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The celebrations had barely faded. Lord's, now quiet under the soft evening glow, seemed almost unaware of the history it had just witnessed. But for Aarav Pathak, the adrenaline still pulsed through every vein, a rhythm that refused to calm. Within hours of the miracle chase, his phone buzzed incessantly — messages, notifications, thousands of likes and comments pouring in from fans around the world. He smiled faintly, recalling his IPL celebrations, the familiar thrill of victory immortalized in photographs and hashtags. Now, the stakes were infinitely higher, but the joy — pure, unfiltered — was the same.
A week of revelry followed. The Indian team convened at a luxury hotel, the laughter, champagne, and camaraderie filling rooms in a way only athletes could understand after achieving the impossible. Each toast, each cheer, every joke felt like a collective sigh of relief and exultation. Aarav found himself in the center of it all, his teammates pulling him into impromptu dances, mimicking the iconic poses of their centuries and wickets, Rohit grinning like a proud elder brother, Pant buzzing with chaos and laughter, Gill glowing with a quiet satisfaction, and Kohli occasionally shaking his head in disbelief, muttering, "Incredible… simply incredible."
But the euphoria had to give way to responsibility. One morning, the squad gathered for a meeting that would pull Aarav from his celebratory haze into something far weightier. The room was formal, the air thick with expectation, sunlight streaming through large glass windows casting a golden hue over the mahogany table. At its head sat Sourav Ganguly, the BCCI President, commanding presence tempered with warmth. Flanking him were Coach Ravi Shastri, Captain Virat Kohli, Honorary Secretary Jay Shah, Selection Committee Head Chetan Sharma, and the other pillars of Indian cricket administration. The seating plan itself communicated gravity — the inner sanctum of Indian cricket, the decision-makers, the guardians of its future.
Aarav took his seat quietly, glancing around. His eyes widened as he realized the enormity of the room. Here he was, the youngest among legends and leaders — men who had steered the course of Indian cricket for decades, men who had faced pressure he could only begin to comprehend. Other than Aarav, there was only Rohit Sharma, A. Rahane, Hardik Pandya (Virtually), Jasprit Bumrah, KL Rahul (Virtually), R Jadeja, R Ashwin.
His fingers drummed nervously on the polished table. The collective calm around him, decades of experience embodied in stoic faces, contrasted starkly with the whirlpool of thoughts in his mind.
Ganguly opened the proceedings with measured authority:
"First, congratulations to everyone. What we witnessed at Lord's was not just a victory, it was a statement. But as you know, the schedule is unforgiving. We have upcoming ODIs and the T20 World Cup, and the approach for both has to be meticulous."
Shastri nodded in agreement:
"We need our main players at peak performance. This means resting some of you, giving opportunities to the fresh talent, and ensuring no one gets overworked or injured before these critical matches."
Kohli leaned forward, voice calm but firm:
"To be clear — the upcoming few ODIs will be played by a new team. This allows us to manage workload, monitor fitness, and prepare everyone for the T20 World Cup. The focus is on longevity, peak form, and strategic preparation."
A hush fell over the room as Kohli continued, his words carrying a weight that only a captain of his caliber could impart:
"As you know, I've skipped a few matches this year to spend time with my family — a newborn at home is a responsibility I cannot ignore. That said, after the T20 World Cup, I will step down as the T20 captain. Rohit will take over the reins, while I continue in ODIs and Tests. This is for the benefit of the me, the team, and all of us."
A murmur passed around the table. Aarav's breath caught. He had expected congratulatory talks, perhaps some discussion of his form, but to hear such major leadership decisions being discussed in his presence — the youngest player in this room — was surreal. He saw shock ripple across some of the senior players: Rohit's subtle nod of acceptance, Rahane and KL Rahul's composed but tight expressions, a calm that Aarav could not read entirely. It was a room steeped in history, yet its eyes now seemed to include him, cautiously, respectfully.
Jay Shah chimed in, explaining the rationale behind fielding a fresh team for the upcoming tours, emphasizing protection from injury and COVID-19 protocols. Chetan Sharma outlined the practicalities of scheduling and player rotation. The meeting was exhaustive yet purposeful, a masterclass in strategic leadership.
When the official agenda concluded, the players slowly rose. Aarav lingered for a moment, heart still racing. Kohli called him over, gesturing him aside.
"Aarav, come here," Kohli said, his tone shifting from captain to mentor.
The weight of the room seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of them. Aarav approached cautiously, unsure if he had done something to deserve this private attention. Kohli smiled, a mixture of pride and quiet awe:
"I want to tell you why you were here today. Seeing you in the leadership group — sitting with presidents, coaches, secretaries — it's not accidental. You're here because of the fire you showed in the dressing room before the Reserve Day. The passion, the intensity… the same spark that Rohit, MSD, and I have. You led with your bat, your mind, and your heart. That's leadership."
