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The man in the oversized hoodie kept adjusting his cap, pulling it lower over his brow every few seconds. His sunglasses were too big for his face, slipping down his nose whenever he glanced around. He'd picked the quietest corner of the coffee shop beside the restrooms, where the espresso machine's buzzing drowned out conversations.
When he finally looked up, his knee bounced under the table, jittering the untouched latte. "Hey," he said quietly. "Do you... have a jacket I could borrow?" His voice was muffled, like he was trying to keep it down. The barista had recognized him immediately, of course she had. Everyone in the city knew those sharp cheekbones, the way he tucked his hair behind his ears before a big match.
She blinked. "Uh. Yeah, but-"
"Please." His fingers tightened around his cup. "Just for ten minutes. I'll pay you back. Double."
She hesitated, then slid off her apron and handed it over. He didn't move. Just stared at the fabric like it might bite him.
"...You gotta stand up first," she muttered.
His laugh was more of a cough. "Right." He shifted in his seat, grimacing as the table rattled again. The hoodie rode up just enough to reveal the problem: the unmistakable outline straining against his joggers, tenting the fabric in a way that made her cheeks burn. He yanked the hoodie back down, but it was too late.
She exhaled through her nose. "Oh god."
"I know," he groaned. "Look, I swear this isn't- I was just - "
"-watching your own highlights?"
He choked. "No!"
"Relax." She tossed him the apron. "Wrap this around your waist. Pretend you spilled something."
He fumbled with the ties, fingers clumsy. "You're not gonna tweet about this, right?"
She snorted. "Dude, I don't even have Twitter (or X whatever)."
The apron didn't cover that. The apron highlighted it.
"This isn't working," he hissed.
She sighed. "Okay. New plan."
Before she could elaborate, the café's bell jingled. A short teenager stumbled in, backpack sliding off one shoulder. His eyes, wide behind thick-rimmed glasses, locked onto the cricketer instantly. "Oh my god," he breathed, frozen mid-step. "You're-"
"Shh!" The barista and cricketer hissed in unison.
The boy scrambled forward, nearly tripping over his own shoelaces. His mouth worked soundlessly before blurting: "Hiiii I'm Ishan!! I have your jersey! The one from the World Cup! I sleep in it every—" He cut himself off, cheeks flushing crimson.
The cricketer groaned, sinking lower in his seat. The apron slipped another inch.
The barista shot the boy a pleading look. "Not. A word."
Ishan's gaze darted downward. Then back up. Then down again. His eyebrows climbed his forehead. "Is that...?"
"Help," the cricketer muttered into his hands. "Just...help."
Ishan swallowed hard, fingers tightening around his backpack straps. For a terrifying moment, the barista thought he might scream, or worse, pull out his phone. Instead, he shrugged off his oversized varsity jacket. "Here," he mumbled, thrusting it forward without making eye contact. "It's, uh. Long."
The cricketer grabbed it like a drowning man clutching a lifeboat. The jacket swallowed him whole, sleeves dangling past his fingertips. He exhaled shakily. "You're a lifesaver, man."
Ishan's grin was giddy. "No problem! I mean... holy shit....you're actually-"
The cricketer clapped a hand over the kid's mouth. "Names later. Right now, I need you to walk out with me. Block the left side."
The boy nodded frantically, practically vibrating. As they stood, the barista caught the cricketer's elbow. "Payback," she whispered. "Autographs. For my little brother."
He nodded. Then, with the starstruck teen shielding his left side, they made their way toward the exit and just at the same time, a group of college students burst in, laughing over something. The cricketer froze. Ishan grabbed his wrist and yanked him sideways behind a potted plant.
"Distraction time," the boy whispered. Then, with sudden, terrifying confidence, he stepped forward and knocked over an entire tray of sugar packets. The college girls shrieked as the packets and lots of sugar hit their shoes.
The cricketer didn't wait. He bolted for the door, Ishan's jacket flapping around him like a superhero cape. The barista watched them go, stirring her lukewarm latte.
She sighed. "Best shift ever."
The cricketer reappeared three days later, with the jacket, but without the sunglasses, just his usual practice jersey clinging to his shoulders. He leaned against the counter like he owned it, grinning when she nearly dropped a stack of cups. "Jacket boy," he said. "Where is he?"
