"It's up in the air and into the awaiting crowd. Wadavkar goes big for his maiden century! No stones left unturned, or should I say no balls left untouched." I waited as AJ finished his chortling laugh. "And O'Connell is left stumped near the stumps, hands on his head. It really should come as a wonder, AJ, for a veteran like him, and a pitch like this, this over should've cost USA a wicket."

AJ hummed. "He is a veteran, Neil. One who has proven time and time again that even a bowler can be a run-making machine."

"Brutal. Absolutely brutal. At a time when even singles are expensive, you can't go around giving fifteen, twenty runs an over. It simply is suicide." I glanced at the screen in front of me. "Twenty-two off the over, dragging down the required run rate to just five point four six! It will be a miracle if England can pull a win." And to conclude—"Hundred and fifteen for three. Thirty balls left. Time for drinks break."

I shook hands with AJ, thanking him for the entertaining company, and stood up, allowing the next commentator to take my seat. Leaving the commentary box, I headed for the stands right above USA's dugout, where Beck was seated.

Right then, the clouds parted, giving way for bright, blinding rays to illuminate the field. And along with it, Beck's imposing figure sprawled on the seat. He had his ankle tossed over his knee, with his chin resting on a fist. His hair had grown a bit, no longer that closely cut to his scalp. It finally returned to its natural auburn shade, seeming even lighter courtesy of the sun. Speckles of light seeped in at all the right angles, sharpening the contour of his nose and the tightness in his jaw. If it weren't for the dark aviators that shielded his eyes, I could've seen the beautiful, emotive storms swirling in them.

My fingers twitched, aching to draw him (but that could've also been them being bound to a splint for the better part of the last ten days). I'd stopped doing portraits a long time ago. I didn't have the necessary emotions to spend on drawing a person, and even if I did, selling that piece would be a hassle. My feelings didn't have a price, and I'd parted with enough precious memories in this lifetime.

Beck noticed me wiggling through the lines of seats to get to him, and his lips parted to reveal a broad smile. The sun's rays just highlighted his radiance even more.

"Hi," he said.

I just grunted as I sat down with a flourish. On the seat between us, I saw a tray with a plate of nachos, two hotdogs, and two chilled bottles of what I was hoping was beer. God knew I needed some ice-cold beer for this blistering heat.

"I got us some food. The one with no mustard is yours," he said while handing me a drink.

I took it from him, my stomach fluttering at the minute contact between our fingertips. Get a grip. You're not a teenager. I cleared my throat and took a sip of my beer, ignoring my stomach. It was probably just hunger. I nearly whined at the sweetness on my tongue. It tasted—I turned the bottle in my hand... Apple juice? From the colour, I was expecting a Corona. What I got was some fizzy apple juice that should never have been packaged this fancily.

"Really?" I held up the bottle, distaste clear on my face. "All above twenty-one here, you know? Even though it may not seem like it."

"You shouldn't be drinking," Beck said simply.

"And why aren't you?" I took another sip, immediately gearing up to complain, but—fuck, it tasted refreshing.

"I don't."

"You don't? You don't what?"

"Drink."

Huh? I was supposed to be the one with that habit. But I remembered—"You had a beer at the engagement."

"Non-alcoholic."

I made a face. "But why?"

Beck angled his head from side to side in consideration but just shrugged in response.

How fantastic. While I was here, drowning my liver, heart and sorrows in gallons of life-shortening substances, Beck was out there adopting healthier lifestyles. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe I was the bad influence here. Just another reason for me to move out as soon as possible. My finger splint was off, and I could manage for another twenty days with one functioning arm. There was no reason for me to still stay at Beck's place, further falling into this pit of self loathing I had found myself in. But...

Yeah, just but.

Beck jutted his chin towards the field. "A little too happy there, huh?"

Down on the greens, Wadavkar was gesturing wildly to the twelfth man, seeming way too relaxed. Then again, he was twenty-something and just hit his first international century. Meanwhile, England huddled in a corner, sombre and annoyed.

"Wadavkar and Sushi can finish the game. They know it. England know it. The crowd know it. Now they just need to finish the game so we all can be satisfied that we got our money's worth." Well, not my money since I was getting paid for attending and running my mouth.

