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The sleek, ultra-modern VEO broadcast studio.
The group stage was over. The semi-finals had arrived.
"Nine matches. Nine comprehensive, brutal, and historic victories," Harsha Bhogle began, his voice carrying that familiar, poetic cadence. He looked directly into the camera, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Welcome to VEO Smart Cricket Extra. We are standing at the precipice of the semi-finals. And as we look back at the last five weeks of cricket, one truth has become glaringly, terrifyingly obvious to the rest of the world: India is not just playing a tournament; they are staging a coronation."
The camera panned out, revealing the absolute royalty of cricket analysis sitting around the holographic desk. Sunil Gavaskar, Aaron Finch, Shane Watson, Ian Smith, and Ian Bishop.
"Gentlemen," Harsha said, turning to the panel. "We have seen great teams in the past. The West Indies of the late 70s. The Australian team of 2003 and 2007 under Ricky Ponting. But what we are witnessing right now from Rohit Sharma's men... Sunil Gavaskar, I ask you, is this the most complete ODI team ever assembled?"
Gavaskar adjusted his tie, his expression serious, reflecting the weight of the question.
"Harsha, as someone who has grown up worshipping the game and watching eras pass, it is hard to make absolute statements," Gavaskar began smoothly. "Ricky Ponting's side in '03 and '07 was a machine. They had Hayden, Gilchrist, McGrath, Warne. They were ruthless. But, if you look at the sheer statistical dominance and the combination of this current Indian playing eleven... yes. I believe they edge past them. And I will tell you why."
Gavaskar pointed to the holographic display as it pulled up the Indian squad.
"Ponting had match-winners. But Ponting did not have an Aarav Pathak. Aarav disrupts the fundamental balance of team selection. He is the number one batter in the world coming in at number four, and he is a 155-kilometer-per-hour spearhead who bowls ten overs for thirty runs. Because of Aarav, Rohit Sharma is able to play a pure, luxury fast bowler like Mohammed Shami, while still having Hardik Pandya as a fourth pace option and a finisher. The luxury of that balance is something no team in history has ever possessed. Not even peak Australia."
Aaron Finch, the World Cup-winning former Australian captain, nodded vigorously in agreement.
"Sunny is spot on, Harsha," Finch chimed in, his tactical mind buzzing. "From a captaincy perspective, playing against this India is a nightmare. I've been looking at Rohit Sharma's template in this World Cup, and it is the single biggest tactical shift in modern ODI cricket. Rohit has decided that he is going to sacrifice his own milestones to destroy the opposition's opening bowlers."
The VEO graphic flashed Rohit Sharma's group stage stats: 503 Runs. Strike Rate: 131.5. Powerplay Strike Rate: 145.2.
"Look at those numbers," Finch emphasized, tapping the desk. "In a fifty-over game, you want your openers to see off the new ball. Rohit doesn't see off the new ball; he breaks it. He hits Boult, he hits Rabada, he hits Afridi over mid-wicket in the first three overs. What does that do? It forces the opposition captain to push their fielders back by over number five. And once the field is spread..."
"The anchors take over," Shane Watson finished Finch's thought, leaning forward. "Exactly, Finchy. Rohit absorbs the risk entirely. If he gets out for 40 off 27 balls, he has done his job. Because waiting in the shed are Shubman Gill and Virat Kohli. Gill is all class, pristine timing. And Virat... well, Virat is the greatest ODI batsmen to ever walk the earth. They just come in against a demoralized, spread-out field, and they milk it at six runs an over without taking a single risk."
"It's a suffocating formula," Ian Bishop's booming voice resonated through the studio. "Because if you somehow manage to get through Rohit's violence. And if you somehow manage to dismiss Gill or Kohli... you have merely unlocked the final boss chamber. You have to face the Prince."
The broadcast instantly cut to a beautifully edited, slow-motion montage of Aarav Pathak. The brutal pull shots against Pakistan, the monstrous straight drives in Patra City, and the sheer, raw pace of his left-arm thunderbolts shattering the stumps of bewildered batters.
AARAV PATHAK - GROUP STAGE STATS:Runs: 685 (Avg: 114.16 | SR: 158.5)Wickets: 22 (Econ: 5.12 | Avg: 12.4)
"We need to talk about these numbers, Ian," Harsha prompted, looking at Ian Smith. "Because as broadcasters, we are running out of adjectives."
Ian Smith let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "Harsha, I have been around this game for forty years. I have seen Richards, I have seen Tendulkar, I have seen Lara. But Aarav Pathak is operating on a different operating system. I was there in Ahmedabad when he hit 142 off 59 balls against Pakistan. Haris Rauf was bowling 153 clicks, and Aarav was scooping him into the third tier. You can't coach that. You can't strategize against it."