She wiped her hands on her apron. "You mean your lifesaver?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I owe him. Big time."
She smirked. "He comes in at 4:30. Orders a cold coffee with extra chocolate. Stares at your Instagram between sips."
The cricketer's grin widened.
At 4:28, the bell jingled. The boy froze mid-step, backpack sliding off one shoulder again. He opened his mouth in a big O but no sound came out. The cricketer turned on his stool, slow, deliberate. "There you are."
Ishan's knees buckled. He caught himself on a chair. "You...you remember me?"
The cricketer stood, closing the distance in two strides. He tossed the freshly washed varsity jacket at Ishan's chest. "Couldn't forget you if I tried."
The boy clutched the fabric to his chest like it was his first born child. "Th-thanks."
"You free tonight?" The cricketer hooked his thumbs in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. Ishan's gaze flicked downward just for a second before snapping back up. A flush crept up his neck.
The cricketer noticed, his dignity has definitely taken a nosedive.
"I..." Ishan swallowed. "I have organic chem at seven."
The cricketer stepped closer. The young boy's breath hitched. "Skip it."
Ishan's fingers twisted in the jacket sleeves. "I can't- "
"Sure you can." The cricketer leaned in, voice dropping. "Tell you what. You ditch class, I'll show you my World Cup trophy."
Ishan made a noise like a deflating balloon.
Behind the counter, the barista snorted into her latte. "For god's sake, take it outside before you traumatize my coffee too."
The cricketer winked at her. Then, without breaking eye contact with the boy, he plucked the jacket from his grip and draped it over his shoulders. "Come on, superstar." His fingers lingered at Ishan's collar. "Let's get you out of those books and into the real world."
The cricketer laughed and steered him toward the door. Ishan went willingly, tripping over his own feet, face burning brighter than the exit sign overhead.
The barista watched them go. She didn't even bother pretending not to stare.
She sighed. "Best shift ever."
The cricketer's car smelled like leather and mint chewing gum, and something faintly obnoxious, like the spray of a dozen hastily applied deodorants. Ishan clutched his seatbelt like it might vanish if he loosened his grip, knees bouncing as they turned onto the waterfront drive. "This is insane," he breathed, pressing his forehead to the window. "I've watched your interviews in this exact car. You talked about your humble beginnings but all I can smell is luxury."
The cricketer glanced sideways, amused. "Can't a man enjoy his hardwork?"
"Yes, yes! Just- " The boy flapped a hand, knocking his glasses askew. "Sorry?"
They stopped at a Vada pav stall tucked between skyscrapers, the kind of place tourists never found. Steam curled around the cricketer's fingers as he handed over a Vada pav. "Try it. No one makes it better."
Ishan took a bite, then froze, eyes widening. "Oh my god." Crumbs tumbled down his shirt. "This is...you posted about these! After the semifinals!" He brandished the Vada pav like evidence. "You said they tasted like victory."
The cricketer blinked. Then burst out laughing, loud enough that even the vendor grinned. "You're fucking adorable." He reached out, thumb brushing a crumb off the boy's chin. The boy's breath hitched.
Next: a batting nets near the docks, its neon-lit reflection making it look ethereal. The cricketer tossed him a helmet two sizes too big. "Swing hard."
Ishan whiffed the first three balls. On the fourth, he connected a pathetic hit that barely reached the net. He threw his arms up anyway. "Did you see that?"
The cricketer did. He also saw how Ishan's shirt rode up when he swung, exposing a strip of pale stomach. How his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he concentrated. "Wow, absolutely amazing," he deadpanned, stepping closer to adjust the boy's grip. His chest pressed against the boy's back. "Elbow up. Like this."
Ishan shuddered. "Y-you're touching me."
"Yeah." The cricketer's breath ghosted over his ear. "Problem?"
Ishan's next swing sent the ball screaming into the net.
By midnight, they were sprawled on the hood of the car, sharing a milkshake with two straws. Ishan licked whipped cream off his lip. "This is the best day of my life."
The cricketer studied him: the messy hair, the smudged glasses, the way his eyes never stayed still on anything for too long. Something warm curled in his chest. "Mine too," he admitted, surprised by his own honesty.
The boy's smile could've lit up entire Mumbai.