Aarav's pulse raced. Words caught in his throat. He remembers what he said that he is going to win in all even all alone.
Kohli continued:
"Keep thriving. Keep performing. I see you captaining this team in four to five years. You have the mind, the courage, and the temperament. That innings at Lord's wasn't just about runs — it was about vision, strategy, and belief. That's why you were here today, and why you'll be here tomorrow, and the day after, shaping Indian cricket."
Aarav nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The enormity of the words, the recognition from a player of Kohli's stature, left him both humbled and electrified. He knew now that cricket was no longer just about personal milestones — it was about legacy, about steering a team, about thinking beyond oneself.
As the conversation ended, Kohli patted his shoulder firmly, a silent affirmation. Aarav left the room and walked alone to the balcony overlooking the city. England stretched before him, a patchwork of streets, parks, and cricketing history. The sun had dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, streaking clouds across the horizon. Aarav leaned on the railing, eyes scanning the distance, thoughts running deep.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "The fire is mine to guard. The path is mine to shape. And one day… one day, I will lead."
The city hummed softly beneath him, the wind carrying the faint echoes of cheering fans, the memory of celebration, and the promise of tomorrow. Aarav stayed there long after the others had left, contemplating life, cricket, and the journey ahead. For the first time, he didn't see himself as just a player. He saw himself as a part of something far greater — a legacy still being written, with many chapters yet to come.
And as night fell over England, the stars ignited one by one, mirroring the spark inside him, relentless and unyielding.
"I am ready," he breathed. "Ready to fight, ready to lead, ready to become more than I ever imagined."
The balcony, the city, the history of Indian cricket — all seemed to pause and watch him, the youngest flame in a constellation of legends.
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The airplane landed like an exclamation mark, a metal bird folding its wings and surrendering to the ground. For a week the team had celebrated in a fog of champagne and sunlight, laughter and song drifting between hotel corridors and backrooms. But now the buzz of airports and fluorescent lights replaced confetti; the world reduced itself to one single, shimmering moment: coming home.
India's arrival terminal looked different than the one they had left — emptier, tighter, but no less electric. Despite protocols easing, the crowd that had come to glimpse their heroes felt like a living thing, a single organism breathing out cheers. Fans stood behind barriers, their faces flushed with joy, hoarse from days of chanting. "India! India!" They held placards, scarves, small flags. Many phones were raised like modern lighters—tiny suns in a field of faces.
Aarav stepped down the steps, the mace tucked under the crook of his arm. He had hoisted it high at Lord's as soon as the match ended, had felt its weight in his palm and the weight of the moment in his chest. He lifted it again now — not for cameras, but because his hand moved on its own. The crowd answered. A chorus of his name rose, and for the first time all week his smile cracked like sunlight through clouds: raw, uncalculated, human.
They swarmed him with affection the way teammates swarm champions. The bus ride that took them from tarmac to team van was a slow-motion procession of honking horns and waving, the city's roar humbling and intimate.
When Aarav finally stepped into the doorway of his home, it felt simultaneously enormous and wonderfully ordinary.
He embraced his mother. No words were necessary at first; the hug was everything language could not hold. His mother kissed him on both cheeks, fingers lingering in his hair like a benediction. His father said simply, voice thick, "You did it. We saw it, beta. We're proud."
Later, in the living room, the teapot hissed and the three of them sat with steaming cups, the flicker of a lamp making the room small and warm. Photos of past family moments lined the shelf — cricket bats from his school days, a faded jersey, a framed newspaper clipping of his first club hundred. The pages of his life unfurled in a gentle, domestic light that felt softer than any stadium floodlight.
He told them everything — in the measured way players retell matches, punctuated by small, private asides. The scoreboard, the mace, the last over; how he had cued himself to take the strike, how he had decided instinctively to shield the tail and feed on the bowlers. He described the hush of Lord's at the moment the ball reached the rope: "It felt like the whole world inhaled with me and then—" He stopped, smiling at the memory.
Later, when the family had settled, the noise of the world hushed to negligible hums, Aarav took a long, hot shower. The water ran heavy against his shoulders, washing out the salt of days and the grit of pitches. The muscles he had kept honed through months of competition tired into gentle ache. He let the dreams of the last days stream down the drain, and when he stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, he felt, for the first time since Lord's, like a private person again — not a headline, not a symbol, just a son rubbing his hair dry under the lamplight.
His heart jumped. The name on the screen was familiar, gentle: Shradha.
