The city never slept during IPL season.
It pulsed—neon lights, honking cars, laughter spilling out of five-star hotels and private after-parties where cricket blurred into chaos.
Virat Kohli thrived in that chaos.
Captain of RCB.
Hot-headed. Aggressive. Charismatic.
A man who owned rooms without trying.
Tonight was supposed to be just another win celebration.
Sara Jaiswal stood at the bar, twirling her straw like it was a weapon. She was used to getting what she wanted—papa ki pari, wrapped in privilege and reckless confidence. Her friends crowded around her, giggling, whispering.
"You won't," one of them said.
Sara smirked.
"I will."
Virat laughed loudly a few feet away, shoulders relaxed, smile easy—the kind that ruined women and press conferences alike. Sara's gaze locked onto him like a challenge.
She ordered a drink.
Then another.
She didn't mean to hurt him. She told herself that later. She just wanted to lower his guard. Just enough. One stupid decision wrapped in entitlement.
But fate has a vicious sense of humor.
Virat took the glass without looking. Drank it between jokes. And within minutes, the room tilted.
Too hot.
Too loud.
Wrong.
His vision blurred. His chest tightened—not fear, not exactly pain, but a deep, unsettling wrongness.
He stood abruptly.
"I need... air," he muttered, to no one in particular.
The hallway outside the banquet floor stretched endlessly. Doors blurred into one another. Numbers meant nothing. He leaned against a wall, breath shallow, sweat dampening his collar.
He pushed into the first unlocked room he found.
And collapsed.
Pat Cummins had been halfway through loosening his tie when the door flew open.
"What the—"
Virat Kohli stumbled inside like a storm without direction, eyes glassy, movements uncoordinated. He barely made it to the couch before his knees gave out.
Pat froze.
They weren't friends.
Not enemies either.
Just... rivals by circumstance.
"Hey," Pat said carefully, instincts kicking in. "Mate, you okay?"
Virat shook his head, jaw clenched like he was fighting something invisible.
"I think... something's wrong."
That sentence alone set alarms blaring.
Pat crossed the room in two strides, crouching in front of him. He smelled alcohol—but not enough to justify this. Virat's skin was burning, pulse racing under Pat's fingers.
"Did you take something?"
Virat's lips parted. Closed.
A shake of his head.
Pat didn't ask more. He grabbed water, ice, his phone—called the team doctor without saying names.
"Stay with me," Pat said quietly, grounding, firm. "You're safe."
Virat laughed weakly. "You say that like you mean it."
Pat met his eyes.
"I do."
The night passed in fragments.
Virat drifting in and out.
Pat sitting on the floor, back against the couch, refusing to sleep.
Cold cloths. Water. A steady presence.
Nothing else.
But intimacy isn't always about touch.
Sometimes it's about not leaving.
Morning arrived like a slap.
Virat woke with a pounding head and a thousand unanswered questions. Sunlight spilled across unfamiliar curtains. The room smelled like coffee.
And Pat Cummins.
He sat at the table, phone pressed to his ear, speaking softly.
"Yeah, he's stable. Doctor said it was likely something mixed into alcohol... No, I won't say anything."
Virat's stomach dropped.
Mixed.
Memory rushed back in jagged pieces—the party, the drink, the dizziness. Shame flooded in next, thick and ugly.
When Pat turned around, relief flashed across his face.
"You're awake. How're you feeling?"
Virat didn't answer.
He stood abruptly, head spinning but pride stronger than nausea.
"So," he said coldly, "this is your idea of fun?"
Pat blinked. "What?"
"Don't act innocent," Virat snapped. "You saw an opportunity."
The words landed like a slap.
Pat's jaw tightened. "That's what you think?"
Virat's silence was answer enough.
Pat exhaled slowly. Controlled. Hurt.
"I took care of you," he said. "All night. You were sick, Virat. Nothing happened."
"Then why was I here?" Virat demanded.
"Because you walked into the wrong room," Pat shot back. "And because I didn't throw you out."
The room vibrated with tension.
Virat wanted to believe him.
But pride is a vicious liar.
He grabbed his jacket and left.
The truth has a way of catching up.
Sara's confession came wrapped in tears and panic two days later—after whispers started, after guilt became unbearable. She hadn't meant for it to go that far. She hadn't known it would hit him like that.
Virat listened in silence.
Every word was a nail.
Pat's face flashed in his mind—tired eyes, steady hands, quiet concern.
I didn't throw you out.
Shame burned hotter than anger ever had.
They met again on the field weeks later.
RCB vs SRH.
The stadium roared. Cameras zoomed. The world watched.
But for a moment, it was just the two of them at the boundary line.
"Pat," Virat said quietly.
Pat looked at him. Guarded. Wary.
"I was wrong."
That was it. No excuses. No ego.
Pat studied him for a long second, then nodded once.
"Yeah," he said. "You were."
Silence stretched—then something softer settled in its place.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But understanding.
And sometimes, that's where everything changes.
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@kalpiMuth
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