Will I be cancelled if I pretend to have an anxiety attack on live television?

At the rate this is going, I don't think the pretend factor will be necessary.

I was already drenched in sweat. My jersey, hair, and underwear stuck to my skin in varying degrees of uncomifiness thanks to the Australian heat. Now, under the probing lights of cameras, even my hands and feet turned sweaty. A fine layer of perspiration coats my palm, and the mic is about to slip from my fingers for the millionth time. I switch it over to the other hand, only for the process to repeat. The next dude who holds this mic better apply a nice layer of chalk to his hands lest he wants to look like a grade-A idiot.

Who even makes such smooth handles on mics? I'm not paying for this shit if I drop it and it breaks.

"Aki, mate, you with us?" Liam says, his hand subtly nudging mine.

And I am dragged back to anxiety-inducing land.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm right here," I reply, shooting a shaky smile at one of the cameras. I can't look him in the eyes. Not in those blue ones. Not in those ones that are so pretty when filled with—Nope, not going there.

"So what do you think?"

"What do I think about what?" I cringe immediately. The words flow out so smoothly that I don't even have the time to stop and think it through.

I sneak a peek at Liam. His handsome smile tears across his face, dimples and all, but his eyes scream Focus, Arya!

"I think we're keeping him from the celebrations," Liam says, facing the camera.

And I shoot his profile a grateful smile for the save. If we're on for the night, I don't mind dropping down—No, still not going there.

"Just one last question, Aki. I promise I won't keep you longer than that." His words sound sugary sweet, but his eyes say Fuck this one up, and you're on your own.

"Go ahead," I say and get lost in the black lining surrounding his ocean-blue pupils. It's like a border containing the waves that threaten to spill into the white. I can't help but stare at the way his eyes turn wider, and that gives me an even better view of how perfectly proportionate his pupils are. Not too big that he looks like an alien and not too small that he looks cross eyed. Just perfect.

...And something painful shoots up my thigh. Liam's nails are digging into my skin through my tracks, and his ever-present smile turns clipped. He's not even able to hide his grimace when I just blink blankly at him.

See, this is why I don't look into people's eyes. It's too distracting. There are just so many secrets fighting to spill out that it's difficult to focus on the words trying to cover them all up.

Liam's almost pained expression brings forth a phantom of a question I must've missed when I was too busy admiring his eyes.

Now that you've undoubtedly proved yourself in T20, do you have a game plan set for next year's ODI World Cup?

"Nothing set in stone," I say, vomiting out the generic answer Yashica makes me memorise before every match "I'm just going to focus on my fitness, improve my batting and hope for the best."

Liam's shoulders drop in relief, and his fingers release my thigh. "Thank you for your time, Aki. And apologies for keeping you for so long. Congratulations on the win, and here's to a night full of celebration." He holds out his hand.

I stare at it. Then at him. A shit-eating grin tears through my lips. I slap my hand in his and give it an enthusiastic shake before squeezing it. "Oh, we're celebrating the entire night. Trust me."

I can see the almost eye-roll, but he contains it and doesn't waver. I hand him the sweat-slicked mic, subtly scratch his middle finger with mine while doing so, and jog away before he has the chance the fling the mic at my head for giving him an almost heart attack.

To be fair, it's his fault entirely. He knows I'm horrible at interviews. It's not that I can't answer the questions. If allowed, I'll keep blabbing till someone forcefully pushes me to the curb. But for blabbing, I need to focus on the questions. These interview stations are just so distracting with the cameras, slippery mics, blue-eyed cuties, and the huge ass sponsorship board serving as the background.

Also, Durex was a sponsor this year for the series. I didn't know that. Will I get a gift bag filled with goodies? I don't mind some extra condoms and lube. Especially if they're free.

So, yeah, entirely Liam's fault. Not mine. And I'm not paying for the mic.

The screams, hollers and chants from the dressing room are heard from miles away. And the moment I barge in, the chill air from the ACs sends a shiver down my sweaty spine. I try to push past the human train going around the room, force-feeding the poor sods on the sidelines with champagne. When that fails, I grab an opened bottle and join them till I reach my spot and collapse, belly full of bubbly.

Everyone is here. And I mean everyone. From the coaches to the logistic managers to the IT staff, our entire team is here. I exchange my smelly jersey for a cleaner one and spread my legs wide on the sofa, slouching as much as I can. The snacks table at the centre is drenched in alcohol, music is blasting from the hidden speakers, and the TV is playing some item song that Ivaan and Sawant are trying to imitate while Vikram, with much concentration, films the entire thing while trying to stay upright himself.