When the cricketer tossed him a practice jersey, his actual jersey, smelling faintly of detergent and pine, Ishan clutched it to his chest and whispered, "I'll frame it," with such an awestruck expression that the cricketer had to turn away and pretend to adjust his shoelaces to hide the warmth flooding his face.
"Just wear it," he muttered, flicking the boy's forehead.
Ishan gasped, scandalized. "You....you touched my head." His fingers flew up to the spot, prodding it like he might find some holy mark. "That's the face that saw your sixer against Pakistan."
The cricketer groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're ridiculous." But his chest tightened when Ishan immediately stripped off his shirt right there in the living room, struggling into the jersey with all the coordination of a newborn giraffe (A/N: hahaha). The fabric swallowed him, sleeves pooling over his knuckles. He beamed, swaying a little like he might faint. "It's touching my skin," he breathed.
The cricketer couldn't help it, he reached out and ruffled Ishan's hair, fingers catching in the tangled curls. The boy froze. His lips parted. "You're-"
"Yeah, yeah, desecrating your scalp or whatever." The cricketer's voice came out rougher than intended. He let his hand fall back, already missing the softness.
Ishan's eyes widened behind his smudged glasses. "Do it again," he blurted.
A laugh broke out of the cricketer's mouth. He obliged, scrubbing his hand through Ishan's hair until it stood up in wild tufts. Ishan leaned into the touch, eyes slipping shut, his sigh so content it made the cricketer's heart flutter.
When they stopped for fuel, the cricketer caught the boy staring at a rack of keychains specifically, the one with his own face printed tiny and pixelated. Ishan's fingertips hovered over it, trembling.
"Here." The cricketer plucked it off the hook and dropped it into the boy's palm. "Now you can jingle me wherever you go."
Ishan made a noise like a surprised cat. He clutched the keychain to his heart, eyes shimmering. "I'll never lose my keys again."
The cricketer rolled his eyes but his stomach swooped when Ishan immediately attached it to his backpack zipper, kissing the little plastic face before tucking it carefully into a pocket.
Later, parked by the bridge with takeout containers between them, Ishan closed his eyes with how overwhelmingly good the day was, his cheek smushed against the window. The cricketer watched the steady rise and fall of his shoulders. He reached over, gently sliding the glasses off his face. The boy didn't stir.
Something fierce and unfamiliar and powerful rose within his chest. "Mine," he murmured, testing the word. It fit. He traced the boy's knuckles with his thumb, so lightly it wouldn't wake him before leaning in, brushing his lips against the boy's temple, a feather light touch. Ishan's eyelashes fluttered instantly. The cricketer jerked back, heart hammering, but it was too late. Sleep-blurred eyes blinked up at him, lips parted in confusion.
"Did you just-" The boy's fingers touched his own forehead, tracing the warmth that had come with it. His voice was thick with sleep, but his eyes were wide, hopefully it wasn't disgust. The cricketer scrambled for the door handle. "Wait. No. That was- i didn't- "
Ishan moved faster. He grabbed a fistful of the cricketer's jersey, yanking him forward with surprising strength. Their mouths crashed together messy and out of balance and their teeth clicking. The cricketer made a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan, hands flying up to brace against the dashboard. The boy didn't let go. He kissed like he swung a bat: overeager, uncoordinated, all passion and no finesse. His glasses dug into the cricketer's cheekbone.
They broke apart panting. Ishan's lips were deep pink and swollen. He looked dazed, triumphant. "I've wanted to do that," he breathed, "since you hit that century against New Zealand."
The cricketer stared. His pulse roared in his ears. "That was two years ago."
Ishan nodded vigorously. "I made an entire presentation on it, but I haven't found any audience yet."
Something hot and possessive twisted in the cricketer's gut. He cupped Ishan's jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. "Show me."
Ishan's laptop glowed between them in the backseat, casting blue shadows across their tangled legs. Slide after slide detailed every boundary the cricketer had ever scored: annotated with timestamps, why that shot was hotter than all of the other shots he played , and, inexplicably, what the boy had been wearing during each match.
"This is deranged," the cricketer muttered, scrolling to a photo of himself absolutely killing a pull shot.
"I know," Ishan agreed cheerfully, nuzzling into the cricketer's shoulder. His breath tickled the cricketer's collarbone.