"And the scariest part," Smith continued, pointing a finger for emphasis, "is that he doesn't have a weakness. Usually, a guy who strikes at 160 has a high risk of getting out. But his technique is so fundamentally pure, his hand-eye coordination so vastly superior to anyone else, that his 'risk' is just standard batting. And heaven forbid you get him out... you still have Shreyas Iyer, KL Rahul, and Hardik Pandya waiting to feast on the old ball. Shreyas is murdering spin in the middle overs, KL is playing the most flawless orthodox cricket down the ground, and Hardik is hitting baseball home runs at the death. Where do you bowl to them?!"
"You don't. You just pray," Watson laughed, shaking his head. "But Watto, let's flip the coin," Harsha smoothly transitioned the graphic from the batters to the bowlers. "Because as the old saying goes, batters win you sponsorships, but bowlers win you tournaments. And this Indian pace attack... Ian Bishop, I want you to break this down. Because we are looking at something historically terrifying."
The holographic table shifted, displaying the 3D models of Jasprit Bumrah, Mohammed Shami, Aarav Pathak, and Hardik Pandya.
"Harsha, let me put this into context," Bishop began, leaning over the desk, his eyes lighting up with genuine passion for fast bowling. "Usually, a team has one spearhead. Maybe two. India has three apex predators operating at the peak of their athletic prime.
"You start with Jasprit Bumrah. His economy rate in this tournament is an absurd 3.8. In the modern game, with two new balls and flat pitches, that is alien. He does not give you an inch. His action is impossible to pick, his yorker is laser-guided, and he forces the batters into a state of panic.
"Then, you have Mohammed Shami. He rested for the few games due to injury he had in between, and yet he is leading the wicket-taking charts with 24 scalps! He runs in with the most perfect upright seam presentation the game has ever seen. It hits the pitch, and it darts around like a cobra. If it moves away, you nick it. If it comes back in, your stumps are obliterated. It's high-class, classical fast bowling."
Bishop paused, shaking his head slightly.
"And then... you have Aarav Pathak. The X-Factor. The enforcer. He is a left-arm fast bowler clicking 152 to 156 kilometers per hour. The sheer angle of a left-armer over the wicket at that pace, swinging the ball late... it is unplayable. You have Bumrah suffocating you, Shami constantly asking questions of your technique, and Aarav just physically intimidating you with raw pace. And if you somehow survive the pacers..."
"You meet the spin twins," Gavaskar smiled proudly. "Kuldeep Yadav and Ravindra Jadeja. What a redemption arc for Kuldeep. He has found his loop, he has found his dip, and his wrong-un is turning square. He has taken 18 wickets in the middle overs. And Jadeja? Jadeja is a metronome. He pitches the ball on the exact same spot, over and over, at 95 kilometers per hour. He gives you nothing. By the time the opposition reaches the 40th over, they are completely choked out."
The studio fell silent for a brief second as the gravity of the analysis settled in. The graphic on the table transitioned, displaying the match-up for Semi-Final 1.
SEMI-FINAL 1: INDIA vs NEW ZEALAND (Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai)
"Which brings us to the present," Harsha said, the tone turning slightly dramatic. "Mumbai. The Wankhede Stadium. Semi-Final number one. It's India. It's New Zealand. Ian Smith... 2019. Manchester. The ghost of that semi-final still haunts NZ players. Can the Kiwis do it this time? Can they stop this juggernaut?"
Ian Smith sat back, taking a deep breath. He knew the weight of his words.
"Look, Harsha. If there is one team in world cricket that does not care about the hype, it is the Blackcaps. Kane Williamson is a tactical genius. He doesn't panic. They have Trent Boult, who we all know is absolute poison for Indian top-order batters in knockout matches. If Boult can swing the ball early and get Rohit and Kohli cheaply... suddenly, you test the middle order under knockout pressure."
"They also have Rachin Ravindra," Watson pointed out. "The kid has been a revelation this tournament. Three centuries. He plays spin beautifully. If New Zealand is to win this, Rachin and Kane have to bat the innings of their lives against Kuldeep and Jadeja."
"But let's be brutally honest, Smitty," Finch interjected politely but firmly. "If any collapse even happened, the team does not panic. Because if Trent Boult gets Rohit and Gill... Aarav Pathak walks out. And Aarav does not respect reputations. He will take the attack to Boult. I think New Zealand is a phenomenal side, they punch above their weight, but asking them to beat this Indian team in Mumbai that is Aarav's home ground... it's asking them to climb Mount Everest without oxygen."
Smith offered a wry smile. "I won't disagree, Aaron. It is a monumental task. But it's a game of cricket. One bad hour. One brilliant spell from Mitchell Santner or Tim Southee. The pressure of playing a home World Cup semi-final in front of a billion expectant fans can do funny things to a team. If New Zealand can keep them quiet in the first fifteen overs, the crowd will get nervous. And when the crowd gets nervous, the players feel it."
"I don't think Aarav Pathak knows what nerves are, Ian," Gavaskar chuckled. "The boy plays with a heart rate of fifty. But yes, cricket is a funny game."
