Rhea Dutt
Part 1: The First Serve
The first time Aarav saw Mira, she was smashing a shuttlecock across the net with such precision that it left her opponent frozen. It wasn’t love at first sight—not yet. It was something sharper. Intrigue. Aarav, the newly recruited assistant coach at St. Augustine Sports Academy, had arrived straight from the national training camp, carrying with him the calm confidence of someone who had nothing left to prove on the court. Mira, on the other hand, was fiery, competitive, and unapologetically ambitious. She didn’t notice him at first. Her focus was the tournament two weeks away—the All India University Badminton Championship.
He watched from the sidelines that first morning, a clipboard in hand, pretending to make notes while his eyes followed her footwork, her smashes, the way she adjusted her grip mid-rally. She had the hunger he hadn’t seen in years. After the session, he walked over casually, offered a nod and a short, “Good game.”
She looked at him, sweat on her temple, hair in a tight ponytail, and offered a skeptical smile. “You’re the new coach?”
“Assistant,” he corrected, “Aarav Mehta. I’ll be helping Coach Ghosh with the singles players.”
“Mira Sen,” she said, picking up her water bottle, “Don’t hold back.”
He didn’t. Over the next few days, Aarav challenged her at every drill. He dissected her footwork, her serve, her drop shots, pushing her to adjust, to evolve. Mira, used to being the best on the court, bristled at the criticism, but grudgingly began to respect him. There was a moment one evening, post-practice, under the fading stadium lights, when she asked, “Why aren’t you still playing?”
He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “Some battles end early. Doesn’t mean the game’s over.”
From that day, something shifted. Their training sessions were intense, sometimes filled with sharp words and silence, but always electric. The other players started to notice. Their eyes lingered longer on each other. Mira found herself thinking about his quiet presence even off the court. Aarav, despite himself, began watching her walk away after practice more than he should have.
Then came the practice match. Mira against Devika, the academy’s second-best. Aarav stood in the coach’s spot, arms folded, watching Mira struggle in the first set. He didn’t say much, but at break, he offered her just one line: “You’re not playing to win. You’re playing not to lose.”
That fired her up. Mira came back and demolished the next two sets. Afterward, she walked straight to him. “Thank you,” she said, breathless, “That line? That was unfair.”
“But effective,” he said.
They stood there for a second too long. Then Mira stepped back. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”
He smiled. “Didn’t say you did.”
But that night, in her dorm room, she dreamt of the court, of victory—and of him.
And Aarav, alone in the coach’s quarters, stared at the ceiling longer than usual, Mira’s voice echoing in his ears.
Something had begun. A game that wasn’t just on the court. A serve neither of them had expected.
Part 2: Fault Lines
Mira liked routines. Wake up at 5. Cardio at 5:30. Court drills from 7. Classes at 10. Strength training at 5. Lights out by 10. She liked knowing what was coming next, where to place her feet, how to center her gravity. But Aarav was beginning to make her unsteady.
It started small—he changed warm-up patterns without warning, made her play left-handed one day just to “feel imbalance,” introduced yoga on Fridays when she hated stretching. She complained, sure, but she followed. Because deep down, even as she gritted her teeth through silent planks and cruel drop-shot drills, she could feel it working. He was unlocking something.
And yet—she didn’t like how he looked at her sometimes. Not the way other guys looked at her—cocky, or smitten, or awkward. Aarav’s eyes didn’t roam. They stayed. Like he was trying to understand her beyond the racket and reflex. And Mira didn’t like being understood. Not like that.
After one particularly grueling footwork circuit, Mira tossed her racket on the court and groaned, “What next? Want me to climb the stadium lights?”
Aarav didn’t even smirk. “Can you?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you enjoy torturing me?”
He finally gave her that frustratingly calm smile. “I enjoy seeing you grow.”
It was infuriating. But also—hearing someone say that with no mockery, no ego, no flirtation—just conviction—made something soft stir in her. She hated how that made her feel.
Later that evening, Mira sat in the cafeteria with her best friend Asha, picking at a bowl of idli.
“I think I might actually kill Aarav someday,” she muttered.
Asha raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said that about three different coaches.”
“But I didn’t mean it with them,” Mira said, smirking. Then she frowned. “He gets under my skin.”
Asha grinned. “Or in your heart?”
Mira threw an idli at her. “Shut up.”
But the teasing haunted her that night. Because she couldn’t deny it anymore—something about Aarav made her pulse quicken, and it had nothing to do with cardio.
Meanwhile, Aarav sat alone in his room, staring at his laptop. He was supposed to be analyzing Mira’s footwork from practice, but he’d paused the video halfway. Not because her technique was flawed. It was sharp, beautiful even. But because watching her now made his chest feel tight.
He had promised himself he’d never cross that line again. Not after the last mess. Not after Aisha. He shook his head as if trying to clear it. Mira was a student. A player. He was here to make her win, not fall for her.
But even as he closed his laptop, his fingers hovered over the touchpad, tempted to replay that one slow-motion clip again. The one where she smiled after winning the point.
Two days later, Coach Ghosh called for a team meeting. “We’ve confirmed the travel for the University Championship. Mira, you’re in women’s singles. Aarav, you’ll travel with the singles team as assistant manager.”