Beck took a big bite from his hotdog while I discreetly shifted in my seat, definitely not staring at the way his mouth worked.

He swallowed and said, "Sushi?"

"That short guy over there." I pointed. "The tall one is Ateesh Wadavkar. The other guy is Sujit Shankar. We used to call him Sushi."

Beck looked at me, confused. "We?"

"Yeah, he was part of the U19 squad back then. We played together. And played against each other in domestic matches. Brilliant batsman."

He nodded and then, as if remembering something, straightened. "Wait, this is USA vs England, right?"

"So, you were sleeping when I was away, huh? Thought so."

Beck turned in front. "No." Clearing his throat—"How is he playing for the US then?"

"He couldn't get further in India. It's a shame since he's a fine batsman, but—" I shrugged. "Things happen."

"So..." Beck raised his eyebrows, hungry as always for some gossip.

"So, now he plays for the US."

He made a face, and I resisted the urge to laugh.

"Look him up if you want more information. I'm not a walking, talking Google." I slouched further in my seat, sweating through my button-down. I shouldn't have left the commentary box. The AC was luxuriously divine. Fucking Beck and his presence brought me down.

Meanwhile, the reason for my discomfort was, in turn, very comfortable with his handheld fan and legs resting on the empty seat in front. He was busy staring at his phone. He just had to know everyone's story. If only he knew the reverse was appreciated as well.

"Ivy League?" Beck murmured, eyebrows raising higher and higher.

Yeah, bud, Ivy League.

Sushi was one of those guys who made the rest of us look bad. But no one more so than me. He was the one who bounced back harder than anyone I'd ever known. When he knew he wouldn't make it past regional cricket, despite having a promising start, he left. He pursued a bachelor's, worked a bit, went further with a master's here in the States, and worked some more, but cricket never left him. Not like it did with me. He was still able to play on the side, and with the sport seeing a sudden boost in this country, it didn't take long for him to get scouted.

"And you know what the worst part about all of it is?" I said to Beck, taking a long sip from my fizzy, kiddy drink.

"What?"

"He still has his motherfucking day job." I cringed, partly at how awed I sounded and partly at how jealous I felt. "He has some executive-level position in some hotshot startup that went big. Talk about luck." Where did he get his from, and did he have extra to donate?

Plus, Sushi got his green card, and I was still waiting on mine, even though I arrived here a year earlier than him. Clearly, I got the short end on everything.

"Sounds hectic," Beck said. He'd pocketed his phone and was staring straight ahead.

"Sounds rich," I corrected.

"Money is not everything."

"When you live near a spring, water is not a luxury. Ask a man in a desert, and he'll tell you its real value."

Beck whipped his head to look at me, and now it was my turn to find the heavily one-sided match interesting once more.

I could see him open his mouth from my periphery, and I was about to tell him to shut it—my financials were no one's problem except my own, especially seeing how I wasn't struggling but was just greedy for more. Instead, he swerved in another direction.

"How did you get this job?"

"Huh?" Oh, how smart I sounded. Such a turn-on.

"This commenting job. How'd you get it?"

"The channel called me."

"Well, duh, but, like, out of the blue?"

"Yes."

"Liar."

"Fuck off."

"Fine, I'm looking it up."

"No, wait!"

Before, my supposed "downfall" wasn't known to anyone other than the people who personally knew me. Unfortunately, when I did a commentary for a match—which wasn't even an important one, and I was in the box for like four minutes total—some nostalgic whackjob recognised my name. It didn't take long for my story to turn up on socials, and soon, the pity posts began to pour in. It didn't help that my and Arya's friendship was brought to the spotlight. I had thought swimming in my own pity pool was bad. No one told me about swimming in the pity pool others dug for me.

Even through his aviators, I could see Beck narrowing his eyes at me. "What are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding anything." I squirmed in my seat. "I was offered a coaching job, actually."