Harsha tapped the desk, the graphics smoothly shifting to a sea of green and yellow.
SEMI-FINAL 2: SOUTH AFRICA vs AUSTRALIA (Eden Gardens, Kolkata)
"Let us briefly look at the other side of the draw," Harsha said. "Tomorrow at the Eden Gardens. A historic rivalry in World Cups. South Africa against Australia. The Proteas have arguably been the second-best team in the tournament. Quinton de Kock is in the form of his life, and Heinrich Klaasen is hitting the ball cleaner than anyone not named Aarav Pathak. Bishop, can South Africa finally shed the 'C-word' tag?"
Ian Bishop nodded slowly. "They have the firepower, Harsha. If they bat first, they are incredibly dangerous. De Kock sets the tone, and then Miller and Klaasen just explode at the death. Their bowling, led by Rabada and Jansen, has been hostile. But... it is a semi-final. And they are playing Australia."
"And that's the deciding factor," Shane Watson grinned, a hint of Aussie pride bleeding through. "You look at the Australian squad. They started the tournament terribly. Two losses. But they have dragged themselves into the knockouts. Pat Cummins has been a brilliant leader. Adam Zampa has taken 22 wickets. Glenn Maxwell just played the greatest ODI innings of all time against Afghanistan. When Australia smells blood in a knockout game, their entire DNA changes. I back the Aussies."
"I agree with Shane," Finch added. "South Africa has been spectacular, but Australia knows how to win these games. The muscle memory of winning World Cups matters. It's going to be a cracker in Kolkata, but I see an Australia versus India final."
Harsha turned back to the main camera, leaning on the desk.
"So there we have it," Harsha concluded, his voice smooth and captivating. "The experts have spoken. The stats have been laid bare. But, when Rohit Sharma and Kane Williamson walk out to the middle of the Wankhede Stadium, the stats will mean nothing. It will be about flesh, blood, and nerve."
The camera slowly pulled back, capturing the entire panel as epic, orchestral music began to swell in the background.
"Can New Zealand silence a nation of 1.4 billion people? Or will the unstoppable Indian juggernaut, led by the Hitman and powered by the Prince, march into the finals of the World Cup? Do not miss a single ball. Join us tomorrow on VEO. Because history, ladies and gentlemen, is about to be written."
The screen faded to black, instantly replaced by a high-octane VEO promo for the semi-final, featuring a split-screen of Trent Boult's menacing run-up and Aarav Pathak's cold, unblinking stare.
In his luxury suite at the Taj Mahal Palace hotel in Mumbai, Aarav clicked off the television remote. The glowing VEO logo disappeared from the massive flatscreen.
He tossed the remote onto the couch and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Below him, the Arabian Sea crashed against the Gateway of India. The city of Mumbai was alive, pulsating with an electric, nervous energy. Cars were honking, flags were waving, and massive LED screens on skyscrapers displayed countdowns to the match.
This was his city. This was where he was born, where he learned to hold a bat, where he played on the dusty maidans of Shivaji Park. And tomorrow, he would step onto the hallowed turf of the Wankhede Stadium to take India to a World Cup final.
His phone buzzed on the glass coffee table.
It was a FaceTime call. The contact read: Shradha ❤️.
Aarav smiled, picking it up. Shradha's face appeared on the screen, her eyes bright, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.
-----------------------
The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling smart glass of the Pathak family's sprawling, multi-tiered sea-facing mansion in South Mumbai. While the rest of the country was locked in a fever dream over the impending World Cup semi-final, the atmosphere inside the billionaire household was remarkably, almost jarringly, mundane.
There was no talk of Trent Boult's swing. There were no VEO strategy meetings. There was just the clinking of silverware, the smell of freshly brewed espresso, and the warm aroma of buttery aloo parathas.
Aarav sat at the massive marble dining table, wearing a simple grey oversized hoodie and comfortable sweatpants. Sitting to his right, looking equally relaxed in a plain white t-shirt, was Shubman Gill.
To the outside world, they were the Vice-Captain and the star opener of the Indian cricket team. But inside these walls, they were just two kids who were about to become brothers-in-law.
At the head of the table sat Rajat Pathak, the titan of Astra and the fourth richest man on the planet. He was tapping away on a sleek tablet, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, while sipping his black coffee.
"The French are being ridiculously stubborn," Rajat murmured, not looking up from the screen. "They want a twenty percent premium on the valuation. For a company that hasn't innovated its supply chain in five years."
Aarav took a bite of his paratha, washing it down with fresh orange juice. "Are we still talking about the acquisition of the Lumière luxury group, Dad?"
"Yes," Rajat sighed, finally putting the tablet face down. "They have incredible real estate in Paris and the French Riviera, which fits perfectly into our hospitality division. But their CEO is playing hardball. Thinks because we're a tech giant, we don't understand heritage luxury."