Mira’s eyes met Aarav’s. Something passed between them—a flicker of surprise, maybe excitement.
On the bus ride to Hyderabad, she sat in the row ahead of him, earbuds in, head tilted against the window. Aarav tried to read a book, but her reflection kept catching in the glass.
At the hotel, the team split by gender and roomed up. That evening, after team dinner, Mira stayed back in the lobby with her racket. She was tapping the shuttle against her frame when Aarav walked past.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“Can’t. Nerves.”
“Want to hit for a while?”
She hesitated. Then nodded.
They walked to the practice court in the hotel basement. Under dim lights, barefoot and in track pants, they played a quiet, slow rally. No scoreboard. No noise. Just rhythm.
At one point, Aarav tossed a high serve. Mira leapt and smashed. The shuttle hit the floor with a satisfying thup.
He laughed. “That’s the Mira I want tomorrow.”
She caught her breath. “What if I lose?”
“You won’t.”
“But what if I do?” she insisted, voice dropping. “What if I’m not enough?”
Aarav stepped forward, gently catching the shuttle. “Then you’ll try again. And I’ll make sure you get there. That’s what I’m here for.”
She stared at him, surprised by the quiet intensity in his voice. Her hand brushed his as she reached for the shuttle.
Neither of them moved.
“I should go,” she said suddenly, stepping back.
He nodded, though his chest was hammering. “Yeah. Rest.”
But that night, neither of them slept.
And in the morning, Mira stepped onto the court with fire in her eyes.
She didn’t just play. She owned the match. Every drop, every smash, every rally was hers. Aarav didn’t cheer—he just stood silently, proud.
When she won the final point, Mira turned—not to the crowd, not to her team. She looked straight at him.
And in that moment, Aarav knew. The line had blurred. The game had changed.
They had crossed into something dangerous.
And irreversible.
Part 3: Out of Bounds
The train back from Hyderabad was quieter than expected. Mira had won the championship. Not just won—she’d dominated. Her name was already being whispered among scouts and reporters, articles beginning to float with words like “next big thing.” But as the team dozed in their berths, lulled by the rattle of the train, Mira sat wide awake near the window, staring out at a blur of sleeping towns and moonlit tracks. The gold medal in her duffel bag felt heavier than expected. Maybe because her chest was too full of things she couldn’t name.
Aarav sat a few rows down, pretending to read a book, but he hadn’t flipped a page in twenty minutes. He could feel Mira’s presence in the back of his mind like an echo. She hadn’t said much after the victory—just a nod in his direction, a half-smile, a quiet “thanks, Coach.”
Coach. The word stung now.
At the next station halt, Mira stood and walked out to the platform, stretching her legs. The air was sharp, the night silent except for vendors calling out chai and samosa. Aarav followed a few minutes later, hesitating before approaching her.
“You okay?” he asked.
She turned, surprised. “Can’t sleep.”
They stood there, neither saying what they were actually thinking.
“You were incredible today,” he said softly.
Mira looked away. “It felt… right. Like all those drills, the early mornings, everything—we built that moment.”
He nodded. “You built it.”
Silence again. Then Mira whispered, “I wish we were just two players. No titles. No coach. No rules.”
Aarav’s throat tightened. “But we’re not.”
She looked up at him. “Then stop looking at me like that.”
His breath caught. “Like what?”
“Like you want to break every rule just to touch my hand.”
He didn’t reply. Just stared. The whistle blew. Mira turned abruptly and walked back onto the train.
Back in their compartments, Mira lay in her berth pretending to sleep, her fingers curled tightly around her pillow. Aarav sat upright, elbows on knees, thinking about every ethical code he’d promised to follow, and how one glance from her was unraveling years of self-discipline.
Two weeks passed in a strange silence.
Back at the academy, Mira trained with mechanical perfection. She followed his instructions but avoided his gaze. Aarav kept things professional—too professional. But the space between them was filled with everything they didn’t say.
Then came the press interview.
The national media had taken notice of Mira’s rise. A popular sports magazine sent a reporter and photographer to campus. “The Rising Queen of Indian Badminton,” the headline would read.
Mira showed up in a crimson hoodie and tied-up hair, no makeup, looking like war disguised as a girl. She answered questions with poise. When asked about her coach, she paused only slightly. “Aarav Mehta sees what I’m capable of before I do. He’s one of the reasons I play the way I play now.”
After the shoot, she found him alone in the gym, wrapping resistance bands.
“They’re gonna print that quote,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he replied without turning around.
“Do you hate me for it?”
His hands stopped moving.
He turned. “Why would I hate the truth?”
Mira walked closer. “Because truth makes things complicated.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Her voice trembled now. “Then say it.”
He stared at her, fighting it. “Say what?”
“That this isn’t just court drills and shuttle rallies anymore.”
Aarav exhaled hard. “Mira—this can’t happen. Not now. You’re a player. I’m your coach. There are rules.”
“I’ve never followed rules unless they made sense,” she said. “And this—whatever this is—it’s the only thing that’s felt honest in months.”
He closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if it’s honest. It matters if it’s right.”
“And what if it’s both?” she whispered.
He opened his eyes. There she was—brilliant, defiant, maddening. And the truth was no longer a secret between them. It was hanging in the air like sweat and adrenaline after a match.
