String the Player

1.

He's drunk.

I'm not far off from following him to that state.

Khatri is saying something. Something about my playing. I don't listen to him. I'm staring at the field through the huge panel windows at the end of the room. The floodlights are turned off, the stadium is empty, and tarpaulin sheets cover the pitch. I close my eyes, and I'm back there.

Sweat drips down my brow, the back of my neck burns from the sultriness, the keeper behind me is yelling at the bowler, the crowd is dead silent. The stadium is so quiet I can hear the flies buzzing near the lights. Three more balls. Four runs to win. Just one good hit, and the game is ours. Vikram, on the other end, holds a glove-covered hand slightly up. Easy there. Give me the strike. But no, I can do this. I know I can. It's a spinner. If I can just time it correctly, I can get it to the boundary.

The bowler jogs at an even pace. If he's nervous, he doesn't show it on his face. His expression distorts as he swings his arm and release! The ball is off. Spinning, spinning, bounce, wham.

I twist, flick my wrists, and I'm down on my knees after a reverse sweep. The ball barely touches the tip of my bat, and I watch it roll behind me. Its speed drops steadily as it nears the edge. My heart is in my throat, and I can hear Vikram screaming Bhaag. But I don't move, staring transfixed as a fielder sprints to intercept it. The fielder can't get to it fast enough and by the time he dives, both the ball and him slide across the boundary.

"Why the fuck are you not answering your calls?" someone snaps, and I jerk. When I do, Khatri's snoring head lolls forward, he mumbles a curse before again settling down on my shoulder.

I glare at Rishabh. I forgot I was supposed to be hiding from him. So, I bunch up my sweatshirt and gently place it in between Khatri's cheek and the armrest of the double seater. His neck is going to hurt. But that's not my problem.

Grabbing the only unopened champagne bottle from the snack table and then admiring the trophy sitting proudly at the centre of it for a second, I give Rishabh a two-finger salute and start on my way to fuck off from his presence.

"No, no, I'm talking to you." He stops me with a hand on my shoulder and drags me back to where he's standing.

"What do you want, Rishi." I all but whine. Rishabh is a good guy. He is. To everyone else. To me, he's like an annoying babysitter who says no to every fun thing you want to do, but no matter how much you crib and whine, you can't get rid of him.

"I want you at the party tonight."

"When did I say I'm not coming to the party?"

"Oh no, no, no. I want you there till the end. I want you there till people mistake you for the waiters who are cleaning up, or God help me, I will drop you so fast before you know it, you'll actually be one of those waiters cleaning up." It scares me how he's able to say all of that in one breath with a blank expression on his face. Seriously, other than a vein pulsing on his forehead, he's absolutely calm.

"Uhh..." I fiddle with the wrapper around the cork of the bottle. "No." I smile, and I'm about to move past him, but of course babysitter's arm shoots up once more to slam into my chest, keeping me in place. "Why you do this to me?"

"Listen carefully." He snaps his fingers in front of my face and leans in close, making sure my eyes don't stray away. "People are going to come up to you. They're going to congratulate you, and you're going to plaster a smile on your face and take it. Don't comment on what they're wearing, don't get distracted, don't start rambling, don't..."

A few feet behind Rishi, there's a small group huddled close. Some of the players are crowded around something. Someone. More people come to watch. Chants of Chug! Chug! Chug! grow louder as some of the staff join in too. When a body moves, I get a peek of Coach chugging from the bottom end of a beer can. I grin. The old man needs to let off all that steam he keeps inside him at all times. Sometimes I wonder if it'd be enough to power a mini steam engine.

A harsh pat—harsh enough to be classified as a slap—on my cheek brings me back to Rishabh. The vein on his forehead is throbbing even more, and his lips are pulled down.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" he snarls.

"Yeah, yeah." I push him off. Or try to. He just bounces back. "I heard you loud and clear."

"I mean it, Arya. Don't drink too much. Eshwar will be there, so I'm not too worried about it, but just because I won't have my eyes on you all the time does not mean you can run free. I mean it. Don't leave early. You might get some endorsement deals—"

"I know, Rishi, I know. If I get them, I'll just..." The mini crowd, which had now turned into a full-on team huddle, erupts into a cheer. Even Khatri is there with his head thrown back and mouth wide open behind his fingers. What is happening? I want to see.

Then I remember the human blockade in front of me.

"You'll just?" he quirks an eyebrow.

I groan. "I'll just politely thank them and give them your number."

"Don't chat them up. Seriously, Arya, don't. It makes my job all the more difficult when I tell them you're not interested." He sighs. "Anyways, Eshwar told me he'll be by your side, so I'm not too—"

"The two of you do know I don't need babysitting, right?" I snap and shove him off me. This is getting on my nerves. Arya, don't do this. Arya, don't do that. They think I can't do anything right. I just have to mess everything up. Stupid, naive Arya, bumbling around with his two brain cells. Fuck that. I got this far on my own, didn't I? Jesus fuck. One day of peace without these two nagging me, is that too much to ask? I'm twenty-two, not fucking two, that I need a goddamn babysitter riding my ass for every small thing.

Rishabh sighs and massages his temples.

"Fine. Do what you want. This is your win, and I don't want to ruin it for you. Come here." He pulls me into a hug, and I'm way too stubborn to reciprocate, but c'mon, a hug is a hug, and I like hugs. Of course, I wrap my arms around him and lift him off his feet a little. He slaps my back twice, and I put him down, the vein on his forehead almost disappearing. "Congratulations on the win, Mr Forty-Seven. Made us all real proud."

"Couldn't have done without you, Rish."

He smiles and then quickly gets down to lecture me some more. "Right, so Rita Dhaave is coming tonight. And I heard some rumours that..."

Now almost everyone—except the passed-out lightweights dosing in the corners—gather across the room. People are taking off their shoes and throwing them at the person in the centre. I move forward, Rishi calls my name a couple of times and grabs my hand, but I just tug him along, the champagne bottle pressed close to my chest. What the hell is happening here?

I can see Rai at the centre, a shoe in his hand as he laughs uncontrollably, shoulders shaking, head rocking, the whole package. Ivaan grabs his shoe-holding wrist and pours a generous amount of beer into the shoe. Rai brings it to his lips, then again starts shaking with laughter.

No. I gasp. He won't. Seriously? Will he? Fuck, I need to see this.

I join the crowd, my hand on someone's shoulder as I hoist myself up on my toes. Rishabh mumbles something about picking up my dad's calls, and I can feel his hold on me disappear.

Rai settles down a bit, and the entire room is quiet with anticipation. He brings his shoe up once more, and just two seconds ago, I was ready to bet my career that he wouldn't go through with it.

But when in Australia...

Ivaan nudges Rai's hand, and all the beer sloshes out and down Rai's throat, some of it spilling from the edges and drenching his moustache. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows it down while the rest of us scream so loud we lose our damn minds.