"Let them walk," Aarav said simply, leaning back in his chair. "Threaten to pull out of the deal entirely and leak it to the European financial press. Astra's backing is the only thing keeping their stock afloat right now. The moment the market thinks we are walking away, their board will panic and force the CEO's hand. You'll get it at a discount."
Shubman, who was quietly attacking his second paratha, paused and looked at Aarav with raised eyebrows. "Remind me never to play Monopoly with you."
Rajat Pathak chuckled, a proud glint in his eye as he looked at his son. "He's not wrong, Shubman. The boy knows how to close a trap. I might just do that."
Before the conversation could dive deeper into corporate espionage, the swinging doors of the kitchen opened. Aarav's mother, Priya Pathak, walked in. Despite having a small army of private chefs at her disposal, she always insisted on serving breakfast herself when Aarav was home.
"Enough business," Priya said with absolute authority, placing a fresh, steaming bowl of paneer bhurji on the table. She affectionately ruffled Shubman's hair as she passed him. "Eat, beta. You look like you've lost weight since the Delhi match."
"I'm eating, Aunty, I swear," Gill laughed, instantly piling more food onto his plate. He loved coming to the Pathak household; Priya treated him exactly like a second son.
Priya took her seat next to her husband, wiping her hands on a napkin. She looked at Aarav, her expression shifting from warm to analytical. It was the look every twenty-three-year-old Indian man instinctively feared.
"So," Priya began, resting her chin on her hand. "You are getting big now, Aarav."
Aarav froze, his juice glass halfway to his mouth. "Mom, I'm six-foot-two. I've been this big for years."
"You know what I mean," she waved him off dismissively. "The World Cup will be over soon. The IPL isn't for another few months. Don't you think it's time we made things official? An actual engagement ring? An announcement?"
Aarav exchanged a quick, panicked glance with Gill. Gill just smirked, absolutely delighted to not be in the hot seat for once.
"Mom, we've talked about this," Aarav said, setting his glass down. He smiled softly. "I am absolutely ready. You know I am. But let Shradha finish her studies first. Her final exams for her Degree in London are next month. The moment she flies back to Mumbai with her degree, you and Dad can sit down with her parents and pick whatever dates you want."
Priya sighed, though a pleased smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Fine. A month. I can wait a month. I've already started looking at venues in Lake Como, just in case you kids decide to be difficult and not want a Mumbai wedding."
"Aunty, if you do Lake Como, Sara and I are stealing that idea," Gill chimed in, grinning.
"You and Sara will do what your father tells you to do, Shubman," Priya teased back, before her eyes softened as she looked back at Aarav. "I just want the house to be full, you know? It's so quiet when you're away on tour. Once you're married... maybe a year or two after... I wouldn't mind a grandchild running around these massive hallways."
Aarav choked on his orange juice, coughing violently into his napkin.
Gill burst out laughing, clapping his hand on the table. Rajat Pathak merely shook his head, highly amused behind his coffee mug.
"Mom! Are you serious?" Aarav wheezed, his eyes watering. "Grandchildren?! I am twenty-three years old! I literally still play FIFA in my underwear on my days off. I am practically a child myself. Please, let's just get through the World Cup and the engagement first!"
"Oh, hush. I was your age when I had you," Meera retorted smoothly. "It's good to plan ahead. You plan for cricket, your father plans for business, I plan for the family."
"I am firmly on Aunty's side here, Seth," Gill nodded solemnly, clearly enjoying Aarav's suffering. "A little junior Prince running around the dressing room. I think it's a great idea."
"You are dead to me, Gill," Aarav muttered, taking a large bite of his paratha to avoid saying anything else.
The morning melted into a lazy, incredibly normal afternoon. True to his word, Aarav and Gill spent three hours in the home theater room playing FIFA on the massive IMAX-style screen, screaming at each other over missed penalties.
As the sun began to dip below the Arabian Sea, painting the Mumbai skyline in hues of orange and purple, the two of them retreated to their respective rooms to shower and change.
By 7:30 PM, they were walking back down the grand staircase, dressed sharply in casual evening wear, Aarav in a dark navy polo and tailored trousers, and Gill in a crisp white linen shirt.
Rajat and Priya were in the main foyer.
Aarav walked over to his mother and bent down, respectfully touching her feet. She smiled, placing a hand on his head. "God bless you, beta. Live well."
He moved to his father, touching his feet as well. Rajat patted his shoulder firmly. "Focus on Life, Aarav. Everything else is just noise."
Shubman followed suit, touching the feet of both elders with genuine respect. "See you at the stadium, Uncle, Aunty."
"Drive safely, boys," Priya called out as they walked out the massive double doors. "And tell Anjali I loved the sweets she sent last week!"
"Will do, Mom!"
Waiting in the circular driveway was Aarav's prized possession: a completely blacked-out, custom-built Range Rover SV Autobiography. The tinted windows were so dark they looked like obsidian.