He stepped back. “I’m applying for reassignment. I’m leaving St. Augustine.”
Mira’s face crumbled. “What?”
“I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m doing it so that someday, if this… thing between us is real—it won’t be tainted.”
Her voice cracked. “You think walking away now will make it easier later?”
He hesitated. “I think walking away is the only way we get a later.”
Mira nodded slowly. Then turned and walked out.
That night, she didn’t cry. Not in the usual way. She went to the court. Stood there under the floodlights alone. Then she began to play. Serve. Smash. Drop. Repeat. As if the rhythm of the game was the only language that still made sense.
From the shadows, Aarav watched her silently. Every move etched into his memory. He didn’t approach. Didn’t interrupt. Just stood there like a spectator to the game of what-could-have-been.
The next morning, he was gone.
Left a note with Coach Ghosh: Transfer approved. Leaving immediately. Wishing the academy—and Mira—the best.
Mira read the note in silence. Then picked up her racket, wiped her eyes, and stepped onto the court.
Love and badminton had one thing in common—sometimes, you had to let go to win.
Part 4: Second Wind
Summer raged outside St. Augustine Academy, the kind of dry heat that made the shuttle feel heavy in the air and the courts sweat with exhaustion. But Mira didn’t care. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, and still she stayed on. Every morning she was the first on the court, every night the last to leave. She no longer waited for applause. She no longer chased someone’s gaze across the sidelines. Aarav was gone. But his absence had become a second coach—quieter, crueler, more relentless.
She hadn’t expected him to leave so easily. She had told herself he would stay, that rules could bend when something real demanded it. But Aarav didn’t bend. He walked away with the same discipline he had always trained her with. And Mira—Mira was left with rage disguised as ambition.
Two months passed.
Her name now echoed across the national circuit. Sports magazines printed her face with titles like “The Meteor of the Midcourt” and “India’s Next Smash Queen.” A sponsorship deal with Yonex. A scholarship offer to a European training camp. Everyone wanted Mira Sen.
Everyone except him.
Not one message. Not a call. Nothing.
Until one afternoon, after a brutal sparring session, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You’re on fire. Proud of you. – A
Her hands trembled. She stared at the text for ten minutes before replying:
Mira: Took you long enough.
No reply.
That night, she didn’t sleep.
The next day, she showed up to practice early again, like always. But now her smashes were sharper. Her drops, crueler. Even Coach Ghosh noticed. “You’ve become dangerous, Mira,” he said, half-smiling.
She smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good. Let them fear me.”
Meanwhile, three hundred kilometers away in Mumbai, Aarav stood courtside at a different academy, training junior boys with quick tempers and slower feet. He missed the sharpness of Mira’s game. Missed her questions, her glares, even her complaints.
When she replied to his message, he didn’t know how to answer. Every word he wanted to send felt either too much or too little.
He had thought time would dull the feelings. That staying away would burn out the temptation. But instead, it turned her into a ghost that haunted every rally he watched.
That evening, his phone buzzed again.
Mira: You ever coming to Delhi for the Nationals?
He stared at it.
His fingers hovered over the screen.
Aarav: Only if you make it to the finals.
Mira: Better pack a bag.
He smiled.
It was the first time he had in weeks.
The National Championship came fast. Mira’s name was now familiar even to casual viewers. Commentators followed her stats. Opponents feared her stamina. But behind her calm expressions and clipped interviews, Mira’s mind was chasing one question: Would he come?
Each match, she searched the audience. Each night, she returned to her hotel room alone. No calls. No texts. Silence.
But she kept winning.
Quarterfinals. Semifinals.
Finals.
She walked into the indoor stadium like a storm. Thousands of eyes watched her as she warmed up. Cameras clicked. Reporters whispered.
She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.
Because she could feel it.
His presence.
She glanced once—to the far side of the court. Third row. Blue shirt. Still, focused. Aarav.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Then she turned away and served.
The match was brutal. Her opponent, Anjali Verma, was equally fierce—strong forehand, deceptive smashes. The first set was tight. Mira lost it 21–19.
Coach Ghosh leaned in during the break. “You’re rushing. Breathe.”
But her eyes flicked to the stands. Aarav was gone.
No—moved. Closer. She spotted him now, sitting right by the rail, hands gripping his knees, not blinking.
Her heart steadied.
Second set. She won it 21–14.
Third set.
Final point.
20–20.
The rally stretched—fast, slow, high, low—until Mira sent a drop that Anjali couldn’t reach in time.
Match. Championship. Victory.
The crowd roared.
Mira didn’t.
She looked for him again.
He was still there.
Not clapping. Just standing.
She walked off the court, ignoring the media, the medals, the cameras. She moved past officials, security, her teammates.
She walked straight to him.
They stopped an arm’s length apart.
“Congratulations,” Aarav said, voice quiet in the roar.
She stared at him. “You left.”
“I had to.”
“You didn’t.”
Silence.
“I watched every match,” he said. “I memorized your movement. I knew you’d win.”
“Then why didn’t you call?” she whispered.
“I didn’t know if I had the right.”
She blinked. “And now?”
A pause.
“I don’t care anymore.”
He stepped closer.
“I don’t care if I lose my job, or if people talk. I don’t care about rules if they mean not choosing you.”
