Not In The Script...

Chapter-3: The Blur Between Lines

The bruises didn’t show up until the next morning.

Yashasvi had known the dive in yesterday’s practice was a bit rough—he’d slammed his elbow hard trying to stop a boundary hit. But adrenaline, pride, and Shubman’s cold stare across the nets had kept him silent.

Now, in the harsh light of morning, he couldn’t even roll up his sleeve without wincing.

“Holy crap,” Ishan said from the doorway, staring. “What the hell did you do, Jaiswal? Fall on concrete?”

Yashasvi shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s purple.”

“Adds character.”

Ishan snorted. “You guys need to stop trying to outplay each other. One of you’s gonna end up in a body cast.”

Yash’s lips twisted. “He’s not trying to outplay me. He doesn’t even look at me.”

“That,” Ishan said with a pointed glance, “is not true. He looked like he wanted to throw his bat at you yesterday.”

“Progress,” Yash muttered, looking away.

Ishan leaned against the wall. “You know what’s crazy?”

“What?”

“You pretend you don’t care what he thinks, but you’ve been checking your phone for his Instagram activity since morning.”

Yashasvi stiffened.

“I notice stuff,” Ishan added, smug. “Especially when someone’s obsessed.”

“I’m not—”

“He still hasn’t posted the brand photo. Only the solo one. Yours is conveniently cropped out.”

Yashasvi said nothing.

Ishan raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay. I’ll shut up.”

Later, in the physio room, Yashasvi sat on the bench while a trainer iced his elbow.

“Sprain,” the physio said. “No fracture. You’ll live.”

“Cool.”

“Still,” the man added, nodding toward the doorway, “Gill will kill me if I don’t report it. He’s very hands-on about injury updates these days.”

Yash stared at him.

“What?”

“Shubman,” the trainer clarified. “Always checks the logs. Even asked if anyone got hurt during yesterday’s dive drill.”

“…He asked that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Yashasvi looked away. “Nothing.”

He didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or... something else.

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That evening, the team had another press event—this time smaller, more intimate. A digital Q&A session livestreamed to fans. Shubman and Yashasvi were the only players on the panel.

“Just answer some curated fan questions, laugh a little, sell the chemistry,” their media head said casually.

Shubman rolled his eyes. “We’re not a rom-com.”

“Tell the internet that,” the media head said, handing over his cue cards.

Yashasvi sat in the makeup chair, elbow wrapped under his loose jacket, trying not to squirm.

“You okay?” someone asked behind him.

He turned.

Shubman.

“Fine,” Yash said. “Just sore.”

A beat passed.

Shubman’s eyes dropped to the bandage. “You didn’t report it yesterday.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It does.”

Yash met his eyes. “Why? So you can file it and forget it happened?”

Shubman stared at him.

Then turned away.

“Five minutes!” the crew called.

The live session began.

The camera zoomed in. The questions started light—“favourite stadium,” “pre-match rituals,” “dream 11 picks.”

Yashasvi smiled on cue. Shubman gave polite answers. They didn’t look at each other.

Then came a fan-submitted question.

“What’s something you’ve learned about each other since becoming… closer?”

The moderator raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Shubman shifted. “That he talks more off-camera than on.”

A few laughs.

Yash offered a tight smile. “That he’s not as charming as people think.”

More laughs.

But Shubman’s jaw clenched.

Yash caught it. Held onto it.

“And one thing you like about each other?”

Shubman didn’t speak immediately.

“I’ll go first,” Yashasvi said, tone smooth. “He’s precise. Always focused. I respect that.”

There was a pause.

Then Shubman said, “He’s competitive. Relentless, even when he should stop.”

The way he said it—there was something in it that wasn’t entirely... kind.

Yash’s smile faltered.

The moderator, oblivious, chuckled. “That’s a power duo if I ever heard one.”

The rest of the session passed in a blur.

Afterwards, they stood outside, waiting for the car.

“Competitive?” Yash said quietly.

Shubman didn’t look at him. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“You said it like one.”

“You’re reading into things again.”

Yash took a step closer. “You know, for someone who’s so obsessed with public image, you’re pretty bad at faking it.”

Shubman’s eyes flicked toward him. Cold. Controlled.

“Don’t test me, Jaiswal.”

“Why not?” Yash said. “You test me every time we’re in a room together.”

The driver pulled up.

Neither moved.

“You want to hate me,” Yash added, softer, “but you don’t even know me.”

Shubman opened the car door. “I don’t need to.”

He got in.

The door shut.

Yash stood on the curb, hands clenched, heart pounding against bruised ribs that had nothing to do with cricket.

That night, Shubman found himself staring at Yashasvi’s tagged photo.

It was a moment from the Q&A, taken mid-laughter—Yash’s smile was wide, effortless. Warm. A fan had captioned it:

“He looks at Shubman like he means it 😭”

He scrolled past it.

Then back again.

Something about the look unsettled him.

Or maybe, he realized too late, it unsettled him because it was real.
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[End of Chapter 3]