Aarav tossed the keys in the air, caught them, and slid into the driver's seat. Gill hopped into the passenger side, connecting his phone to the massive Meridian sound system.
The engine roared to life with a deep, throaty growl. The heavy iron gates of the Pathak estate swung open, and the Range Rover glided out into the bustling Mumbai traffic.
"So," Gill said, leaning back into the luxurious leather seats as Punjabi music softly filled the cabin. "Ready for dinner with the in-laws?"
"Always," Aarav smiled, shifting the car into gear as they merged onto the glowing arc of the Bandra-Worli Sea Link. "Besides, I haven't had Anjali Aunty's homemade chicken curry in a month. I might eat the whole pot."
-----------------
The interior of the custom Range Rover SV Autobiography was an oasis of calm amidst the chaotic, honking symphony of Mumbai traffic. The deep, heavy bass of an AP Dhillon track pulsed softly from the Meridian speakers as the SUV glided smoothly across the glowing expanse of the Bandra-Worli Sea Link.
Aarav, one hand casually draped over the steering wheel, reached over and dialed the volume down a few notches. He glanced at Shubman Gill in the passenger seat, who was scrolling through his phone, a relaxed smile on his face.
"Bro," Aarav started, his tone shifting from casual to slightly more thoughtful. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something."
Gill locked his phone, giving Aarav his full attention. "What's up, Aarav? You're not going to make me invest in another French tech startup, are you?"
Aarav chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no business pitches today. I'm talking about real estate. Specifically, you buying a house here in Mumbai."
Gill raised an eyebrow, shifting in the plush leather seat. "Mumbai? Bro, I already live out of a suitcase ten months a year. And my family's base is completely settled in Punjab. Chandigarh is home."
"I know," Aarav nodded, keeping his eyes on the road as they merged off the Sea Link and headed toward the leafy lanes of Bandra. "But think about it long-term, Shub. You and Sara... things are serious. We both know where this is heading. Whenever the time comes and you guys tie the knot, Sara's entire life is still going to be rooted here. Her friends, her family, her routines."
Gill stayed quiet, listening intently.
"Having a solid, permanent base in Mumbai isn't just about cricket or BCCI camps," Aarav explained gently. "It's about your parents, too. If they want to spend months at a time with their future daughter-in-law, or eventually... grandkids, dragging them to hotels or making them stay at Sachin Dad's house every single time isn't practical. Having your own place here, a family home, would make it so much easier for your folks to really bond with Sara on their own terms."
Gill slowly nodded, the logic undeniably sound. He looked out the window at the passing city lights. "You know... I hadn't really thought that far ahead in terms of logistics. But you're right. My mom loves Sara, but she's always a bit conscious about intruding when we visit Mumbai. Having our own turf would change that."
"Exactly," Aarav smiled, turning the steering wheel as they approached the familiar high-security neighborhood. "And besides, it means we get to be neighbors. I'll have Dad's real estate team quietly put together a portfolio of properties in Bandra and Juhu. Just take a look at them after the World Cup."
"Done," Gill smiled, clapping Aarav on the shoulder. "Thanks, brother. I appreciate you looking out for us."
"Always."
The massive, imposing wooden gates of the Tendulkar mansion slid open before Aarav even needed to tap the horn. He navigated the heavy SUV down the beautifully lit, sprawling driveway, parking it smoothly next to a sleek Porsche.
As they stepped out of the Range Rover, the heavy teakwood front door of the house swung open. Standing there, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, wearing a casual polo shirt, was the God of Cricket himself.
Sachin Tendulkar smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth.
"You guys are late," Sachin called out, pretending to look at his watch. "The chicken is getting cold."
"Blame the Sea Link traffic, Dad," Aarav grinned easily, walking up the steps.
"Actually, blame Aarav, Uncle," Gill immediately threw him under the bus. "He took forty minutes to fix his hair."
Aarav shoved Gill playfully as they walked through the door. The rich, mouth-watering smell of authentic Maharashtrian spices hit them instantly. Anjali Tendulkar walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron, her face lighting up the moment she saw them.
"My boys are here," Anjali smiled, stepping forward with open arms.
Aarav and Gill immediately bent down, respectfully touching Sachin and Anjali's feet. Anjali affectionately patted their cheeks, pulling them into warm hugs.
The sound of light footsteps echoed down the staircase.
Sara Tendulkar bounded into the foyer, dressed casually in a floral dress. Gill's entire face lit up. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her in a tight, familiar hug.
Aarav walked over, raising his hand. "How are you, Bhabhi?" he teased, using the traditional term for sister-in-law.
Sara broke away from Gill, laughing as she dramatically high-fived Aarav. "I'm good, Aarav. Surviving. But what about you?" She tilted her head, her eyes flashing with a mischievous glint. "You look a little like a lost puppy tonight. Missing someone?"
