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Chapter Text

July 2018

Virat comfortably plopped himself on the silk-soft sheets of his luxurious bed in Nottingham for the night. Emerging victorious against England in their first ODI that evening, and scoring a handsome 75, he was rather pleased with himself.

He sighed contentedly and let some tension leave his body. After readjusting the pillows just behind his back to sit halfway upright, he picked up the remote control, hoping to use the TV as white noise before he dozed off in his comfortable, chilly hotel room.

Fwip!

Lo and behold, as if the TV sensed he was a cricketer, it broadcast a sports channel. On it, a frame adorned by an Aussie fast bowler he recognised well, and another who seemed to always get on his nerves for just breathing. Virat watched the screen intently, trying his best not to catch a glimpse of those steely blue eyes, lest they trigger another rage fest in him.

“A chance for a bold prediction? The big cricket story of the summer. Who wants to go first?”

With his sweet, dark eyes, the taller cricketer turned to look at the younger man making the waves recently, who chirped, “We’ll start here!”

Virat knew better than to pay him any heed. He was sure it was going to be one of those typical cocky Australian over-confident statements about how they're the best fucking team in the world (which, wasn't partially wrong. But Virat would hate to give them the feeling of satisfaction by admitting it. Besides, India was the better team anyway.)

And yet, it was as if he were physically there at the press conference now. He found his focus shifting entirely away from Mitch Starc and onto this young lad who recently started becoming synonymous with the Aussie pace attack.

(chuckles) “My brave, bold prediction - I’d say, I think Virat Kohli is not gonna get a 100. And uh, and we’re gonna knock him off over here.”

(Interviewer laughs) “Oh, we’d like that, wouldn’t we?”

The rest of the interview was a blur to Virat's senses. He didn't care much about it once he heard the interviewers laughing in response to his name being mentioned. That sweet feeling of victory now long forgotten; all he knew was that he had failed for the night. What was supposed to soothe him into sleeping was now making him see red. He hastily exited the bed, the TV remote flinging across from the duvet to meet the carpeted floor. He paced back and forth relentlessly in his room, as if to redirect some of that frustration into the world.

Fucking Patrick James Cummins. More like Prick Cummins.

God knows what Cummins' problem was with him. Or his with Cummins. Yet somehow, the two could not play one series together without trying to trigger the other deliberately. Mostly, it was a silent battle between them, with Virat trying to take him on as much as he could, while Cummins wanted to dismiss him in ways one could not even have thought were playable. (Perhaps that was how Virat soothed his ego after an incomplete innings, too: it wasn't that he got out to a weak shot, but the ball was just too good. And if this meant he had to admit his "enemy" was good, it'll be the last thing he ever says out loud to anybody before dying.)

From his side, though, the war stayed on the field only. Virat was well aware of the comparisons journalists have made of him to the Australians and their mindset. He even agreed, to a large extent. He didn't see a problem giving your 200% on the field each time you step on it. He hadn't known any other way of playing the game. And if that meant he had to pull a bit of a leg, exchange a few sledges, or occasionally flip the bird to some frankly disrespectful and annoying crowds, Virat would do it all over again in a heartbeat. So yes, he knew full well why some of his fans say he could fit into the Australian team. And he didn't have a problem with that. He knew that people talking and saying all this would never take away his pride of playing for India, and that those people mostly meant it in a good-natured way anyway.

Where the similarities between him and the men Down Under ended, however, were moments like this press conference. Since 2014, when his PR manager sat him down after the notorious "I am not here to earn anybody's respect" comment directed at Mitch Johnson, Virat has been trying not to poke at the bear outside of stadiums (although it was tempting each day. And he still believed he did the right thing then too). He no longer goes out of his way to even slightly suggest he is belittling someone else. Instead, he would rather go out there and instil belief in his team and players a billion times. 

So why couldn't the Australians keep his name out of their mouths? Why did Cummins have to mention his name on an interview panel in July when India was not touring Australia for another 4 months? Hell, Cummins was not even the captain. And besides, Kohli faced more problems playing Josh Hazlewood than playing him. Yeh Pat Cummins hai kaun? Bhenchod. (Who is this Pat Cummins anyway?)

With his ears still bloodshot red and nostrils flaring, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, took out his phone from his pocket, and checked the time in Australia. If they were anywhere in Sydney right now, it would be about 8 am. Good fucking way to start their morning by calling him up from the number I stole from Maxi. (He never quite figured out what compelled him to get Cummins' number in the first place. They've never even properly talked in person much, barring the few forced pleasantries. Maybe it was a push by God for exactly a moment like this.)

As if on cue, he received a text in the ICT WhatsApp Group - 

Shastri: Well played, boys! Rest well tonight, and we'll be off to an early start tomorrow!

Virat clicked on his name to enter the personal chat with his coach.

Kohli: Australia mein India ka jhanda gaad ke aayenge (We will hoist the Indian flag high on Australian soil).

That night, as Virat barely went to sleep thinking about what the brain behind the deep ocean blue eyes thought of him, Shastri was on the other side of the hotel, wondering if Virat had partied too hard after the win and typed "Australia" in place of "England".