The cricketer snapped the laptop shut. Ishan yelped as he was hauled into the cricketer's lap, knees on either side of those maddening hips. "You're insane," the cricketer growled, biting the boy's ears.
Ishan shuddered. "You love it."
The cricketer paused. The words hung between them, too big, too soon. Ishan's eyes widened behind his crooked glasses.
Then the cricketer kissed him again swallowing away his wordless gasps.
Morning came with Ishan's face mashed against the cricketer's chest, drooling slightly on his practice jersey. Rohit didn't move, didn't dare breathe too deep, just watched the way sunlight caught the boy's eyelashes, gold flecks in the brown mess of his sleep-tousled hair. The boy stirred, nuzzling closer with a muffled grunt, fingers curling into the cricketer's waistband.
"Ow, Ishu" Rohit muttered when an elbow jabbed his ribs.
Ishan blinked awake, froze, then scrambled upright so fast he knee'd the cricketer in the thigh. "Oh god......did I....Ro- are we- " His voice cracked. He stared at Rohit's bare chest, then down at his own (still clothed) torso, then back up. "You didn't take advantage of me!" he accused, somewhere between scandalized and disappointed.
Rohit rolled his eyes. "You snored like an old man."
The boy looked even more scandalized. "Liar."
They bickered over food in Rohit's kitchen, the boy perched on the counter in mismatched socks, stealing bites straight from the pan. "You're a menace,"Rohit growled, swatting his hand away but he didn't stop smiling.
Ishan retaliated by flicking pieces of food at him.
Later, at Ishan's cramped dorm room, Rohit wedged himself onto the narrow bed, scowling at the poster of himself taped above the pillow. "This is weird."
Ishan flopped onto his lap, grinning. "You love it."
Rohit flicked his forehead.
Rain trapped them in a grocery store aisle, sharing a single umbrella that leaked down Ishan's neck. He shivered, pressing closer. "Your fans would riot if they saw you buying energy drinks and what is this even called? Lavender water?"
Rohit tossed a bag of gummy worms that Ishan had been sneaking glances at,into the basket, just to shut him up .
Ishan beamed like he'd been gifted the moon.
At a team dinner, Ishan spilled sauce down his shirt, panicked, and tried to lick it off. All the cricketer's teammates howled. The boy turned beet-red. Rohit, fed up like the mommy of a toddler, leaned over and wiped the stain with his napkin, murmuring, "Idiot," so fondly it made the table blush.
Ishan's smile could've lit up entire Mumbai.
They only ever fought once properly, over something stupid, and Rohit stormed out. He came back twenty minutes later with apology ice cream. Ishan ate it with tear-streaks drying on his cheeks, complaining to Rohit about how cute and cruel he was.
"You're stuck with me," Rohit muttered, bumping their shoulders together.
Ishan licked his spoon clean. "I'd want it no other way."
And he did mean it.
The ball soared over the boundary rope, another six, and the stadium erupted.Rohit didn't even glance at the scoreboard. Instead, he turned toward the stands, where Ishan was already on his feet, fists clenched, shouting something inaudible. Rohit tapped his chest twice, then pointed straight at him. The cameras caught everything: the boy falling to his knees, his hands flying to his mouth, the way he crumpled back like he'd been shot.
By the time Rohit lifted the trophy, #WhoIsHe was already trending. Ishan's face, blurry, tear-streaked, mouth open in a silent cry had been screenshotted, memed, and superimposed onto crying babies, greek paintings, even a particularly distraught lion. The team's group chat exploded.
Jadeja: bro why did your boyfriend become a wet tissue
Virat: looks like someone found a life partner, dedicating a century? That's rich.
Shubman: that boy's reaction was cute tho. What's his name, by the way? Asking for a friend.
Ishan's phone buzzed nonstop. He buried his face in the cricketer's jersey (the real one, now permanently stolen) and groaned. "They're making memes on me. And the worst part is that s{me of them are actually funny."
Rohit laughed maniacally, he wasn't much help.
The teasing didn't stop.
But Rohit much to Ishan's anger, leaned into it. He started signing autographs with little tear doodles. Winked at the camera after every boundary. Even, in a move that made the boy combust on live television, mimicked his crying face during a victory lap.
Ishan tackled him in the locker room afterward. "You're the worst," he hissed, pinning Rohit to the bench.
