Chapter 5: The Teammate's Suspicion
The alarm went off at six and Smriti wanted to throw her phone across the room.
Her body protested before her brain fully surfaced. A deep ache in her thighs, a tenderness between her legs that was equal parts pleasant and alarming. Her shoulder stung where Varun had bitten down during the shower, and when she reached up to touch it, she felt the raised edges of broken skin.
She turned her head on the pillow.
The other side of the bed was empty. But still warm.
She found him in the kitchen, standing barefoot in his boxers, holding two mugs of tea like he'd lived here for years instead of hours. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the temples, and there was a red mark on his collarbone that matched the one he'd left on her.
"You're still here," she said.
"You told me not to disappear."
She took the tea. Drank it standing up, leaning against the counter, watching him over the rim of the mug. He looked different in the daylight—younger, somehow, and more real. The night had given him confidence. Morning stripped it away again.
"Bedroom," she said, setting down the mug. "Now."
He blinked. "Again?"
"Not that. My gear bag. You need to help me find it."
She didn't need help finding her gear bag. She needed to delay the moment when he walked out her door. That was the truth, and she wasn't ready to examine it.
---
Training started at seven-thirty, and she was late by exactly eleven minutes.
The Mumbai ground was already alive when she pushed through the gate—groundskeepers raking the outfield, coaches setting up nets, the sharp crack of bat on ball echoing from the far end. The air smelled of dew and cut grass and something metallic, like the day was still shaking off the night.
Meera was stretching by the boundary rope, one foot propped on a cooler, her ponytail swinging as she leaned into the stretch. She was Smriti's closest teammate—one of the few people who could read her moods without asking. Which was exactly the problem now.
"Look who decided to show up," Meera said, straightening. "You look like shit."
"Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious. You look like you slept in a gutter. Or a very energetic gutter."
Smriti dropped her bag and started her own warmup, keeping her gaze fixed on the ground. "Didn't sleep well."
"Uh-huh."
"What?"
"Nothing." Meera tossed her a ball. "You just have that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you've just eaten the last slice of cake and you don't want anyone finding out."
Smriti caught the ball and threw it back, harder than necessary. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
They settled into catching drills, the rhythm of it automatic after so many years. Toss, catch, toss, catch. The sun climbed higher, burning off the dew, and the sweat started to gather at the back of her neck.
She'd covered the mark. Collar up, hair down. She'd checked in the car mirror three times before driving over. But Meera had a way of seeing through things—it was part of what made her good behind the stumps, that constant alertness, that cataloging of small movements.
They broke for water after forty minutes. Smriti tipped her head back and drank, and the collar of her training shirt shifted.
Meera went very still.
"Smriti."
"What."
"Your neck."
Her hand went up automatically, a reflex, and she knew immediately that she'd given herself away. Meera's eyebrows climbed.
"Who did that?"
"Nobody."
"That's a bite mark. Someone did that."
Smriti capped her bottle and tossed it into her bag. "It's a rash."
"A rash shaped like teeth. Okay."
"It's a rash."
Meera grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the locker room, away from the other players, away from the coaches, away from anyone who might be listening. The concrete floor was slick with condensation, and the smell of sweat and leather hung in the air, thick and familiar.
"What is going on?" Meera demanded.
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me. I've seen you fake an injury, I've seen you fake a smile, and I've seen you fake excitement about sponsor events. I've never seen you fake a hickey. So either you've started dating someone very clumsy, or—" She stopped. "Oh my god. You had a one-night stand."
"I did not have a one-night stand."
"Then what was it?"
Smriti looked at the door. Looked at the high, barred windows where sunlight cut sharp shapes across the floor. Looked anywhere but at her friend.
"It was..." She trailed off. "I don't know what it was."
"Was it safe?"
"Yeah. It was safe."
"Was it with someone I know?"
"No."
"Someone on the team?"
"No, Meera. God."
"Then who?"
"I can't tell you that."
Meera stared at her. Then she laughed—a sharp, disbelieving thing. "You can't tell me. You, who tells me everything. You can't tell me who bit your neck like a vampire."
"He's just a guy."
"A guy."
"Yes."
"A guy you met where? A bar? A party? Instagram DMs?" Meera's eyes narrowed. "Please tell me it wasn't a fan."
Smriti didn't answer.
"Oh no."
"It's not—"
"Smriti. Please. Tell me you did not hook up with a fan."
"I'm not telling you anything."
"You just told me everything." Meera pressed her palms against her eyes. "Okay. Okay, I'm not going to judge you. I'm not. But I need you to understand what you're doing. You know the stakes. You've seen what happens when one of us makes a wrong move. The headlines. The comments. The sponsors getting nervous. You're at your peak, you're the face of the team, and if this gets out—"
"It won't get out."
"You don't know that."
"It won't."
Meera dropped her hands and looked at her. Really looked at her, with that sharp, unflinching gaze that made her such a good keeper.
"You're not thinking straight," she said quietly. "You're happy. I can see it. You've been glowing since you walked in, even with the exhaustion. But happy doesn't mean smart. And this—" She gestured at Smriti's neck. "—this is not smart."
"It's my life."
"It's your career."
"Same thing."
"No it isn't. And you know it."
The words landed harder than they should have. Smriti felt them settle somewhere in her chest, cold and heavy. She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Meera that she'd spent years giving everything to the game—every hour, every ounce of energy, every ounce of discipline—and that maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to want something else. Something for herself.
But she couldn't say that. Not here. Not out loud.
"Just be careful," Meera said, softer now. "That's all I'm asking. Whatever this is, be careful."
"I am."
"Are you?"
Smriti didn't answer.
---
Her phone buzzed at 9:04, during fielding drills.
She didn't check it. Couldn't—her glove was on, her marker was set, and the ball was coming hard off the bat. She scooped it up, threw it in, and tried to focus on the next one.