"Really?" Beck placed a hand on my arm. "Neil, that is—

"—not a big deal. It's not. It was for a youth team in a minor league. My previous coach, during my U19 days, his nephew plays for them, and the team needed an assistant coach, so he recommended my name. It was just to fill up a spot. What the hell do I know about coaching? The pay was shit. The team was in New York. I had—have—no interest in going there, so I declined, but I did take him up on the offer to attend the match. My coach was going to be there anyway, and I hadn't seen him in years, so I thought, yeah, might as well visit the old Scrooge." One of the few good decisions I had made in this life. "The commentators there spotted him—he's a big deal in the cricketing world—and invited him to the box. And he extended that invitation to me as well. This was the very first time I had ever seen the inside of a commentary box, and... I wouldn't say fell in love, but I was definitely intrigued. They were super nice and allowed me to speak into the mic as well. Coach saw that I was having fun, so he got me more gigs, and now here I am." I heaved in a huge breath. This was probably the most I talked since I "remet" Beck. Not a good impression to make when I was "maintaining my distance."

A small smile played on Beck's lips. "And now here you are," he said softly.

"I was actually supposed to comment for this entire tour, but I couldn't get an off at work, so I declined." I looked at my arm in the cast. "In retrospect, I should've just said yes and faced the consequences later. That way, I'd actually have something to do instead of just lying around all day at your place like some jobless bimbo. I mean, anything is better than that."

Beck jerked back as though I'd physically struck him.

Shit. I scrambled to backtrack. "No, I didn't mean it in that way. I was just saying that you wouldn't be stuck waiting on my unlucky ass day and night. Anything is better than that." Why was I trying to save this? "Also, I could've made some money in the process." I shrugged.

Beck was quiet for a while. And for some reason, worry churned in my gut. I didn't want to be worried, but I couldn't help it. Beck had been nothing but caring and nice and so, so gentle when dealing with me and my tantrums. I didn't have much to give back, but I could be cordial.

"Nothing is better than getting to spend time with you, Neil." He sniffled, but a tiny smile still lingered on his lips. "And I'm ready to do whatever to get that time."

"You're talking about time, yet you were the one who left." I closed my eyes. This was not the place or time to bring up old wounds. I was having a good time, and those bitter thoughts were not on today's agenda. "Never mind—"

"It was necessary."

What the fuck? I couldn't have heard that right. "Did you say necessary?"

The fucker had the audacity to nod his head.

"It was necessary for you to leave me? It was necessary to leave me in the middle of the night when I was begging, on my knees, for you to stay?"

He flinched.

"Was that necessary, Christopher?"

He scrunched his eyes shut, and his face contorted like he was in physical pain before returning back to normal. "I was going to leave hockey."

Yeah, right. "Liar."

He blew out a breath through his mouth. "Believe it or not, I don't care. But I was going to leave hockey. I couldn't find a way to make it all work."

"You had scouts—"

"Didn't matter. I knew what I wanted." Then, after a beat, "I thought I did anyway."

Now, what was I supposed to do with that information? He was going to leave hockey? Well, in the end, he didn't, so like he said, it didn't matter.

"My uncle raised me like I was his own son. He might've not been there all the time, but he was there for every single important milestone in my life. He was my number one. He never raised his voice at me, never punished me. Even when I did something stupid, and my mom would yell at me, he would still be on my side, telling her to cut it out. When I found out about the cancer... It didn't feel real. Someone like him? He deserved to live a long, happy life. He was always smiling and helping people. He did so much for everyone. My uncle single-handedly brought the entire family up. He sent his siblings to college, took care of their every need, whatever they wanted, he provided. He never asked me for anything my entire life, so when he finally did... I couldn't tell him no."

The fissure in my chest grew deeper. Even though he was opening up to me, it still felt like we were miles apart. We were talking, but neither of us could hear what the other was saying. "Beck, I never blamed you for putting hockey first. You know that!"

"I know, I know, I know, I know." He bent forward with his head in his hands, fingers tugging the short red strands. His breathing turned faster. Louder. And I didn't know what to do. There was nothing I could do. "I was—I didn't know what to do. I couldn't have it all. I couldn't... I couldn't—"

"You could have actually sat down and talked to me like a normal person."

"I know!" He shouted. Then, in a lower tone, he continued, "I knew that the moment I walked out those doors."

"Then why didn't you make it right?"

"Because I didn't know how."

"Bullshit!"

"No, I swear, Neil. I came back, but you weren't there."