Aarav's smile faltered just a fraction, a genuine pang of longing hitting his chest. He shoved his hands into his pockets, letting out a small sigh. "Yeah. I really do. I just... I wish she was here for the semi-final tomorrow. It feels weird playing a knockout game in Mumbai without meeting her."
"Aww, don't cry, Jijuuuu! I am here for you!"
Aarav whipped his head around.
Walking down the hallway, wearing a simple pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt, was Arjun Tendulkar. The 6-foot-3 left-arm fast bowler had a towel draped around his neck, his hair still wet from a recent shower. He was batting his eyelashes, pitching his voice an octave higher into a ridiculously comical, girly tone.
The entire foyer erupted into laughter.
"You are an absolute idiot, Arjun," Aarav laughed, shaking his head as he walked over. He pulled the taller boy into a firm bro-hug, slapping his back. Gill followed suit, greeting his future brother-in-law warmly.
"Seriously though, man, play well tomorrow," Arjun said, dropping the funny voice, his tone turning into one of pure cricketing respect. "Boult is going to look for those early inswingers. Don't let him settle."
"I've got it covered," Aarav promised.
As the group stood in the foyer, chatting easily about the weather and the traffic, Aarav suddenly stopped.
It was a bizarre sensation. A sudden, magnetic pull at the back of his neck. A sixth sense that he had developed over years of knowing exactly where a specific person was in a room.
The chatter faded into background noise. Slowly, Aarav turned around, his eyes drifting up the grand, sweeping wooden staircase.
He stopped breathing.
Standing on the landing, leaning casually against the polished banister, was Shradha. She was wearing a completely plain, oversized grey t-shirt and loose black sweatpants. She had zero makeup on, her hair was pulled back into a slightly messy clip, and to Aarav, she looked like the most breathtaking woman on the planet.
Seeing the sheer, unadulterated shock on his face, Shradha smiled, that bright, devastatingly beautiful smile that melted the Prince of Cricket into a puddle, and offered a small, shy wave.
Aarav's brain short-circuited. He literally blinked twice, thinking the pressure of the World Cup was making him hallucinate.
He slowly looked back at the family.
Sachin was standing with his arms crossed, a proud, amused smirk on his face. Anjali was beaming, her hands clasped together. Arjun offered a highly theatrical, slow-motion wink.
Sara, who was standing right next to Aarav, wiggled her eyebrows at him. "Well? Go on, idiot," she laughed, literally shoving Aarav by the shoulders toward the stairs.
That broke the spell.
Aarav didn't walk; he practically sprinted across the foyer. He took the first few steps two at a time, catching Shradha exactly as she stepped off the final stair. He wrapped his massive arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
Shradha gasped, a melodic laugh escaping her lips as she instinctively wrapped her arms securely around his broad shoulders, holding onto him just as tightly.
For ten seconds, the rest of the world ceased to exist. Aarav closed his eyes, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of vanilla and lavender in her hair. The underlying tension of the World Cup, the pressure of a billion fans, all evaporated the second he felt her heartbeat against his chest.
"You're real," Aarav whispered into her skin, his voice thick with emotion.
"I'm real," Shradha whispered back, her fingers gently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
They stayed like that, completely lost in their own orbit, until a very loud, very deliberate sound shattered the quiet.
"Ahem. AHEM."
Aarav gently set Shradha down on her feet. They both turned around, Shradha blushing furiously, her cheeks a deep shade of pink.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them with his eyebrows raised, was Sachin. The God of Cricket was fighting a losing battle against a massive smile. "We are still in the room, kids. The dining table is that way."
Aarav felt his ears burn, but he kept one arm firmly wrapped around Shradha's waist, refusing to let her go as they walked down the remaining steps.
The shock was finally wearing off, rapidly replaced by a frantic barrage of questions. Aarav turned to her, his dark eyes wide.
"How are you here?" Aarav demanded, his voice a rapid-fire staccato. "When did you land? Why didn't you tell me? I would have sent the private jet! I would have come to the airport myself! How did you keep this a secret?!"
Shradha laughed, placing both her hands flat against his chest to stop his rambling. "Aarav. Breathe. Calm down."
Aarav took a deep, shaky breath, though his eyes never left her face.
"I landed two days ago," Shradha explained, her eyes shining with excitement. She glanced at her family. "Everyone knew. Dad arranged the cars, Mom hid me upstairs whenever you FaceTimed, and Sara and Arjun swore not to text you."
"A massive conspiracy," Aarav muttered, looking at Gill, who was grinning like an idiot. "Did you know?!"
"Not a clue, Pathak," Gill raised his hands in surrender. "I am just as shocked as you are."
Aarav looked back at Shradha. "But what about your finals? Your medical rotations? You said you had another month in London!"
Shradha's smile widened, transforming into an expression of pure, unadulterated triumph. She reached up and cupped his face.
"I lied," she said softly. "I took my finals early. My dissertation was approved last week. Aarav... I'm done. The UK is officially over. I have my degree. I can practice medicine right here in India now. I am home. For good."
