.
The first delivery—a dot ball. The crowd screamed in triumph.
The second—a single. Pressure built.
The third—a boundary, slashed past point. Gasps rippled through the stands.
The fourth—a wicket. Clean bowled. The ground shook with noise.
Two balls left. Seven runs needed.
Arav stood at the top of his run-up, shoulders squared, eyes blazing. He charged in, releasing the ball with everything he had. The batsman swung—mis-hit. High, looping into the air. The fielder settled under it. Caught. Out.
The stadium exploded. Dominic’s hopes crumbled.
One ball left. Seven runs still needed. Victory secured.
Arav stood motionless for a second, absorbing it, before his teammates swarmed him, lifting him high into the air. The crowd’s roar was a living thing, shaking the night sky.
From the press box, Meera’s hands trembled as she tried to write. The words blurred with tears she hadn’t realized she was holding back. Pride, relief, something deeper—emotions collided inside her like fireworks.
As the team celebrated, Arav’s gaze found her again. This time, he smiled—small, tired, but unmistakably real. And for the first time since their breaking point, Meera felt hope.
Hope that maybe the game wasn’t the only thing they could win back.
The Confession Under the Floodlights
The stadium was almost empty now. The victory chants had faded into the night, the stands deserted except for scraps of banners and paper cups scattered across the steps. Floodlights still blazed overhead, casting the field in an otherworldly glow, the grass glistening with dew. The echoes of the crowd lingered like a memory too loud to quiet down.
Meera sat in the press box long after her article was due, her notebook lying open but blank. She couldn’t bring herself to write. Words had always come easily—facts, scores, headlines. But tonight, everything inside her was too tangled. Pride, relief, anger, longing—they jostled for space, none giving way. She had seen Arav at his best, at his fiercest, at his most human. And she couldn’t deny it anymore: he had become more than just a subject for her story.
She closed the notebook, sighing, when footsteps echoed on the stairs. She looked up, and there he was. Arav Malhotra, captain, hero of the night, still in his mud-streaked jersey, bat tucked under his arm. His hair was damp, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion—but when he saw her, something softer flickered across his face.
“Still here?” he asked, voice rough from shouting.
“I could ask you the same,” she replied, hugging her bag close.
He smiled faintly, walking down to the field. “Come with me.”
Something in his tone left no room for refusal. She hesitated, then followed him down the steps, her sandals crunching against the gravel. They crossed the boundary rope, stepping onto the pitch that had just witnessed a war. Under the floodlights, the ground seemed alive, every blade of grass glowing silver.
Arav stopped at the crease, the very spot where he had turned the game. He planted his bat in the soil like a marker, then turned to face her. For a moment, he said nothing, just looked at her, as though gathering courage.
“You were right,” he said finally.
Meera blinked. “About what?”
“About me,” he admitted. “About how I was pushing too hard. About how I was breaking the team instead of building it. I didn’t want to hear it then, but… you were right.”
She studied him, unsure if this was another performance or something real. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because tonight wasn’t just about winning a match,” he said, his voice steady. “It was about realizing I can’t carry everything alone. I can’t be the hero every second. And maybe I don’t want to be. Not if it means shutting people out.”
The honesty in his tone disarmed her. She crossed her arms, trying to steady her heart. “You didn’t just shut me out, Arav. You pushed me away. Hard.”
His eyes softened, regret flickering there. “I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t know how else to deal with the pressure. I thought if I let you in, if I let myself feel…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “I was scared it would break me.”
Her chest tightened. “And now?”
He stepped closer, close enough that the glow of the floodlights lit his face in stark relief. “Now I realize it’s the opposite. You don’t break me, Meera. You make me stronger.”
The silence that followed was heavier than thunder, louder than the chants that had filled the stadium hours ago. Meera’s throat felt dry, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to believe him, but the ache of their arguments still lingered.
“Arav…” she began, her voice trembling. “This isn’t a story. This isn’t something I can just write down and move on from. If you’re saying this, you have to mean it.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I do. I mean every word. I don’t know what happens after today—after graduation, after cricket, after the noise dies down. But I know one thing. I don’t want to face it without you.”
The words hung between them like a lifeline. Meera felt the sting of tears in her eyes, but this time she didn’t fight them. She let them fall, blinking rapidly as she whispered, “You make everything complicated, you know that?”
He smiled faintly. “And you make everything worth it.”
Her breath caught. For a moment, the world seemed to hold still. The empty stadium, the hum of the floodlights, the smell of grass wet with dew—it all blurred, leaving only him, standing there with his heart bared.
She didn’t realize she had stepped closer until their shoulders nearly brushed. Her hand trembled as it hovered by his. He noticed, his eyes searching hers for permission. When she didn’t pull back, his fingers brushed against hers, tentative, unsure.
The simple touch sent a jolt through her body. She exhaled shakily, closing the last inch between them. Their hands clasped, firm, grounding, real.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.
“And you’re unforgettable,” he replied softly.
The moment stretched, fragile and infinite, until he leaned forward, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. Not a kiss, not yet, but something deeper—a confession without words.
Meera closed her eyes, letting the warmth of him sink into her, letting the walls she had built finally crumble. For the first time, she wasn’t just a reporter, and he wasn’t just a captain. They were simply two people standing under the floodlights, choosing each other despite the noise, despite the risks.
When they finally stepped back, the silence was gentle, no longer heavy. Arav squeezed her hand, smiling in that tired, crooked way that made her chest ache. “Guess we both have our stories to tell now,” he said.
Meera laughed softly, brushing at her damp cheeks. “And for once, I don’t think I mind being part of the headline.”
Together, they walked off the field, the glow of the lights following them until the shadows swallowed their figures. The game was over, the stadium silent, but for them, something new had just begun.