Her breath hitched.
“But only,” he added, voice cracking, “if you still want me too.”
Mira looked at him for a long time.
Then stepped forward.
And kissed him.
Quick. Fierce. Real.
“Idiot,” she murmured, resting her forehead against his. “Took you long enough.”
He smiled, wrapping his arms around her.
The crowd didn’t notice. The cameras didn’t catch it. But for the first time in months, Mira Sen didn’t feel like she was fighting the world alone.
And Aarav Mehta didn’t feel like he was running from his heart anymore.
On court, they had played by the rules.
But off-court?
They finally made their own.
Part 5: The Rally We Never Played
The afterglow of victory lasted barely two days. Interviews, press conferences, late-night sports panel discussions—Mira was everywhere. Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Endorsements rolled in. Invitations to international camps, gala nights, even a tea with the Sports Minister. Her name had grown too large for the academy that once shaped her.
But fame had a way of sharpening the light on your flaws too.
Photos of Mira and Aarav surfaced.
A grainy image—her hand on his arm. Another one—him waiting outside her practice match, face turned just enough to be recognizable. The media didn’t wait. Headlines were quick, cruel, and always loaded.
“Rising Badminton Star’s Romance With Former Coach Raises Eyebrows”
“Conflict of Interest or True Love?”
“Coach-Turned-Lover: Ethical or Exploitative?”
Mira laughed the first few off. Aarav didn’t. He stopped replying to messages. Stopped taking Mira’s calls for a day. Then two.
On the third day, she stormed into his temporary flat in South Delhi, threw her racket on the table, and said, “If you’re going to disappear every time someone throws a headline at us, maybe we’re not as real as I thought.”
He looked up from his laptop. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble thicker than usual. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what?” she snapped. “From a world that was already going to judge me no matter what I did?”
“Mira—”
“No! I am the athlete. I play. I bleed on court. Not them. And you—you’re the only person I thought wouldn’t run when things got complicated.”
He stood, slowly. “I’m not running.”
“Then what is this?”
He took a deep breath. “This is me realizing that you’re about to fly, Mira. And I don’t want to be the reason they clip your wings.”
Her voice broke. “You think loving you would ever make me smaller?”
Aarav stared at her, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he looked away. “You deserve a clean future. Untangled.”
Mira stepped closer, grabbed his wrist. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t hold her either.
She dropped his hand. “Fine. Step back. But I’m not rewriting my story to fit into someone else’s comfort.”
And she left.
That night, Aarav didn’t sleep. Again. But not from guilt. From fear.
Not fear of the world. But fear that maybe—just maybe—he was a coward hiding under the mask of selflessness.
The next morning, Mira packed her bag for Europe.
A six-week elite training program in Denmark—something she’d dreamed about since she was sixteen. She didn’t text Aarav. Didn’t even check if he had called. The airport felt colder than usual. The wind more clinical. As if Delhi itself was done with their chapter.
At immigration, she hesitated.
Then turned around.
No one.
Not him.
Fine.
She boarded.
Midair, somewhere over the Black Sea, she finally allowed herself to cry. Not from heartbreak. But from the ache of always having to choose—game or love, ambition or warmth, racket or touch.
Why couldn’t a girl have both?
Aarav didn’t go to the airport. But he watched the flight on an app. Watched it take off. Watched it move away from him, slowly, in that little blinking digital trail.
He let it go.
And then something snapped.
He opened his inbox. Wrote to the Sports Federation. Applied for the international coaching exam. Called his old mentor in Berlin. Booked a one-way flight.
If Mira could build a new future, so could he.
He didn’t want to be the man who only watched from the sidelines anymore.
Denmark was cold and brutal.
Mira trained twelve hours a day. The coaches didn’t coddle. The language was unfamiliar, the food worse. But she played like she was possessed. Every time her legs gave out, she remembered Aarav’s voice: “Play like you own the court.”
And she did.
One evening, after her fifth consecutive win in sparring, her coach nodded and said, “You’re a fighter.”
Mira smiled weakly. “No. I just have someone to prove wrong.”
That night, she opened her inbox.
One new email.
Subject: The Rally We Never Played
From: aarav.mehta@trainer-berlin.de
Attachment: A 40-second video.
She hesitated. Then played it.
It was Aarav.
On a court. Alone. Filming himself. He held a racket, hair a mess, shirt half-tucked. He looked at the camera and said, “You once said we never played. Not really. Not without roles. So here I am. Ready. Let’s rally. No rules. No fear. Just us.”
Then he served.
The video ended.
Mira stared at the screen, her hands shaking.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was exactly them.
She hit reply.
Subject: Challenge Accepted
Attachment: A 22-second video of her returning that same serve. No words. Just a smirk at the end.
—
A month later, Aarav stood at the entrance of a sports arena in Copenhagen.
Mira walked out of the warm-up tunnel, jacket slung over her shoulder.
They stopped three feet apart.
No cameras. No audience.
Just them.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he whispered back.
“You came.”
“I’ve always been coming back to you.”
She smiled. “I’m done choosing between what I love and who I love.”
He stepped forward. “So am I.”
They didn’t kiss.
They didn’t need to.
Because sometimes, the most honest love story isn’t about grand gestures or fireworks.