Aarav stared at her. The magnitude of her words crashed over him like a tidal wave. No more time zones. No more missed birthdays. No more agonizingly long flights to London just to see her for a weekend.
His face split into a massive, blinding smile—a smile so pure and unrestrained that the VEO cameras rarely ever captured it. He pulled her flush against him, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to her forehead. "I am so incredibly proud of you, Doctor Tendulkar."
Shradha beamed, wrapping her arms around his waist. She tilted her head, slipping effortlessly into that slightly haughty, bubbly tone that never failed to drive Aarav crazy.
"Also," she added, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder, "this was obviously a highly calculated surprise. You have the biggest match of your life tomorrow. And we both know I am your lucky charm. You physically cannot bring that trophy home without me in the VIP box."
Aarav laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed through the high ceilings of the mansion. "You know what? I really can't. You're absolutely right."
"Alright, alright, enough romance," Anjali claps her hands together, breaking up the moment with motherly authority. "The food is on the table, and if Shubman doesn't get some of that chicken curry in his system in the next five minutes, I think he might actually pass out on my floor."
"I am aggressively hungry, Aunty, I won't lie," Gill agreed immediately, already walking toward the dining room with Sara laughing beside him.
Aarav kept his arm securely around Shradha as they followed the family into the massive, warmly lit dining room. As he pulled out a chair for her, he looked around the table. Sachin, Anjali, Arjun, Sara, Gill, and the woman he was going to marry.
The Prince of Cricket took a deep breath, smelling the spices, hearing the laughter.
Tomorrow, he would go to war. Tomorrow, he would face the swinging ball and the pressure of a billion people. But tonight, he had everything he could ever possibly need in the world, sitting right at this table.
He was completely, utterly ready.
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The Tendulkar family's backyard was a sprawling, meticulously manicured oasis that backed right up to the edge of the Arabian Sea. The sounds of the Mumbai traffic were entirely drowned out here, replaced by the rhythmic, soothing crash of the waves against the retaining wall.
Aarav and Shradha sat on a plush outdoor swing, bathed in the soft, warm glow of the fairy lights strung across the massive banyan tree. The chaotic energy of the dinner table had finally faded, leaving them in a comfortable, quiet bubble.
Aarav had one arm draped across the back of the swing, while Shradha rested her head against his shoulder, her fingers absently tracing the outline of the smartwatch on his wrist.
"So," Aarav broke the silence, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "Just a fair warning. My mother casually dropped the 'E' word at breakfast this morning."
Shradha paused her tracing. She tilted her head up, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. "Engagement?"
"Worse. She was already mentally booking venues in Lake Como," Aarav chuckled, shaking his head. "I told her to pump the brakes. Said we had to wait until you actually got back from London and finished your degree. But now that you're officially Doctor Tendulkar... the clock is ticking. The Pathak and Tendulkar elders are probably going to form a grand alliance by next Tuesday."
Shradha laughed softly, the sound mingling with the ocean breeze. She shifted, pulling her knees up and turning to face him fully. "Are you scared, Aarav?"
Aarav looked at her. Really looked at her. Her hair was blowing slightly in the wind, her dark eyes reflecting the fairy lights above. He let out a slow breath, the teasing tone leaving his voice, replaced by something much more grounded.
"Not of marrying you," he said softly, his hand moving to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Never of that. But I do think about it sometimes. You're twenty-three. I'm twenty-three. You just spent years grinding in medical school to build your own identity. The second my mom puts a ring on your finger, your life blows up. You won't just be Sachin Tendulkar's daughter or Dr. Shradha anymore. The media, the paparazzi, the world... they're going to tie your entire existence to me. It's a ridiculous, overwhelming circus. Are you genuinely okay tying yourself to a guy like me this early?"
Shradha didn't answer immediately. She just stared at him, her expression deadpan. Then, she reached out and flicked him right on the forehead.
"Ow!" Aarav blinked, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?!"
"For being an idiot," Shradha rolled her eyes, though her smile was incredibly affectionate. "Aarav, I grew up with the God of Cricket as a father. There were news channels parked outside my house when I was seven years old just because my dad hit a bad patch of form. I know exactly what the circus looks like. And as for you..."
She leaned in, resting her hands flat against his chest. "I knew what I was getting into the day I agreed to date the Prince of Mumbai. Normal is boring anyway. Besides, someone has to be around to legally force you to ice your shoulder when you dive on the boundary ropes like a maniac."
Aarav's chest rumbled with a deep laugh. He pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her waist, burying his face in her hair. "God, I love you."
"I know," she mumbled into his shoulder, hugging him back tightly. "You're completely obsessed with me."
"Am I interrupting something gross?"
Aarav and Shradha broke apart. Standing a few feet away on the patio, holding two cans of Diet Coke, was Arjun. He had a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Always," Aarav sighed dramatically, though he smiled and waved the taller boy over. "Come here, you giant. I wanted to talk to you anyway."