And to think I'm able to witness all this because one poor soul, in particular, caught Typhoid.

Well, one man's disease is another man's come up, or whatever Macklemore said.

The train carries on, I get fed more champagne directly from the bottle, and just as I'm about to go join in on the Fevicol Se dance party in front of the TV, Khatri slams down into the double seater beside me. Or more like slams into me, and I manoeuvre him into the double seater.

He presses the edge of the beer bottle to my lips and tips it, the contents sloshing down my throat till I gag, and then he repeats the same treatment to himself. I smack my lips together, searching for something to chase away the bitter taste on my tongue. I hate beer.

I don't find anything. There's cake on the snack table, served with a side of... I think Gin, based on the bottle tipped over right beside it. I bet it tastes exquisite, but I'm too drunk to push past everyone to get there, so I settle on stuffing my mouth with the bare, round shoulder pushing into my own from the side.

Muskiness, sweatiness, and a faint taste of bitter sunscreen invigorates my tongue, and I close my eyes. Classic, rugged man. Now that's a taste I don't mind coating my mouth with at all times.

Khatri taps my forehead, and I open my bleary eyes to regard him.

"Why are you biting me?" he asks, his beer-addled breath whooshing across my face, and I scrunch my nose.

"I'm not biting you," I say. I don't think it makes much sense with muscle overflowing my mouth. I pull off and repeat, "I'm not biting you." I stare at those round boulder shoulders. Fuck. I need to ask him how he got them so big, but I already know the answer. A thousand shoulder presses, a million lateral raises, a billion push ups, yada yada yada. That's a no-go for me. I'm not in the business of picking up and putting down weights.

His dark eyes dart down to his tattoo-encased shoulder covered in my spit, then at my sorry face. "My bad," he says and brings the bottle to his lips, tipping it all the way back.

He's drunk.

I'm not far off from following him to that state.

Khatri is saying something. Something about my playing. I don't listen to him. I'm staring at the field through the huge panel windows at the end of the room. The floodlights are turned off, the stadium is empty, and tarpaulin sheets cover the pitch. I close my eyes, and I'm back there.

Sweat drips down my brow, the back of my neck burns from the sultriness, the keeper behind me is yelling at the bowler, the crowd is dead silent. The stadium is so quiet I can hear the flies buzzing near the lights. Three more balls. Four runs to win. Just one good hit, and the game is ours. Vikram, on the other end, holds a glove-covered hand slightly up. Easy there. Give me the strike. But no, I can do this. I know I can. It's a spinner. If I can just time it correctly, I can get it to the boundary.

The bowler jogs at an even pace. If he's nervous, he doesn't show it on his face. His expression distorts as he swings his arm and release! The ball is off. Spinning, spinning, bounce, wham.

I twist, flick my wrists, and I'm down on my knees after a reverse sweep. The ball barely touches the tip of my bat, and I watch it roll behind me. Its speed drops steadily as it nears the edge. My heart is in my throat, and I can hear Vikram screaming Bhaag. But I don't move, staring transfixed as a fielder sprints to intercept it. The fielder can't get to it fast enough and by the time he dives, both the ball and him slide across the boundary.

"Why the fuck are you not answering your calls?" someone snaps, and I jerk. When I do, Khatri's snoring head lolls forward, he mumbles a curse before again settling down on my shoulder.

I glare at Rishabh. I forgot I was supposed to be hiding from him. So, I bunch up my sweatshirt and gently place it in between Khatri's cheek and the armrest of the double seater. His neck is going to hurt. But that's not my problem.

Grabbing the only unopened champagne bottle from the snack table and then admiring the trophy sitting proudly at the centre of it for a second, I give Rishabh a two-finger salute and start on my way to fuck off from his presence.

"No, no, I'm talking to you." He stops me with a hand on my shoulder and drags me back to where he's standing.

"What do you want, Rishi." I all but whine. Rishabh is a good guy. He is. To everyone else. To me, he's like an annoying babysitter who says no to every fun thing you want to do, but no matter how much you crib and whine, you can't get rid of him.

"I want you at the party tonight."

"When did I say I'm not coming to the party?"