It’s about the rally that finally begins.
And this time, they were ready to play.
Together.
Part 6: Mixed Doubles
Copenhagen was kind to them. Not just with its crisp air and punctual buses, but with its strange ability to let them exist without labels. No one knew Mira Sen, the national badminton star. No one recognized Aarav Mehta, the ex-coach who’d made headlines in Indian sports circles. They were just two people walking home from the court with rackets slung over their shoulders and shared silence between them.
They found a rhythm, the kind neither of them had dared imagine back in India. Early mornings started with coffee—black for him, sweetened oat milk for her. Afternoons were for training. Evenings often ended in a quiet rally in a small university court they rented twice a week. No drills. No instructions. Just play.
They didn’t call it dating. It wasn’t casual either. It was a partnership that slipped in and out of the lines between competition and comfort. There were moments when Mira would glance at Aarav across a crowded Danish café and smile, like a secret had passed between them. There were times when Aarav would reach for her wrist absentmindedly, tracing the spot where her grip calluses ended, and she would let him, no explanations necessary.
But even in peace, fault lines can hide.
One chilly Wednesday, Mira came home from training to find Aarav hunched over his laptop, papers strewn across the table. A spreadsheet glowed on his screen—ranking lists, tournament schedules, visa timelines.
“You’re planning something?” she asked, trying to keep it light.
He looked up, startled. “Oh. Yeah. Just thinking ahead.”
“Thinking ahead about what?”
“Your European circuit. The international season starts in May, right?”
She nodded slowly. “You’re tracking my matches now?”
“Not tracking. Just—strategizing. You’re ready for top-50, Mira. If we get the right sponsors—”
“We?”
He blinked. “I mean—yeah, we. Isn’t that what this is? Us? Together?”
Mira sat down, gently closing the laptop. “I love that you care. But sometimes I just want to be with you without turning every moment into a mission.”
Aarav looked down, sheepish. “Sorry. I just—I see what you can be. What you’re becoming. And it’s hard not to keep building the ladder under your feet.”
She leaned closer. “I want you beside me, not beneath me holding the rungs.”
That night, they didn’t talk much. They didn’t argue either. But something quiet shifted, like a shuttle grazing the edge of a racket frame—barely noticeable, but enough to change the flight.
A few days later, a letter arrived.
Mira had been offered a wildcard entry into the Swiss Open—her first chance at a global stage beyond youth championships. She sat on the edge of the bed, rereading the invitation, her heart thudding.
When Aarav came in, she handed it to him wordlessly.
He read it. Smiled. Then frowned slightly. “It’s in two weeks.”
“Yeah.”
“Which means you’ll be away for nearly a month.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
She looked up. “Come with me?”
His expression froze, then softened. “I want to. But my coaching certification exam is that same week.”
“Oh.”
“I applied months ago. It’s in Berlin. It’s… important.”
She nodded, slowly. “Right. Of course.”
They both knew what was coming.
She would go to Basel.
He would go to Berlin.
And they would be in different countries, chasing different dreams. Again.
The night before she left, they went back to the little court where everything had begun for them in Denmark. The lines were faded, the nets slightly frayed, but it didn’t matter.
They didn’t play to win. They played to remember.
Mira wore her lucky hoodie. Aarav tied his shoelaces the same way he always did—double knots, one tucked under. They played for over an hour—smashes, rallies, silent laughter, and breathless moments where the shuttle hovered just long enough to hold a truth.
After the last shot, Mira walked over to him and whispered, “No matter what court I step on, a part of me always imagines you watching from the sidelines.”
He cupped her face. “And no matter where I coach, I’ll always train like I’m preparing someone to beat you—and fail.”
She grinned, eyes glossy. “You’re such a sap.”
“You like saps.”
“I like you.”
They stood under the court lights, forehead to forehead, sweat and sadness mingling in the air.
And then—just like that—it was time.
The Swiss Open was a storm Mira hadn’t prepared for.
Taller opponents. Colder air. Matches at odd hours. She lost the first set of her opening round match in under ten minutes. Her legs refused to listen. Her breath was off.
In the break, she sat alone. No coach. No clipboard. No familiar whisper of “Play like you own the court.”
Just the noise of a stadium that didn’t know her name yet.
Until she checked her phone.
One message.
Aarav: Breathe in, breathe out. You’re not there to prove you belong. You’re there because you already do.
She smiled.
Then she stood.
She won the next two sets.
Back in Berlin, Aarav passed his certification. The examiner told him, “You’ve got a sharp mind. But you coach with your heart. That’s rare.”
He thanked them. But he didn’t smile until he saw the scoreboard update from Basel.
Mira Sen d. A. Schaffner 4–21, 21–13, 21–17
He closed his eyes.
Imagined her returning a smash.
And whispered to the air, “Atta girl.”
A week later, they met again—at a small café in Amsterdam where flights aligned and fate cooperated.
She walked in with wind-tangled hair and a chocolate croissant in hand.
He stood to greet her.
They didn’t hug.
They didn’t need to.
Mira slid into the seat across from him. “So… mixed doubles next?”
Aarav laughed. “Only if we don’t kill each other.”
She sipped her coffee. “No promises.”
But her eyes said everything else.
