“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Ravi said, grabbing Jorge by the elbow and dragging him across the campus green.

  Bharath, dressed in sneakers and a white cricket tee with a small Indian fg stitched at the chest, jogged ahead, bat tucked under his arm like a sacred relic.

  “What is this again?” Jorge asked, squinting into the te sun. “Like baseball but... not?”

  “Cricket,” Ravi said. “Our version of religion. Specifically, India versus Pakistan. Think Yankees vs. Red Sox if the countries also had a few wars in the background.”

  “I’m not sure that crifies anything,” Jorge muttered.

  Tyrel brought up the rear, chewing gum and adjusting his cap sideways. “As long as there’s food and girls, I’m good.”

  “Focus, gentlemen,” Ravi said with a grin. “Today, Bharath is representing national pride.”

  The astroturf practice field next to the Student Athletic Complex had been taken over.

  A rectangur strip had been id with chalk dust to mark the wicket. Bright orange cones served as boundaries. A colpsible table stood to the side with water bottles, chai in thermoses, and steel tiffin carriers smelling faintly of masa and ambition. There were even pstic chairs - scavenged from the international lounge - lined up like a cricket stadium’s VIP box.

  And, remarkably, someone had figured out how to turn on the floodlights. As the sun dipped lower, the field lit up under artificial glow, throwing long shadows across the turf and adding an almost cinematic intensity.

  On the “Indian” side were a dozen students - some in whites, others in jeans and college tees. They hailed from Bangalore, Chennai, Mumbai, Ahmedabad, and one very loud guy from Patia. They tossed the ball back and forth, practiced cover drives, and discussed bowling rotations like they were preparing for an actual tour.

  “Bharath! You open, okay? You pyed in the State championships back home right?” the makeshift captain called out. “Just anchor the innings.”

  “Got it,” Bharath said, nerves fluttering. “Haven’t pyed proper cricket in a couple of years, but let’s go.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Ravi said from the sidelines. “You’re Indian. It’s in your DNA.”

  The Pakistani Students Association was just as energetic. Their captain was a tall guy named Saad from Lahore, who wore aviators even as dusk fell. They brought their own bats, extra grips, a duffel full of balls, and even an old scoreboard they had re-painted with PAK in rge green letters.

  “You ready, Chennai boy?” Saad called across the pitch.

  Bharath grinned. “Always.”

  The game was on.

  Tyrel and Jorge took their seats near the boundary, legs stretched out, watching the chaos with mild confusion and deep fascination.

  “Why are they throwing the ball that way?” Tyrel asked.

  “That’s bowling. You can’t bend your elbows like you do when you throw in baseball,” Ravi corrected. “They can bowl it fast or spin it.”

  “Spin it? Like with magic?”

  “Kind of,” Ravi said, “It’s all wrist and timing. Think curveball meets chess.”

  Bharath was on strike. The ball - a bright tennis ball wrapped in bck electrical tape - fizzed past his legs first ball. He didn’t flinch. Just adjusted his grip.

  The second ball, he flicked off his pads - elegant, clean - and it zipped past square leg. The crowd cpped. A few guys whistled.

  “That's our man,” Ravi grinned.

  Tyrel tilted his head. “Yo, I don’t know what he did but he’s got style.”

  “Of course,” Jorge said. “He’s Indian and dramatic. It’s built-in.”

  By now, the game had picked up pace. Bharath had hit a few fours - graceful drives and one risky pull over midwicket that got him appuse and a cheer from the sidelines.

  The floodlights made every catch look cinematic. Every throw glinted off the turf like sparks.

  The Pakistani bowlers started sledging.

  “Come on, Bollywood boy,” one shouted. “Show us a dance move with your bat!”

  Bharath grinned, unshaken. He wasn’t the most aggressive pyer - but he was clean, precise, frustratingly consistent.

  When he finally fell for 58 - almost 80% of the team’s score - bowled by a flipper that skidded off the turf - he got a standing ovation from the Indian side and a few appreciative nods from the Pakistani bowlers.

  Ravi fist-bumped him as he walked off. “That was css, bhai.”

