❝ 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔'𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅 - 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒈𝒍𝒚. ❞
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Sometimes love doesn't knock on the right door. Sometimes it slips in through a misdial, a l...
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Author's POV-
Dhruv pushed open the pavilion door, his heartbeat a quiet drumroll in his chest, steady and loud all at once. And there he was—Arjun. Tall, composed, with his back turned, shoulders squared beneath the weight of expectation and legacy. The white jersey clung to him like purpose, and on it, bold and unmissable, the number 11 and the name Rathee stitched in navy.
It should've been just another jersey. Just another name. But it wasn't.
For Dhruv, that sight held gravity. That single image—a boy they'd once dragged through muddy gully cricket matches now commanding the calm before a storm—was more than nostalgic. It was personal. That number wasn't picked for superstition or luck. It was picked because it used to be Arjun's favourite. Because it matched the day he first hit a six in a tennis ball match that earned them two bottles of thumbs-up and a day of gloating. That number had been scribbled on their notebooks, carved into old bats and under school desks.
And now... it was sewn in national colours.
Arjun Rathee. Jersey No. 11.
It didn't just represent a player. It represented Ghar.
That bittersweet ache of belonging, of knowing where you came from and what it took to return with your name intact.
Dhruv's throat tightened unexpectedly. His fingers gripped the railing as if that alone would keep his composure from spilling. The scent of damp earth, sweat, turf polish and faint synthetic detergent swirled through the air—smells that hadn't changed. But the boy in front of him had. And yet, hadn't.
He was still their Arjun. And Dhruv? He was still here. Watching him. Rooting for him. Maybe not from the same dressing room anymore, but from something older. Something deeper. A bond not stitched on a jersey but written into growing-up years.
Vatsal trailed behind him, half a step slower, one hand pressed to his ear, deep in a conversation that sounded suspiciously important—his voice low, clipped, almost like he didn't want to be overheard even by the wind.
His other hand swatted gently at the air as if brushing off the noise of the pavilion. When he caught Dhruv glancing back at him with a silent question stitched into his expression, Vatsal's eyes twinkled, and he gave him a conspiratorial nod, lips curving into the hint of a smirk. "Go ahead, buddy," he mouthed more than said, with a casual flick of his fingers that looked far too smooth.
Suspiciously smooth.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing, what was happening, what he wanted to happen next.
That was the thing with Vatsal. He moved like a man who already knew how the story ended.
Nothing in his gestures ever felt accidental.
He orchestrated moments the way seasoned chess players moved pawns—casually, invisibly, until suddenly the whole board was his and you were left wondering when you stopped being a player and became part of the game.
