String the Player

4.

Next thing I knew, I woke up to the sound of pounding, and Liam was on the other side of the door.

"You're going back home?" Liam asks, waving a hand in front of my face to grab my attention.

"Mmhmm. Finally."

"How long will you be home?"

"I don't know. I told Rishi to send the itinerary later."

"I imagine it's gonna be a busy few months."

I shrug and busy myself with plucking the stray threads at the edges of the pillows.

"Had an audience with Rita Dhaave last night, by the way." Now, that properly grabbed my attention. "Told me something about a certain someone being on the cover of a certain well-established magazine." He's not looking at me. Rather, he's still fidgeting with the corners of his eyes. Pretending to fidget. Acting all nonchalant like I don't know exactly what he's driving at.

"No, not fucking happening. Not now, not ever." I push off the bed, and stomp around, searching for an empty bag to put all my to-be-washed in.

Liam's footsteps echo as he trudges after me. "Come on! I'm just asking for one—Why am I fully clothed?"

I turn around to find him looking down at himself. His almost unbuttoned shirt, wrinkled suit, heavily wrinkled pants, and one sock half pulled on. "I didn't have the patience to undress you last night." I lift one shoulder and drop it. "Sorry."

His neck jerks back, and he has this look that says he's thinking really hard about last night but coming up blank. "So, we..." He uses a hand to gesture the space between us and squints one eye.

"You don't remember, do you?"

Liam's hand reaches up to scratch his nape. "Uhm..."

I stare at him, eyes wide.

Actually, the kicker here is nothing really happened. Liam showed up at my door, piss-drunk—it was a wonder he even found the right room—and leaned against the doorframe, his eyes drooping low. He probably thought he seemed sexy. For his sake, we'll say that he did. He shoved the Champagne bottle at me, telling me to Pop it open, baby. I want to feel your tongue as you slurp it off my body. Then he very sexily stumbled in, tried unbuttoning his shirt, slipping off his shoes and taking off his suit at the same time—he probably thought himself an octopus. When he didn't succeed, he gave up, saw the cozy-as-fuck bedding, and dropped in face-first.

All I did was roll him over to the other side, slip under the covers, and drape an arm around him, falling asleep pretty much instantly.

"Sucks to be you," I say, and continue my hunt.

"Whatever. Why won't you come on my show?"

"Because..."

"Because what?"

"I don't want to." I ignore him and all the bullshit he spews about ratings, popularity, and getting closer to fans. Then when he goes the take pity on me route, trying to appeal to me by saying my presence might boost his views, it'll be good content for his subscribers, blah blah blah, I ignore that too.

"Fine. Give me one good reason why you can't come."

"Liam." I give him my best the-conversation-ends-here face like Dan did last night, but I don't think I have the same effect because Liam raises his eyebrows, expecting me to finish my sentence. "I don't want to be on your show, that's reason enough."

"But why?"

"Why do you even want me? Didn't you say you were going to try and convince Khatri and Vikram last night? What? You didn't land them, so now I'm your sloppy seconds?"

"No, I landed them."

That's news. "Congratulations then. Now go away, please."

"Just imagine how it will be if I get you too."

"No, I won't because it's not happening. Why are you bugging me so much this time?"

"Everyone's interested in your story. You're like the wildcard entry who blew everyone's minds, of course, they want to know you. And I want to help you tell your story."

I roll my eyes. "You don't want to tell my story." I don't accept interviews for a reason. The only time I talk to the media is after a match because I have no choice. Apart from that, I like my anonymity. People don't need to know further than what I am on the field.

"Sure, I do."

I laugh. "Yeah, right. So, I come on your show, and we'll describe our first meeting, how about that? Young, inexperienced cricketer barely out of his teens gets smitten by the opponent's batsman in the very first match and sucks his cock in the parking lot." I mean, he was the first—and only—professional cricketer I knew who was interested in men, of course, I'd do anything he wanted me to.

Liam looks at me with what can be described as extreme pity, and I hate it. "I'm not going to out you, Arya"

I throw my hands. "I know. It was a joke."

"If you're worried about personal questions, I promise I won't go there. I'll even send the entire script over. Absolutely no surprises."

"Man, I'd love to be on your show. Honest. But this interview podcast stuff is not my thing. You're going to get pretty good views with Khatri and Vikram anyway. Trust me on that. The entire country will tune in."

"How about you consider this one as repayment for saving you from almost ruining the post-match interview last night?" He raises an eyebrow like he's got me beat there.

"How about I drop to my knees and blow you, and we'll call it even?"

He's... Yeah, he's not impressed. I take a look at the clock and pick his shoes up, throwing them at him.

"I've got forty minutes left to pack up, shower and check out. So..." I gesture towards the door. "See ya later, mate," I say in the worst Aussie accent possible.

"You sure there's no way for me to convince you?"

I groan and fall on him, using my weight to push to the door. "Liam, I adore you, I respect you, and I look up to you." And I do, I really do. There aren't many ex-cricketers out there whose careers were cut short due to an injury. And there are even fewer who bounced back twice as hard. Liam was an amazing player in Tests. His wicket was close to impossible to take. But his name never came up in other formats. An injury took him out indefinitely, and commentary became his new thing. Safe to say he's the go-to guy for all things cricket right now. "But, it's never gonna happen."

"What about the blowjob?"

"Too late for that too."

"Come on! Aki—"

"Bye," I sing and close the door in his pouty face.