  “Okay,” Jorge said, scanning the small crowd. “There are definitely women here.”

  “Half of them look twelve,” Tyrel muttered.

  “College freshmen,” Jorge corrected. “They are twelve, mentally.”

  They found two girls near the drinks table - one in a salwar kameez with Doc Martens, the other in cargo shorts and a ponytail.

  Tyrel tried to turn on the charm. “So uh… which team y’all supporting?”

  The girls exchanged gnces.

  “We’re from Nepal,” the girl in shorts said. “We’re just here for the snacks and chai.”

  “Respect,” Jorge nodded.

  “And the cute wicketkeeper,” she added with a grin.

  Tyrel gnced at the field. “Wait. Who’s the wicket guy?”

  “Indian side,” the girl said. “Short. Loud. Talks a lot.”

  “Damn,” Tyrel muttered. “Even the short kings are pulling here.”

  Jorge and Tyrel were still chuckling over the Nepalese girls' wicketkeeper crush when a fresh group arrived near the field’s edge - five girls in coordinated pastel tops and low-rise jeans, arm-linked and radiant like they were headed to a photoshoot instead of a cricket match.

  They stood out immediately.

  Not just because they were dressed like they didn’t care about the game - but because the entire vibe around them shifted. Boys started gncing over, some trying to discreetly fix their hair.

  At the center of the group were Ayesha and Zara.

  Ayesha wore a cropped Georgia Tech hoodie knotted at the waist, a bck pleated skirt, and oversized sungsses she didn’t need. Her hair was done up in a high ponytail that moved like it had its own gravity. Around her wrist was a stack of silver bangles that clinked with every turn of her hand.

  They looked like they had come to a party.

  The other hot girl, Zara, the queen of giggles - leaned over. “Oh my god, isn’t that Danish pying for the Pakistani team?”

  “Yeah,” said another. “His older brother is at Emory. Total smoke show.”

  Ayesha gave a polite nod, her eyes drifting to the pitch. She hadn’t pnned on coming. But Zara had dragged her out, saying something about representation and “cute accents.”

  She didn’t expect to see him again.

  Bharath.

  The same boy who’d fumbled with his passport at the airport. Who had insisted on splitting a cab. Who’d blushed when she leaned too close. And who she had ughed about, mocked even, in the cafeteria just yesterday. Now he was at the crease, in a slightly too-loose cricket tee, bat in hand, forehead gleaming with sweat.

  He looked... good.

  Not conventionally. Not in the overconfident, polished way her usual types did. But focused. Centered. Calm in a way that made him stand out from the sea of noisy chest-beaters around him.

  He waited for the bowler’s run-up.

  Ball released. He shifted his weight - and met it with a smooth, grounded drive that whistled past cover point and rolled cleanly to the boundary.

  The Indian crowd erupted.

  Zara made a sound that was half-cp, half-snort. “Wow. Mr. Quiet Guy’s got skills.”

  “Who?” Ayesha asked, pretending not to know.

  “That guy - Bharath or something? That Indian FOB kid in our dorm group. The one who looks like he borrowed all his clothes from 1996.”

  Ayesha smiled thinly.

  Yeah. That guy.

  India posted a respectable 108 in 20 overs.

  The Pakistani side came in strong - two sixes in the first three overs - but Ravi noticed their middle order was shaky.

  “Watch. Colpse incoming,” he said.

  By over 14, they were 78 for 6.

  Bharath came in to bowl - off-spin, loopy and deceptive. He wasn’t fast, but he had rhythm.

  His second ball took a top edge.

  Caught at short midwicket.

  Ravi lost his mind.

  “YESSS! Let’s go, yaar!”

  Jorge turned to Tyrel. “I don’t know what’s happening, but this is intense.”

  Tyrel shrugged. “Still looks like baseball in a fever dream.”

  Pakistan needed 7 runs from 6 balls.

  Bharath had bowled out.

  Saad, the Pakistani captain, was on strike.

  A hush fell.

  Ravi was chewing on his knuckles.

  Jorge and Tyrel had actually stood up shouting and cheering just because everyone around them were.

  First ball - no run.