"Oh no, no, no. I want you there till the end. I want you there till people mistake you for the waiters who are cleaning up, or God help me, I will drop you so fast before you know it, you'll actually be one of those waiters cleaning up." It scares me how he's able to say all of that in one breath with a blank expression on his face. Seriously, other than a vein pulsing on his forehead, he's absolutely calm.

"Uhh..." I fiddle with the wrapper around the cork of the bottle. "No." I smile, and I'm about to move past him, but of course babysitter's arm shoots up once more to slam into my chest, keeping me in place. "Why you do this to me?"

"Listen carefully." He snaps his fingers in front of my face and leans in close, making sure my eyes don't stray away. "People are going to come up to you. They're going to congratulate you, and you're going to plaster a smile on your face and take it. Don't comment on what they're wearing, don't get distracted, don't start rambling, don't..."

A few feet behind Rishi, there's a small group huddled close. Some of the players are crowded around something. Someone. More people come to watch. Chants of Chug! Chug! Chug! grow louder as some of the staff join in too. When a body moves, I get a peek of Coach chugging from the bottom end of a beer can. I grin. The old man needs to let off all that steam he keeps inside him at all times. Sometimes I wonder if it'd be enough to power a mini steam engine.

A harsh pat—harsh enough to be classified as a slap—on my cheek brings me back to Rishabh. The vein on his forehead is throbbing even more, and his lips are pulled down.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" he snarls.

"Yeah, yeah." I push him off. Or try to. He just bounces back. "I heard you loud and clear."

"I mean it, Arya. Don't drink too much. Eshwar will be there, so I'm not too worried about it, but just because I won't have my eyes on you all the time does not mean you can run free. I mean it. Don't leave early. You might get some endorsement deals—"

"I know, Rishi, I know. If I get them, I'll just..." The mini crowd, which had now turned into a full-on team huddle, erupts into a cheer. Even Khatri is there with his head thrown back and mouth wide open behind his fingers. What is happening? I want to see.

Then I remember the human blockade in front of me.

"You'll just?" he quirks an eyebrow.

I groan. "I'll just politely thank them and give them your number."

"Don't chat them up. Seriously, Arya, don't. It makes my job all the more difficult when I tell them you're not interested." He sighs. "Anyways, Eshwar told me he'll be by your side, so I'm not too—"

"The two of you do know I don't need babysitting, right?" I snap and shove him off me. This is getting on my nerves. Arya, don't do this. Arya, don't do that. They think I can't do anything right. I just have to mess everything up. Stupid, naive Arya, bumbling around with his two brain cells. Fuck that. I got this far on my own, didn't I? Jesus fuck. One day of peace without these two nagging me, is that too much to ask? I'm twenty-two, not fucking two, that I need a goddamn babysitter riding my ass for every small thing.

Rishabh sighs and massages his temples.

"Fine. Do what you want. This is your win, and I don't want to ruin it for you. Come here." He pulls me into a hug, and I'm way too stubborn to reciprocate, but c'mon, a hug is a hug, and I like hugs. Of course, I wrap my arms around him and lift him off his feet a little. He slaps my back twice, and I put him down, the vein on his forehead almost disappearing. "Congratulations on the win, Mr Forty-Seven. Made us all real proud."

"Couldn't have done without you, Rish."

He smiles and then quickly gets down to lecture me some more. "Right, so Rita Dhaave is coming tonight. And I heard some rumours that..."

Now almost everyone—except the passed-out lightweights dosing in the corners—gather across the room. People are taking off their shoes and throwing them at the person in the centre. I move forward, Rishi calls my name a couple of times and grabs my hand, but I just tug him along, the champagne bottle pressed close to my chest. What the hell is happening here?

I can see Rai at the centre, a shoe in his hand as he laughs uncontrollably, shoulders shaking, head rocking, the whole package. Ivaan grabs his shoe-holding wrist and pours a generous amount of beer into the shoe. Rai brings it to his lips, then again starts shaking with laughter.

No. I gasp. He won't. Seriously? Will he? Fuck, I need to see this.

I join the crowd, my hand on someone's shoulder as I hoist myself up on my toes. Rishabh mumbles something about picking up my dad's calls, and I can feel his hold on me disappear.

Rai settles down a bit, and the entire room is quiet with anticipation. He brings his shoe up once more, and just two seconds ago, I was ready to bet my career that he wouldn't go through with it.

But when in Australia...

Ivaan nudges Rai's hand, and all the beer sloshes out and down Rai's throat, some of it spilling from the edges and drenching his moustache. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows it down while the rest of us scream so loud we lose our damn minds.