They had played apart.
They had trained alone.
But this?
This was just the beginning.
And this time, they were both ready to rally—together.
Part 7: Smash and Silence
The café in Amsterdam became their checkpoint. A place between tournaments and training, between two versions of themselves—Mira the emerging world athlete, Aarav the freshly certified international coach. They didn’t label it, didn’t plan it, but every few weeks, they found their way back there. Same corner table. Same waiter who stopped asking if they wanted separate bills. The world spun fast around them, but inside that café, time bent just enough to let them breathe.
After Mira’s performance in Basel, things changed.
Agencies called daily. Her name was now in the World Badminton Federation’s Top 75. Her Instagram went from fifteen thousand followers to two hundred thousand in a month. Brands circled like hawks—sportswear, energy drinks, even a haircare brand that promised to “support strong women on and off court.”
She smiled in those photoshoots, posed in leggings and windbreakers, gave interviews with charm. But Aarav noticed the flicker. A quiet kind of exhaustion behind her eyes. She was playing more than ever, and sleeping less. Eating protein bars instead of meals. Talking more and saying less.
One evening, in Berlin, he came to watch her practice. She was prepping for the Spanish Masters, staying with her doubles partner for a week.
When she saw him across the court, her shoulders dropped—not from disappointment, but relief.
“You’re here,” she said.
“Of course.”
She tossed her towel aside and walked over. “I’ve got 20 minutes before the next set. Come walk.”
They strolled down the cobbled street outside the sports hall, sneakers scraping against loose gravel. Mira held her hair up with a rubber band between her teeth, then let it fall again. Aarav waited.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she said finally.
He looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I win a match and three people immediately ask what I’ll do next. I lose a match, and it’s ‘what went wrong, Mira?’ I’m twenty-three, Aarav. And I feel seventy inside.”
He stopped walking. “Then rest.”
“I can’t. If I stop, someone else takes my place.”
“You’re not a slot in a ranking. You’re a human being.”
“I know that. You know that. But the world doesn’t care.”
She didn’t cry. Mira didn’t do public tears. But Aarav saw her jaw clench, her eyes blink too fast.
He reached for her hand. “You want to disappear for a bit?”
She looked at him.
He smiled. “I know a place.
Three days later, they were in a village near Interlaken.
It was Aarav’s secret spot—a cabin on loan from a retired coach who owed him a favor. No Wi-Fi. No TV. Just lakes, pine trees, and the kind of silence that rings in your ears until your thoughts settle.
Mira walked barefoot across the wooden floors, laughing at how the heater hummed like a broken hairdryer. Aarav made her terrible coffee in a dented kettle. They played cards. Read books. Fell asleep mid-conversations.
On the third night, they sat on the porch, wrapped in mismatched blankets, watching stars blur above them.
“I could stay here forever,” Mira whispered.
“I’d build you a court here,” he replied.
She smiled. “No rackets. Just us.”
A pause.
“Do you miss coaching full-time?” she asked.
“Every day.”
“Then why are you here?”
He looked at her. “Because I don’t want to miss you too.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. The silence between them was no longer empty. It was healing.
But even mountains can’t block the world forever.
When they returned, Mira’s phone exploded.
Calls. Messages. A headline that sent her stomach to her feet:
“Mira Sen Withdraws from Indonesian Series Amidst Mystery Vacation with Coach?”
The article had photos. Blurry, but unmistakable. Her in a hoodie. Aarav beside her.
The Federation wasn’t pleased. Her manager nearly screamed over the phone. Sponsors raised eyebrows.
“You’re becoming unprofessional,” her agent said. “Fans don’t like when stars go AWOL.”
Mira hung up mid-rant.
That evening, she sat in Aarav’s apartment in silence, clutching her knees on the couch.
“I should’ve known this would happen,” she said softly.
“It’s not your fault,” Aarav said.
“Doesn’t matter. The damage is mine to carry.”
He walked over, knelt in front of her. “Then let me carry some of it too.”
She looked at him.
“I can’t coach you anymore, Mira.”
“What?”
“I’ll always believe in you. Always fight for you. But being with you and being your coach… it’s not working. Not with how they’re watching us. Judging you.”
Her voice dropped. “So you’re choosing to leave again?”
“No,” he said. “This time, I’m choosing to stay—with you. Just not with the clipboard between us.”
She stared at him for a long time. Then nodded.
And whispered, “Okay.”
They held each other for a long time that night.
No promises.
No plans.
Just presence.
Weeks passed.
Mira appointed a new coach—Elena, a fiery Spaniard who didn’t care for gossip and trained her like a soldier. Aarav focused on youth programs, helping rising players navigate mental fatigue and burnout. He started writing too—articles, a blog, one titled “Smash and Silence: What We Don’t Say About Athletes.”
He never mentioned Mira by name.
He didn’t need to.
Anyone who read it could feel her between the lines.
Mira read it on the flight to Tokyo for the World Series.
Tears welled up. Not from pain. From knowing she wasn’t alone in her silence anymore.
In Tokyo, she made it to the quarterfinals.
Lost in three sets.
But it didn’t break her.
She came off court smiling.
Because in the stands, not pressuring her, not managing her, but simply being there—was Aarav.
No clipboard.
Just his hand, raised in a silent thumbs-up.