Memories flicked behind my eyes. So fast I wasn't able to keep up. The crowd around us erupted. Someone was out. Bowled. I didn't pay enough attention to find out who it was. Beck came back. When? How did I not know?

"You came to the centre," I said slowly. "You said you didn't want to see me."

He shook his head. "I never said that. I came by to our place. You weren't there."

Our place.

Our.

My eyes burned. "I waited for so long." It came out as a whine, but I couldn't help it. The years repressed those painful memories, but the constant tightness in my chest never loosened.

Beck looked away and wiped his cheek on his shoulder. Was he crying? Goddamnit, would he just remove those stupid aviators?

"I thought you were done with me," he whispered, still facing away. "I didn't blame you. Not one bit."

I wished I was done. But nothing was ever just done in my life, unfortunately.

"I was volatile, Neil. I didn't know where my career would take me." He turned to me. "Bringing you along was just cruel. You have to know that. I was not in a good place, and you would've faced the worst of it. I'm not sure I deserve you on my best days... On my worst? Not a chance."

Even he was young, you know. Arya's words echoed in my ringing ears. I never asked Beck how he was. How he truly was in all the years we were apart. He was functional and stable now, but what did it cost?

The most important person of his life had been at death's door. He was thrust into the spotlight, with more people scrutinising his every move than was required. Hiding his sexuality was one aspect. Hiding me on top of that, what would that have done to him?

"You thought I moved on?" I asked.

He nodded. "You left the country, and I tried to stay away. For years. But then you reconnected with Tristan, and I just couldn't anymore."

"Be honest. Did you come to LA for me?" It was a question I'd had since I first saw him on my table in the clinic. I wasn't sure what I wanted the answer to be.

"What do you think?"

You did. You fucking did! "And if I was with someone else?"

"If you were with someone else, and if you were truly happy, and I saw that with my own two eyes, I would've just loved you from afar. I've done that enough for this lifetime to know I can continue doing that for as long as I'm alive."

The burning in my eyes was quick to turn into streaming tears. Tears he didn't need to see. I quickly swiped them away and forced my voice to remain strong. "You'll probably have to get comfortable then. Because if that's the case, you will be doing that for a long time."

He tilted his head, scrunching his eyebrows. "What are you saying?"

I swallowed. It wasn't really a concrete idea, but— "I'm thinking of going back home."

He straightened. "What! Why?"

Where did I even start? "This visa bullshit is getting on my nerves, there's just so much uncertainty. And with every president, something new turns up. And for the green card, I filed in the Schedule A process, but apparently, there's some confusion about whether or not I qualify, so that's also taking too long. I'm tired." All my loans were cleared, so I wasn't in debt on the money front—finally. If the commentating thing went well, I could do it full-time. I wasn't about to move anytime soon, but the next time my health took a turn, I'd promised my mother I'd return. With how much I missed them these days, I wasn't really opposed to it.

Beck's face looked too content. Like I told him I found treasure instead of dropping the bomb of me leaving for good.

"I think I just found an incentive for you to marry me," he said.

And I squawked. No, for real,  I squawked like a fucking crow or something. "Marry you?"

He shrugged like it was no big deal, and I hated how nonchalant he was with one ankle thrown over his knee. "Yeah, you get a green card. I get the love of my life. Win-win."

I scoffed. He continued smiling.

Yeah, no.

"Taken too many hits to head, huh, Becky?" I shoved at his arm. "I don't want a Canadian green card, buddy. That has no value for me. The real money is in this land."

His smile turned into a... Why the fuck was he smirking?

"All this time, and you don't even know this." He proceeded to tsk. I wanted to give him a few hits of my own now. "I was born in Grand Rapids. My mom adopted me when she was coaching in Michigan."

"No shit."

"Yeah, I started elementary there and everything before we moved to Canada."

Fuck, now wedding bells were going off in my head. Not a good sign.

"So..." He wiggled his eyebrows, and I let out a laugh.

"I'll consider it," I said.

"Yeah, you will."

"Don't push it."

He raised his hands up in mock surrender.

For all the emotions he put me through in the past thirty minutes, my heart had finally settled on contentment. It was weird but strangely right. Like him and me, sitting here at this moment, watching a cricket match, sipping on fizzy apple juice while quietly blushing, was exactly what was intended all along.