She answered on the second ring, the video feeding through grainy pixels into the quiet of his room. Her face bloomed across the screen, hair tucked carelessly behind her ear, eyes bright. She whooped softly when she saw him, both goofy and heartfelt. "You did it," she said, and there was no news or glitz in the phrase; it was an affirmation he'd longed for.
They settled into the kind of easy banter lovers invent for themselves — light, teasing, close. He told her how it had felt to stand in the middle of Lord's, the way the crowd had pressed like a living thing. She listened, inhaling each word as if to anchor it. Then she asked about the little things — had he slept? Had he eaten? Did he know how many messages he had? When he laughed, her smile widened, and for a few minutes they were simply two people recalling, comforting, remembering.
"Come over tomorrow," she said at last, fingers worrying the outline of the phone as if she could bridge the distance with motion. "I'll make your favourite — Donuts and Coffee. We'll go to the garden."
"I'll be there," he said. "But not tomorrow, as dad had some work for me. Would come day after tomorrow."
They spoke until the middle of the night, the noise outside his window slowly settling. He watched Shradha's face, traced the line of her jaw on the screen, memorized the way she blinked when she laughed.
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Shradha sat on the edge of her bed with her phone warming under her palm. She had been smiling a minute ago, a smile that belonged to someone who had just heard a joke only he could tell. Aarav's voice—the easy cadence, the small chuckles that filled the silence—still pulsed behind her ribs. He always had this way of making everything lighter, even when he spoke of the most absurd things.
Then --
The sharp, unmistakable sound of a door creaking.
Shradha's smile faltered. Her eyes darted toward the half-open door, her heart skipping. And there — standing just beyond the doorway, arms crossed, face stormy — was Sara Tendulkar.
Her elder sister. Her best friend. And right now, her worst nightmare.
"What is this?" Sara's voice cracked the calm like a whip. It wasn't loud, but every syllable carried anger tightly wound beneath control.
Shradha blinked, caught between guilt and surprise. "What?" she asked, a little too innocently.
Sara stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than a slam. "Who were you talking to?"
Shradha felt her pulse quicken. "None of your business," she shot back, already defensive.
"Oh, it is my business," Sara snapped. "Because I don't know which random boy you think you're dating now, and I—"
"Oh, come on, Sara!" Shradha interrupted, standing abruptly. "You're one to talk. You're dating Gill, right? Isn't he just a 'random boy' too?"
Sara's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't you dare bring Gill into this."
Shradha crossed her arms, the same way Sara had a moment ago. "And don't you dare call Aarav a random boy. He's the best there is, and there ever will be." Her voice trembled, but not with fear — with conviction.
Sara's glare hardened. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
"To my sister," Shradha said sharply, "who's acting like a self-appointed bodyguard."
For a heartbeat, the air between them was a loaded gun.
Then the words burst out.
Sara stepped closer. "Shradha, you think you know him? You think just because he calls you every night, tells you you're special, that makes it real? You're living in a dream, Shrads. Aarav Pathak might be India's golden boy right now, but—"
"—But what?" Shradha snapped, cutting her off. "He's still human? He still loves me? You of all people should understand, Sara. You're with Gill! And you know Aarav — he's Gill's best friend. So don't pretend like you don't."
That stopped Sara for half a second.
Her lips pressed together. "I do know him," she said quietly. "That's why I'm worried."
The sentence sliced through the room.
Shradha blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sara sighed, frustration lacing her tone. "It means I've seen him up close, Shradha. The pressure, the world he lives in — it's brutal. Cameras everywhere, people ready to twist anything. You think you can survive in that world without it breaking you? I love Gill, but there is camera around me and him every time and everywhere."
Shradha's throat tightened. "You don't get it," she whispered. "He's not like that and if you could settle and I could too."
Sara shook her head. "That's exactly what I said about Gill."
"And you're still with him!" Shradha fired back. "So don't make me feel guilty for being in love!"
The words ricocheted. Sara's composure cracked. "This isn't about guilt! This is about consequences! If Dad or Mom finds out—"
Shradha's voice hardened. "If you tell them, I'll tell them about you and Gill."
That did it. The line landed like a thunderclap.
Sara froze. Her eyes widened — not in fear, but in disbelief. "What did you just say?"
Shradha's voice trembled slightly. "You heard me."
Sara took a slow step forward. "You'd threaten me? Your own sister?"
"I'm not threatening," Shradha said, chin up. "I'm reminding you that secrets aren't one-way. You hide yours, I hide mine. Simple."
"Unbelievable," Sara muttered, rubbing her temples. "You've lost it."
Shradha's voice softened but didn't waver. "No, Sara. I've found someone who makes me feel. You hide behind your perfect image, behind control, behind what people expect. I'm done doing that."