Rohit just grinned, brushing a thumb under the boy's still-damp lashes. "Nah. You are." Then he kissed him, slow, sweet, and entirely too smug right as their teammate walked in.
The resulting photo: Ishan straddling Rohit, both flushed and rumpled went even more viral.
Shubman: congrats on the s*x i guess
Ishan's Mom: CALL ME.
Fans: omg it's getting real!
Ishan deleted Instagram. The boy's mother refused to look at the picture directly. "I prayed for grandchildren," she muttered, "not for you to go ahead and call some man your 'Daddy' or whatever stuff you people have. That good boy, I think shubman was his name, told me about it. Otherwise you, ishan, you never tell me anything."
Training sessions became unbearable. Teammates "accidentally" hit balls toward the stands where Ishan sat scribbling organic chem notes. "Oops," they'd laugh as he fumbled the catch. "Thought you liked handling balls." Ishan retaliated by bringing homemade cookies laced with laxatives. The resulting chaos got them both banned from being near each other.
Then came the endorsement deals.
"Underwear?" Ishan gaped at the contract. "They want me to model- "
"Together." Rohit smirked, flipping to page twelve. "They're calling it the 'Weepy & Wicked' collection."
Ishan hurled a pillow at him. It missed, knocking over a vase.
They shot the campaign in Mauritius. Ishan spent the entire flight clutching his armrests, convinced they'd crash. "Statistically," he whispered, "this is not as safe as your batting average."
Rohit kissed him silent.
On set, the boy froze under the lights, standing like a mannequin. "I can't -they'll see my-"
"Breathe." Rohit stepped behind him, god-like body on display for the world to swoon, placing his hands on Ishan's hips. "Just look at me."
The resulting image: Ishan's flushed cheek pressed to Rohit's shoulder, fingers tangled in his waistband broke the brand's website. Fans overlayed it with the crying meme. Seems like there was no escaping from the mistake of being so emotional on his boyfriend's century.
At home, Ishan traced the trophy's glossy edge. "People are gonna remember this," he murmured, "long after you stop playing."
Rohit caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "I know they will."
Rohit's shirt hit the floor first, followed by the boy's glasses knocked askew by a kiss that tasted like chewing gum and confidence. Ishan gasped when the cricketer's teeth scraped his collarbone, fingers scrabbling for hold on the sweat-slick expanse of his back. "Wait- " he panted, "your knee- "
"Shut up," Rohit growled, flipping them effortlessly. The bed protested with a squeal.
Outside, rain lashed the windows. Inside, Ishan's laptop, abandoned mid-lecture, blared an oblivious professor droning about molecular bonds. Rohit reached over blindly and snapped it shut with one hand while the other worked the boy's belt.
Ishan made a sound like a deflating balloon when the cricketer's palm slid under his waistband. "Ohgodohgod—"
"Breathe," Rohit murmured against his throat, grinning when the boy's hips stuttered upward.
Ishan's fingers twisted in the sheets. "I might...."
"Yeah." Rohit's thumb traced his tattoos slowly. "Go ahead."
Ishan came with a whimper, forehead pressed to Rohit's shoulder, entire body trembling like a plucked string. Rohit held him through it, mouth pressed to his forehead, free hand raking through his hair, until the boy went boneless beneath him.
It was a peaceful silence until Ishan gained back some amount of coherence, and also his restless energy.
"That," he gasped, "was statistically better than your performance in the last match."
Rohit barked a laugh, rolling them sideways before Ishan could elbow his bruised ribs. "Nerd."
Ishan grinned, flushed and rumpled, tracing idle patterns on the cricketer's chest. His fingers paused over the scar from last season's stress fracture. "You're stuck with me," he murmured, echoing Rohit's words from weeks ago.
Rohit caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm just like before. But this time, he didn't let go.
Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed.
Ishan's alarm blared in the morning, some horrendous pop song he refused to change. Rohit groaned, burying his face in the boy's neck. "Murder that phone."
Ishan squirmed, reaching blindly for the snooze button. His elbow connected with Rohit's nose. "Sorry! Sorry...sorry"
"You're a hazard." Rohit rolled atop him, pinning his wrists. Ishan's laughter died in his throat when their hips slotted together.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Rohit's mouth found Ishan's lips. "Skip class."
Ishan arched beneath him. "I-"
"Again."