Not In The Script...

Chapter- 11: I Can't Tell Anyone

Shubman didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding harder with every memory of Yash’s face in the hallway that morning.

"He pulled away.
He looked scared.
And he looked alone."

There were bruises people could see. And then there were the ones that sat under your skin, in your lungs, between the spaces where your name could be twisted into something shameful.

He knew the second kind too well.

The next day, Yash skipped practice.

They said it was a "tight hamstring."
He stayed back at the hotel.
Alone.
Or maybe not.

Shubman felt the tension coil in his chest tighter and tighter until it was choking him.

At 4 PM, he found himself back at the hotel earlier than expected, training cut short.

The moment he stepped out of the lift onto their floor, he knew something was wrong.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet.

And down the hall — near the fire exit — a bathroom light was on.

He wasn’t sure why he walked toward it.

Maybe it was instinct.
Maybe it was hope.
Maybe it was fear.

But when he pushed the door open — just slightly —

He froze.

Yashasvi was sitting on the floor.

Back pressed to the wall, hoodie drawn over his knees, face buried in his arms.

Shaking.

Silent, but not really.

His breaths were uneven.

And his hands…

They were gripping the sleeves of his hoodie like they were the only thing holding him together.

“Yash.”

No response.

Shubman stepped in slowly.

“Kya hua?”
(What happened?)

Yash didn’t look up.

Didn’t move.

So Shubman crouched down, gently touching his arm.

Yash flinched.

Hard.

And that’s when Shubman’s heart cracked.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Yash’s voice came out small. Fragile.

“Don’t… don’t be nice to me right now.”

“Too late.”

Silence.

Then Yash finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His lips pressed tight like he was trying not to fall apart any more than he already had.

Shubman stayed silent.

Just sat. Close, but not too close.

And waited.

“I told him no,” Yash whispered.

It was so quiet, it didn’t sound real.

“I told him no. He kept saying it was part of the routine. That other players didn’t mind.”

Shubman’s nails dug into his palms.

Yash looked away. “At first, it was just hands on my waist. Lower back. Then he started cornering me near the door when no one was around. Told me I needed one-on-one rehab. He… he kissed the back of my neck during one of the sessions.”

Shubman’s breath left his lungs.

Yash wiped his face, voice cracking now.

“I pushed him away. But I didn’t scream. Didn’t report him. Because what would it sound like? Newcomer accuses senior physio — media explodes. Name ruined. Career over.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Shubman said, voice like ice. “You didn’t.”

Yash didn’t answer.

He just looked so… small.

So unlike himself.

Not the boy who snapped back in interviews, who hit sixes with defiance, who rolled his eyes at criticism.

This Yash was quieter. Folded into himself.

“I didn’t want to come to practice anymore,” he said. “But if I skipped, they’d say I was weak. Unprofessional.”

Shubman stood.

Didn’t say a word.

Yash blinked up at him. “What—”

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He didn’t walk.

He marched.

Down the hallway, across the lobby, through the fitness wing.

He didn’t knock.

He slammed the physio room door open.

Rohan looked up from his desk, fake surprise already forming.

“Hey, you’re—”

He didn’t finish.

Shubman’s fist collided with his jaw so hard the man spun sideways and crashed into the shelves behind him.

The table tipped.

The screen shattered.

And the scream that echoed through the hallway made every nearby staff member run.

It took three people to pull Shubman off.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t even breathe hard.

He just stared at the man on the floor with blood on his shirt and hate in his eyes.

“Go near him again,” he said coldly,

“and I’ll ruin more than your face.”
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[End of Chapter 11]