String the Player

1.

I can see the almost eye-roll, but he contains it and doesn't waver. I hand him the sweat-slicked mic, subtly scratch his middle finger with mine while doing so, and jog away before he has the chance the fling the mic at my head for giving him an almost heart attack.

To be fair, it's his fault entirely. He knows I'm horrible at interviews. It's not that I can't answer the questions. If allowed, I'll keep blabbing till someone forcefully pushes me to the curb. But for blabbing, I need to focus on the questions. These interview stations are just so distracting with the cameras, slippery mics, blue-eyed cuties, and the huge ass sponsorship board serving as the background.

Also, Durex was a sponsor this year for the series. I didn't know that. Will I get a gift bag filled with goodies? I don't mind some extra condoms and lube. Especially if they're free.

So, yeah, entirely Liam's fault. Not mine. And I'm not paying for the mic.

The screams, hollers and chants from the dressing room are heard from miles away. And the moment I barge in, the chill air from the ACs sends a shiver down my sweaty spine. I try to push past the human train going around the room, force-feeding the poor sods on the sidelines with champagne. When that fails, I grab an opened bottle and join them till I reach my spot and collapse, belly full of bubbly.

Everyone is here. And I mean everyone. From the coaches to the logistic managers to the IT staff, our entire team is here. I exchange my smelly jersey for a cleaner one and spread my legs wide on the sofa, slouching as much as I can. The snacks table at the centre is drenched in alcohol, music is blasting from the hidden speakers, and the TV is playing some item song that Ivaan and Sawant are trying to imitate while Vikram, with much concentration, films the entire thing while trying to stay upright himself.

And to think I'm able to witness all this because one poor soul, in particular, caught Typhoid.

Well, one man's disease is another man's come up, or whatever Macklemore said.

The train carries on, I get fed more champagne directly from the bottle, and just as I'm about to go join in on the Fevicol Se dance party in front of the TV, Khatri slams down into the double seater beside me. Or more like slams into me, and I manoeuvre him into the double seater.

He presses the edge of the beer bottle to my lips and tips it, the contents sloshing down my throat till I gag, and then he repeats the same treatment to himself. I smack my lips together, searching for something to chase away the bitter taste on my tongue. I hate beer.

I don't find anything. There's cake on the snack table, served with a side of... I think Gin, based on the bottle tipped over right beside it. I bet it tastes exquisite, but I'm too drunk to push past everyone to get there, so I settle on stuffing my mouth with the bare, round shoulder pushing into my own from the side.

Muskiness, sweatiness, and a faint taste of bitter sunscreen invigorates my tongue, and I close my eyes. Classic, rugged man. Now that's a taste I don't mind coating my mouth with at all times.

Khatri taps my forehead, and I open my bleary eyes to regard him.

"Why are you biting me?" he asks, his beer-addled breath whooshing across my face, and I scrunch my nose.

"I'm not biting you," I say. I don't think it makes much sense with muscle overflowing my mouth. I pull off and repeat, "I'm not biting you." I stare at those round boulder shoulders. Fuck. I need to ask him how he got them so big, but I already know the answer. A thousand shoulder presses, a million lateral raises, a billion push ups, yada yada yada. That's a no-go for me. I'm not in the business of picking up and putting down weights.

His dark eyes dart down to his tattoo-encased shoulder covered in my spit, then at my sorry face. "My bad," he says and brings the bottle to his lips, tipping it all the way back.