  Second ball - 2 runs.

  Third - edge for 1.

  Fourth - no run.

  Fifth - full toss. Swung to deep midwicket - one run.

  Fielded. 1 run.

  Last ball. 3 needed.

  Bharath turned to Ravi. “If this goes for a four, I’m bming your bad luck.”

  Ravi shut his eyes.

  The bowler ran in.

  The ball nded - low, skidding.

  Saad swung hard - too hard.

  The ball spooned up, straight to Bharath. The ball swung prodigiously in the night sky. It would have be a miracle to catch that. But steady, dependable Bharath aligned himself on the field under the ball despite it swinging unpredictably and pouched it.

  India won.

  The field erupted in cheers, ughter, war-cries that sounded vaguely bsphemous, and a chorus of high-fives.

  Bharath was hoisted by two guys.

  Tyrel and Jorge ran onto the field, arms in the air like they'd won the World Cup.

  “Okay,” Jorge said, panting as he reached Bharath. “That was actually… kind of awesome.”

  Tyrel gave him a sp on the back. “Y’all were possessed out there. I can’t believe you catch the ball barehanded”

  Bharath smiled, out of breath. “It’s more than a game, man.”

  Ravi grinned. “It’s our substitute for warfare.”

  Jorge nodded. “Expins the yelling.”

  Tyrel chuckled. “Still don't understand the rules. But I know who I’m betting on next time.”

  Bharath looked up at the floodlights above the turf, now buzzing faintly as the crowd slowly dispersed.

  His hands stung. His shirt clung to him. His body ached.

  But inside?

  He felt electric.

  For the entirety of the match, Ayesha couldn’t stop watching Bharath.

  The way he moved between the wickets - cautious, but precise. The way he didn’t showboat when he hit a four. The way he acknowledged teammates with quiet nods instead of chest bumps.

  He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would charm a room.

  But here, in motion - he had gravity. And worst of all? He looked like he didn’t even know it.

  Someone behind her shouted, “That’s a proper shot, man!”

  “Straight from Chennai to Atnta!” another called.

  Ayesha winced. It wasn’t even the shouting - it was the pride in their voices. She had ughed at this boy in public. And he’d done nothing but be... kind.

  She gnced at her friends, who were now trying to guess which team had the hotter boys. None of them were really watching. Not like she was.

  Her chest prickled with something sharp.

  A few overs ter, Bharath got out - bowled on a flipper he didn’t quite read.

  Even as he walked back, he wasn’t angry. Just thoughtful. Maybe a little disappointed. He looked toward the sidelines and caught sight of her group - and his eyes passed right over her.

  No recognition. No lingering pause. It shouldn’t have stung. But it did.

  Zara nudged her. “You okay?”

  Ayesha nodded quickly. “Just... hot in these floodlights.”

  A little ter, the match ended with Bharath making a very difficult catch look easy and the boys rushed the field. The crowd thinned. Her friends had already started talking about heading to Cold Stone.

  But Ayesha lingered.

  Bharath was standing near the pyers’ water table, head tilted back, chugging water. His shirt stuck to his chest, damp and clinging.

  One of the Indian team guys cpped him on the back. They lifted him and danced around.

  She thought about walking over. Just to say hey. Maybe tease him about being Tech’s surprise cricket star. But then she imagined how Zara would react. How her other friends would look at her.

  There were rules. Rules about who they talked to. Who they were seen with. Who they let past the walls.

  Bharath wasn’t cool.

  He didn’t look dashing. Didn’t try to sit near them in the dining hall and grovel for their attention. He’d looked at her like she was a marvel once - and she’d mocked him to his face the next day.

  She felt... ashamed. But shame wasn’t useful. Popurity was currency, and hers was freshly minted. Freshman year was too delicate to risk on kindness.

  So she turned away. Didn’t say hi. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even let herself look back.

  But as they walked toward the parking lot, she heard Zara say, “Honestly, Bharath’s got a nice build. Like lowkey shredded. I didn’t expect that.” Ayesha said nothing. Just kept walking, her hands clenched in her pockets, the sound of the crowd behind her ringing louder than the silence in her chest.