And Mira nodded back.
Because love, like the best matches, doesn’t end with a smash.
It ends with quiet understanding.
And begins again—with the next serve.
Part 8: Rally Point 21
Tokyo was unlike anywhere Mira had played before. The stadium lights weren’t just bright—they felt sentient, almost alive, like they judged every movement. The crowd was polite but intense, their eyes sharp with expectations. She wasn’t a foreigner here—she was a visiting threat. Every match was against a local favorite. Every cheer, every gasp, reminded her that she wasn’t the home player anymore. And yet, somehow, she’d never felt more at home on the court.
Because Aarav was there.
Not in her corner. Not with a whistle or a playbook. But in the stands. Front row. Elbows on knees, eyes never leaving her. He didn’t mouth instructions. He didn’t gesture tactics. He just watched. Steady. Constant. Like a lighthouse on a choppy sea.
It had been weeks since they redefined their roles. Mira had a new coach. Aarav had stepped away from court-side decisions. But their connection had only deepened. Now, the love between them wasn’t fire. It was breath. Quiet, ever-present, essential.
Until the day everything shook.
It was the morning of the quarterfinals.
Mira’s match was scheduled for 2:00 PM. At breakfast, she was quiet—focused, but light. Elena ran through last-minute notes, while Mira sipped miso soup slowly, her eyes scanning the notes but her mind elsewhere.
She texted Aarav: Meet me at the courtyard bench?
A minute passed.
Two.
Then three dots appeared.
Can’t. Something came up. Talk after match?
Her brows furrowed.
Everything okay?
No reply.
She tried calling.
No answer.
Her chest tightened, but she told herself to let it go. Focus. There’s a match to play.
The match began at 2:10 PM. The stadium buzzed with anticipation. Her opponent was world no. 16—Akiko Tanaka, a precision-based player with zero tolerance for unforced errors.
Mira lost the first set 21–13.
Her mind was muddy. She kept glancing at the crowd, scanning for him. He wasn’t in his seat. The one he always took, fourth from the left, right near the baseline.
At the break, Elena crouched beside her.
“You’re playing Tanaka,” she said sharply. “Not your thoughts. Focus.”
Mira nodded, gripping her towel tightly.
Second set—she found rhythm. Played deeper, used deception. She won 21–17.
The third set was war.
Long rallies. Nerve-testing drops. Mira was up 19–17 when it happened.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone rushing toward her coach’s box. A staff member. He handed Elena a phone, whispered something.
Mira couldn’t hear it.
But she saw Elena’s face change.
Saw the way she stood up abruptly, walked a few steps, then froze.
Mira’s heart dropped.
The umpire called for play.
She turned away, breath shallow, served.
Akiko smashed. Mira returned. A rally of nine shots. Mira won the point. 20–17.
One point away.
And yet—she felt a storm building under her skin.
She looked at Elena. The coach just nodded, her face unreadable.
Final point.
Tanaka served. Mira rushed the net. Tanaka lobbed. Mira jumped.
Smash.
Game.
She didn’t celebrate.
She walked straight to Elena.
“What happened?”
Elena handed her the phone.
It was Aarav’s name on the screen.
But the voice wasn’t his.
It was a nurse.
Aarav had collapsed in the subway station, just ten minutes from the stadium. Fainted. Low blood pressure. Exhaustion. He’d been taken to Tokyo Metropolitan General Hospital.
Mira was at the hospital within half an hour.
He was in a small private room, IV in his arm, color slowly returning to his face. The doctor reassured her—nothing serious. Just dehydration, stress, and a complete lack of rest. He had been running on energy drinks, protein bars, and worry.
When she walked in, he opened his eyes slowly.
“You missed my best drop shot,” she whispered.
He gave a faint smile. “I saw the replay. It wasn’t that good.”
She sat by his bed and took his hand.
“What were you doing on the subway?”
He blinked. “I was trying to get to the station early to buy flowers. Thought I’d surprise you after the match.”
“Idiot.”
“Always.”
She kissed his knuckles. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I won’t. Unless it’s for finals.”
She shook her head, tears gathering.
“I’m okay,” he said softly.
“That’s not enough. You have to stay okay.”
He nodded.
“And you have to stop carrying everything alone,” she added. “You don’t have to prove you belong beside me. You already do.”
He exhaled. “I guess I was still scared. That I’d be known as ‘the boyfriend of Mira Sen.’ That I wouldn’t have my own place.”
She looked at him, fiercely. “You taught me how to own the court. You’ll own your space too. Just stop trying to outrun your own heartbeat.”
He chuckled. “When did you become the coach?”
She squeezed his hand. “When you forgot how to play for yourself.”
They stayed like that, silent, steady, until visiting hours ended.
Two days later, Mira stepped into the semifinal. Aarav watched from a wheelchair in the VIP section, a blanket over his knees and a nurse scowling nearby. Mira pointed her racket toward him before the first serve.
She lost the first set again.
But won the next two.
Clean. Focused. Like she had something to protect.
Not just a title.
But a future.
—
That night, they sat on the hotel balcony.
He was stronger now. She had her legs in his lap. The Tokyo skyline glittered ahead.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now?” she said. “We play the long game.”