Arjun tossed one of the cans to Aarav and sat down on the rattan chair opposite the swing. He popped the tab on his own drink. "What's up? If this is about me calling you Jiju in front of the whole family, I'm not apologizing."
"I'll deal with that later," Aarav took a sip of the soda, leaning forward, his tone shifting into purely professional cricket mode. "I wanted an update. How are the private sessions going? Has Yuvi Paaji been tearing your technique apart?"
Aarav had pulled a few massive strings earlier in the year. Recognizing Arjun's raw potential but unpolished mechanics, Aarav had personally called Yuvraj Singh to mentor Arjun on his lower-order power hitting.
Arjun groaned, running a hand over his face. "Bro, Yuvi Paaji is a tyrant. He made me face the bowling machine set at 145 clicks for two hours straight yesterday, focusing purely on my bat swing arc. My forearms are completely dead."
"Good. That's exactly what you need," Aarav nodded in approval. "You have the height, you have the levers. But you were poking at the ball. You need Yuvi's backlift. What about Nehra ji?"
"Ashish Sir is making me run. So much running," Arjun complained, though there was a genuine spark of excitement in his eyes. "But he tweaked my wrist position at the point of release. I'm getting way more late swing with the new ball now. My pace is up by a couple of yards too."
Aarav smiled proudly. "Keep grinding, Arjun. Listen to me very carefully. The Syed Mushtaq Ali Trophy and the Ranji season are starting right after the World Cup. I want you to go out there and be an absolute menace. Take wickets in the powerplay. Hit sixes at the death."
Aarav pointed a finger at him, his gaze intense. "There is an IPL Mega Auction in 2025. If you put the numbers on the board in domestics... Gujarat Titans are going to be looking for a tall, left-arm, fast-bowling all-rounder. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Arjun's eyes widened slightly as the implication hit him. Playing for GT. Playing under Aarav's captaincy.
"I won't let you down, Aarav," Arjun said firmly, his posture straightening. "I promise."
"I know you won't," Aarav smiled, standing up from the swing. He checked his watch. It was nearing 11:30 PM. "Alright. The Vice-Captain needs his beauty sleep. Trent Boult isn't going to play himself tomorrow."
Shradha stood up with him, lacing her fingers through his. They walked back through the house, finding Gill already waiting in the foyer, chatting with Sachin and Anjali.
"Leaving already, boys?" Sachin asked, walking over to pat Aarav's shoulder.
"Yeah, Dad. Need to get back to the hotel bubble before Dravid sir sends a search party," Aarav joked, bending down to touch Sachin and Anjali's feet one last time. Gill did the same.
Sara walked over, hugging Gill tight. "Don't get out early tomorrow, Shubman. I want a big knock."
"Yes, ma'am," Gill saluted her playfully.
Aarav turned to Shradha, pulling her in for a quick, tight hug. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You will," she smiled, stepping back. "Front row of the VIP box. Don't look at us too much, focus on the ball."
Aarav smirked. "I always do."
With final goodbyes exchanged, Aarav and Gill walked out into the cool Mumbai night, stepping into the blacked-out Range Rover. The engine purred to life, and the heavy wooden gates of the Tendulkar mansion opened, letting them merge back onto the empty, streetlit roads of Bandra.
"Good night?" Gill asked, leaning back into the leather seat and connecting his phone to the Bluetooth.
"The best," Aarav smiled, driving smoothly toward South Mumbai.
As the AP Dhillon track started playing softly through the speakers, Aarav's mind drifted to tomorrow. Specifically, to Shradha sitting in the VIP box with his parents.
It was going to be an absolute media explosion.
For the past two years, the internet had been aggressively hunting for the identity of the Prince's girlfriend. Aarav had never hidden the fact that he was taken. After leading the Gujarat Titans to their first IPL title in 2022, he had posted a picture on Instagram: him holding the trophy, with a girl wearing a custom #4 GT jersey He did the exact same thing after the 2023 IPL win.
The internet dubbed her "The Mystery Girl." There were entire Reddit threads dedicated to analyzing her hair color, her hands, her height.
Until tomorrow.
Tomorrow, the cameras at the Wankhede Stadium would inevitably pan to Rajat and Priya Pathak. And sitting right next to them, cheering for him, would be Shradha Tendulkar. It wouldn't take the internet more than five minutes to put the pieces together. The daughter of the God of Cricket and the Prince of Cricket. Twitter was literally going to crash.
Aarav tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music.
He didn't care. In fact, he was excited about it. The secret was fun while she was studying, to give her peace, but she was home now. She was his.
He looked out the windshield as the magnificent, glowing arches of the Wankhede Stadium appeared in the distance, bathed in floodlights, ready for the semi-final.
His mind was clear. His heart was full. He had his lucky charm back in his city.
New Zealand didn't stand a chance.
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