Sara exhaled, the anger fading into something else — something almost scared. "I'm not your enemy, Shrads. I just… I don't want you to get hurt."
Shradha's defenses cracked for a second. "He won't hurt me."
Sara's tone broke. "They never plan to."
And then, the argument spiraled again — voices rising, colliding, looping.
"You think I don't know how the world works?""You think being famous means you get to rewrite the rules?""You're naïve!""You're hypocritical!""At least I'm honest!""At least I care!"
At one point, Sara tried to leave, and Shradha blocked her way. The room felt smaller, tighter, as if the walls themselves leaned closer to listen. A framed photo of their father smiled down from the shelf, silently witnessing his daughters coming undone.
The tension finally boiled over when Sara, in a rare flash of temper, knocked over a pillow from Shradha's bed. "You're impossible!"
"Oh yeah?" Shradha yelled back and tossed it at her.
The pillow hit Sara squarely in the shoulder.
For a heartbeat, they stared at each other — shocked.
Then Sara grabbed another pillow. "Fine!"
Shradha ducked, laughing bitterly. "Go ahead!"
The next few minutes were chaos — two sisters hurling cushions, tears and laughter mixing with frustration. It wasn't about the pillows anymore; it was about everything they hadn't said for months. The loneliness of fame, the fear of love, the weight of living up to a surname that defined a nation.
When it was over, the room looked like a storm had passed. Cushions scattered. The lamp tilted sideways. Their breathing ragged.
Sara sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing her palms against her face. "We're a disaster," she muttered.
Shradha sat beside her, silent for a moment, then whispered, "Maybe. But at least we're honest now."
Sara peeked through her fingers and let out a small, helpless laugh. "You're insane."
"You've known that for years," Shradha said softly.
For a long while, they just sat there. The storm had emptied something in both of them — left space for gentler truths.
Sara finally spoke. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just… heard his voice. And it scared me."
Shradha turned to her, eyes softer now. "Why scared?"
"Because I know that tone," Sara said. "It's how Gill sounds when he talks about me. It's how people sound when they're already in too deep."
Shradha smiled faintly. "Then you understand."
Sara sighed. "I guess I do."
A pause. Then: "You really love him, don't you?"
Shradha nodded. "I do."
Sara smiled — a real one this time. "Then maybe I should stop acting like a security guard."
"Maybe," Shradha teased, bumping her shoulder gently.
Sara chuckled. "Still, he better treat you right. Or I swear I'll get dad beat him till he apologizes."
Shradha laughed for the first time that night — full, warm, unrestrained. "Deal."
They both sat back, laughing softly, the tension finally dissolving.
After a moment, Shradha said, "You know what? We should record this."
Sara blinked. "Record what?"
"This moment," Shradha said, her voice playful again. "Proof that we survived a fight without killing each other."
Sara groaned. "You and your weird ideas."
"Come on! It'll be fun."
They set Shradha's phone against the bedside lamp. The screen glowed faintly. Sara folded her arms, pretending to be annoyed, but she was already smiling.
"Okay," Shradha said dramatically into the camera, "this is Shradha Tendulkar—"
"And I'm Sara Tendulkar," Sara added, rolling her eyes.
"—and we just had the dumbest, most dramatic sister fight ever."
Sara laughed. "Over a boy. Again."
"Correction," Shradha said, "the boy."
Sara snorted. "Fine, fine. The boy."
They both smiled into the camera, eyes tired but full of that soft, unmistakable love that only siblings could have after surviving a storm.
"Anyway," Shradha said, "if we ever fight again—"
"When," Sara corrected.
"When," Shradha echoed, laughing, "we'll watch this video and remember how stupid we sound."
Sara nodded. "And promise to say sorry sooner next time."
"Deal."
The phone kept recording as they laughed again, softer this time — two sisters framed in the warm light of their room, their argument already fading into memory and they chatted for along time about Aarav, Shubhman, and other things.
And it ended with - -
Sara leaned her head on Shradha's shoulder. "I love you, idiot."
Shradha smiled. "Love you too, drama queen."
The screen blinked — recording stopped.
They sat in the hush that followed, neither speaking, both thinking of the two men who somehow tied their worlds together — Gill and Aarav — and of the strange, unspoken bond that kept the four of them connected through cricket, fame, and love.
For now, though, the night belonged to the sisters.
And in that quiet room, beneath the watchful smiles of old photographs, Shradha Tendulkar felt a little lighter — as if even the heaviest secrets could be shared, forgiven, and recorded, one soft apology at a time.
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Ok and it Begins the Cycle of Love and Romance...
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