It buzzed again at 9:17.
Again at 9:32.
By the time the drills wrapped, she had eleven unread messages. All from Varun. She opened them in the locker room, her thumb scrolling fast.
Hey. Sorry. Ignore this if you're busy.
Just wanted to say good morning.
I left my towel at your place. Not that I need it back. Just noticed.
Also I'm outside.
The stadium.
Not the stadium. Outside the gate. The main one.
I can leave. Just say the word.
Okay I'm going to wait for like ten more minutes.
You're busy. This is weird. I'm leaving.
Sorry.
Okay I actually did leave. But I'm thinking about coming back.
The last message had come in four minutes ago.
Smriti stood in the locker room, still in her training kit, sweat cooling on her skin, and stared at the screen. Outside the barred windows, the stadium grounds sprawled in the sun. Fans clustered near the far gate—she could see them from here, small figures armed with phones and autograph books and endless, insatiable expectation.
Somewhere among them was a twenty-five-year-old software engineer who had shown up at her workplace with a cricket ball and a nervous smile, according to the message he'd sent at 8:15.
She should ignore him. Should go to her cool-down, her film session, her meeting with the physio. Should walk past the gate and get into her car and drive home and pretend last night had been a fever dream.
But she didn't move.
Her phone buzzed again.
One more thing. I brought a cricket ball. I don't know why. I think I panicked. Do you need a cricket ball?
Despite everything—despite the exhaustion, the lecture from Meera, the cold fear settling in her stomach—she laughed.
Meera reappeared in the doorway, already showered, already changed. She took one look at Smriti's face and sighed.
"He's here, isn't he?"
"How did you—"
"You have that look again. The cake look. And you're holding your phone like it's about to explode." Meera leaned against the doorframe. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"You know."
"I don't."
"You're going to go out there and talk to him. Because if you don't, you'll spend the whole day wondering. And you'll be useless in the nets. And I'll have to cover for you with the coaches. Again."
Smriti looked at her friend. At the knowing, resigned, slightly exasperated expression on her face. At the loyalty underneath it, unwilling and undeniable.
"You're the worst best friend I've ever had," Smriti said.
"Likewise." Meera pushed off the doorframe. "Go. But put a bandage on that neck first. You look like you got into a fight with a vacuum cleaner."
---
She found him by the outer gate.
He was standing off to the side, away from the cluster of fans, one hand shoved in his pocket and the other holding a cricket ball like it was a holy relic. The sun was full on his face now, and he was squinting, and his shirt was a wrinkled mess that she recognized from the pile of clothes at the foot of her bed.
He saw her and went very still.
She crossed the distance slowly, conscious of the guards watching, the fans watching, the world watching. Her collar was up. The bandage Meera had given her was stuck to her neck under her shirt. She looked, she hoped, like any professional cricketer stepping out for a moment, not a woman sneaking away to see a man she'd met twenty-four hours ago.
"You're here," she said.
"You said not to disappear."
"I meant it metaphorically."
"I know." He looked at the ball, then at her. "I'm bad at metaphors."
She stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the nervous flutter at his throat, the slight tremor in his hands. Close enough to smell the same soap he'd used in her shower.
"You brought a cricket ball," she said.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I thought maybe you'd want to practice. Or—I don't know. I wasn't thinking." He held it out. "Here."
She took it. The leather was warm from his hand, and she turned it over, reading the seam. It was an old ball, scuffed and worn, not new. Not something he'd bought at a store an hour ago.
"This is used," she said.
"I've had it for a while."
"How long?"
He looked at the ground. "Six years."
She looked up at him.
"You've had this ball for six years?"
"It's stupid. I know it's stupid. I was at a match—your match—when I was nineteen. You scored a century. I caught this ball when someone hit it into the stands near me. I've kept it since." He shrugged, helpless. "I thought maybe you'd think it was cool."
She stared at the ball. At the scuffed leather and the faded stitching. At the evidence of six years of devotion, carried around in someone's pocket like a talisman.
"You're insane," she said.
"Probably."
"You showed up at my training ground. With a ball you've had since you were nineteen. To give it to me."
"I told you I panicked."
She looked at him—really looked—and saw the exhaustion there, the same exhaustion she felt. The sleepless night. The uncertainty. The fear that this was too weird, too fast, too much.
And underneath it, the same hope.
"Varun," she said. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes. I have a film session at noon. I have a physio appointment at two. And I haven't slept more than three hours."
He nodded. "I know. I shouldn't have come. I just—"
"Shut up."
He shut up.
She stepped closer, close enough that no one else could hear, close enough that the ball was the only thing between them.
"Meet me tonight," she said. "Same place. Nine o'clock. And bring that brain of yours, because we're going to talk. About what this is. About what this can be. About all the reasons this is a terrible idea."
"Okay."
"And don't show up at my training ground again."
"Okay."
"Ever."
"Okay."
She handed him back the ball. He took it, confused.
"You keep it," she said. "For now. I want to see it again. When we talk."
He looked at the ball, then at her, and a smile spread across his face—slow, disbelieving, wide.
"Nine o'clock," he said.
"Nine o'clock."
She turned and walked back toward the stadium. She could feel him watching her the whole way. She could feel the heat on the back of her neck where the bandage sat, the ghost of his teeth, the memory of the night.
Twenty minutes later, she was in a meeting about brand partnerships. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she didn't check it, but she knew who it was. She smiled at the presenter. Nodded at the right moments. Took notes she wouldn't remember.
And underneath the table, she ran her thumb over her palm, where the cricket ball had rested. Where his warmth still lingered. Where the seam had pressed a groove into her skin.
The meeting droned on.
She thought about nine o'clock.
And she thought about what she was going to say when she got there.