“You mean—”
She smiled. “Life. Mixed doubles. Rally Point 21.”
He tilted his head. “Why 21?”
She leaned in. “Because that’s the point where most matches end. But ours? That’s where we begin.”
Part 9: The Long Game
A year later, the world looked different. Not because stadiums changed or crowds became kinder, but because Mira and Aarav had stopped looking for permission. They didn’t wait for silence before speaking or shrink themselves into roles that no longer fit. They had learned to live out loud—on court, off court, and everywhere in between.
The media had moved on, as it always does. A newer star had emerged in the under-18 circuit. Some other athlete had made headlines for a dramatic win or an awkward fall. Mira wasn’t news anymore. She was consistency—ranked world number 24, sponsored by three major brands, respected, not just hyped.
And Aarav? He had started his own coaching initiative—Baseline, a digital-first platform focused on mental fitness for athletes. Not just technique or tournaments, but balance, identity, resilience. He was no longer the “former coach of Mira Sen.” He was Aarav Mehta, the voice behind hundreds of young athletes who wanted to win without losing themselves.
They now lived in a third-floor apartment in Pune, close to the stadium, quiet enough to hear birds in the morning but central enough that the city’s heartbeat still reached them. Their hallway was lined with rackets—some broken, some preserved. On the fridge were match schedules, love notes, memes about sore thighs, and a small magnet shaped like a shuttlecock that read: Rally. Don’t Rush.
It was a Sunday morning in April when Aarav found her on the terrace, tossing a shuttle into the air, letting it fall again.
“No practice today,” he called, holding two mugs of coffee.
“I’m not practicing,” she replied, catching the shuttle lazily. “I’m remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“How we got here.”
He walked over, handed her the mug. “We took the long road.”
“But we played the long game,” she said, half-smiling. “Didn’t we?”
They sat down on a wooden bench that overlooked the city’s curve. Mira took a sip and said, “You know, when I was sixteen, I used to dream of trophies and national anthems playing while I stood on podiums. But I never dreamed of this.”
“This?” he asked.
She nodded. “Peace. Mornings without pressure. A partner who listens. A body that isn’t always sore. I didn’t even know this was an option.”
He looked at her. “Because we were never told it was. Only medals. Only rankings. No one taught us how to grow with the game, not just in it.”
She leaned on his shoulder. “I like that. Growing with the game.”
They watched a kite rise in the sky, its yellow tail dancing against blue.
Three weeks later, Mira was in Madrid for the All-European Invitational. It wasn’t a major tournament, more of a prestige event—a stage where legends passed the torch and emerging players tested their nerves. She wasn’t there to win. She was there to play free.
Before her first match, she called Aarav.
He was in a gym in Pune, helping a sixteen-year-old work through panic attacks before her first state-level final.
“You’re coaching,” she said.
He nodded. “She reminds me of someone.”
“Let me guess. Shiny-eyed. Stubborn. Doesn’t listen?”
“Exactly.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“I wouldn’t change a thing.”
She smiled. “Me neither.”
Before she hung up, she said, “You know what I realized?”
“What?”
“We were never really against each other. Not even when you were pushing me the hardest.”
“Of course not,” he replied. “I was always on your side. Even when you didn’t want me to be.”
“Good,” she said. “Because from now on, I’m playing like we’re doubles. You may not be on court, but you’re always behind me.”
“I’ve always been behind you.”
She paused.
“I love you, Aarav.”
“I love you too.”
They said goodbye like they always did—not with drama, but with that deep steadiness that comes from surviving a storm together.
That evening, Mira played one of the most beautiful matches of her career.
Not flawless. Not strategic.
Just full.
She danced on court, testing her reach, trying risky spins, lunging a little deeper, grinning even when she missed. The crowd didn’t know what had gotten into her, but they were on their feet by the second set.
She didn’t win.
But as she walked off the court, sweat clinging to her neck and the air thick with applause, she felt no disappointment. Just clarity.
The game was hers.
The path was hers.
And so was the joy.
Back in Pune, Aarav stayed up to watch the match replay. His screen froze during the final rally, and he cursed the Wi-Fi, then laughed at himself.
That night, he drafted a blog post:
Title: The Long Game
We train for speed. For power. For the point that ends the rally. But what if life, like sport, was about who could hold the longest rally—not the flashiest shot?
Love, like sport, isn’t about the first serve. It’s about what happens when the scoreboard is tight, when your legs ache, when the lights blind you and the only thing you hear is your breath.
I loved a player who taught me how to stay. And she loved a coach who learned how to let go.
We didn’t win every set. We didn’t always play clean. But we never stopped showing up.
And that, I think, is how you win the long game.
A week later, Mira came home.
Aarav met her at the airport with a thermos of tea and her favorite chocolate bar.
“Still think you don’t like grand gestures?” he asked.
She hugged him tightly. “This is better than roses.”
On the drive home, she looked out the window and said, “Let’s start a foundation.”
“For what?”
“For players like me. Like us. Who don’t just need training, but guidance. Balance. A voice in their corner.”
He glanced at her.
“You serious?”
She nodded. “Let’s build something we never had.”
He smiled.
And just like that, they were teammates again.
Not coach and player.
Not lovers figuring it out.
But partners.
Rallying.
Always.
Together.
The End