Chapter Text

“It’d be real embarrassing if you don’t get him out now, huh?” retorted Starcy.

As they walked off the stage side by side to warm applause, Pat reflected on how the interview felt like an out-of-body experience.

He didn’t know why he said that. Didn’t understand why he kept mentioning Kohli’s name time and again without provocation. Summer was not for another four months. Well, theirs, anyway. He could have simply said something vague or smiled sweetly to dodge the question like Mitch did. Instead, he just had to leap up like an excited puppy, falling for the bait.

It was one thing for the idea of playing against Kohli to keep him motivated to bowl even better than before. It was another to publicly declare his fantasy of playing against him in a recorded press conference. And if something was recorded, it was permanent. He ran his hand over his face out of frustration, then looked around at his fellow pacer, “Won’t mind if you can get him out in his first over before me though.” 

“Woah mate, you’re not getting cold feet now, are you?” Mitch bumped his shoulder into Pat’s, not unkindly. “Anyway, I’m gonna head back first, yeah? I’ve got some commercials to film today too, ugh! See ya tomorrow?”

Pat hugged his mate goodbye, “Yeap!” If Starc glanced his way a little longer than usual due to his emphasis on the “p”, Pat didn’t notice because his mind was currently busy running a marathon. He made his way out of the hotel doors and soon found himself ordering a black coffee from a café on the corner, as if on autopilot.

He simply knew his publicist would be frantically dashing about to retract this statement. After all, the new unspoken rule in cricket was that nobody could ever hurt the sentiments of “the world’s greatest batsman”.

That. That was precisely why Pat couldn’t stand him. 

After spending time on the sidelines due to his injuries, he almost envied the batters. While people like him and Josh wasted their youthful years recovering, the batsmen seemed to live in an era where injuries barely grazed them. So, while Pat struggled to perform basic tasks like walking at times, Kohli continued to make a name for himself. And what a name he made.

Already on the path to becoming an all-time great, countless comparisons have been drawn between him and Sachin Tendulkar, at times with Viv Richards, and even Allan Border. If that wasn’t a high honour in itself, Pat was unsure what could account for one any longer.

As if cricketing skills weren’t enough, Kohli also possessed the looks to match. Millions of fangirls would fall at their feet just to catch a glimpse of him from afar. Boys admired Kohli’s suaveness and his tattoos (Pat once tried to find out if Maxi had ever caught a glimpse of his tattoos in the changing room, but quickly abandoned that conversation when the RCBian stared at him as if he had grown four heads at once). Men loved the aggression he brought to his games, both as a player and as a captain, particularly in Test cricket. India was invincible now, and Pat had no doubt that one Virat Kohli was to blame.

So yes, excuse me if seeing his success makes me angry about all the time I’ve lost to my injuries.

It wasn’t all bad now, though. During one of their countless downtimes when injured, Patty and Hoff made a pact that they would only bring their A-game to any matches their bodies allowed them to play. If their fitness threatened their careers, they would certainly make every moment count. They even started a tally to see who could get Kohli out more often. Why? Because if you can outsmart the world’s #1 batsman, then what does that make you? The world’s greatest bowler.

Since then, they have been working on maintaining their speed consistently while hitting the right lines and lengths. Although not at Kohli’s level, the Aussie pace trio began to gain a somewhat notorious reputation among their opponents. Meanwhile, rehabilitation and resources had improved, and Pat was starting to take better care of his health, ensuring he did not strain himself too much.

He sat at the outdoor tables once his coffee was ready; partly to people-watch, partly to await the phone call from his manager in the next 15 minutes following this slip-up.

In an attempt to ground himself, he closed his eyes and inhaled the rich scent of coffee from the paper cup in his hands. As he tried to focus on the sounds of the bustling traffic and people hurrying to get to work on time, Pat suddenly realised he no longer regretted what he had said on stage.

He meant every word. And knowing Kohli, who was currently in England but would somehow receive this statement from their press conference just now, Pat also knew that the BGT that summer would be one for the ages. (Pat made a mental note to check the Eng vs Ind results after drowning in his coffee, for no apparent reason, obviously.)

Hurting Kohli’s ego was easy; thankfully, Johnson had taught them a few lessons firsthand. Now, Pat and Kohli could finally match fire with fire and engage in a genuine contest for once.

He could finally prove to the world who he truly was. And the world would take notice of him. Better still, he had a sense that the world would come to love him. Kohli, who, according to Pat, was not of this world, remained the only exception.

Chapter Text

December 2018

As the Indian team stepped off the bus and into the hotel, Rohit dramatically sighed and whined to nobody in particular, “I don’t get it, why can’t they just do all this shoot wagera on the same day we first arrived? Kya yeh one day shoot for T20, one for Tests, and then later on for ODI?”

“You’re only complaining because you had to get up early for this. If it were up to you, you would also train in your sleep,” Rahul replied, snarkily.

Rohit’s eyes brightened at this prospect. “Haan! Why not? Think about it, KL. Don’t they say to dream big anyway? To dream, you have to sleep. But how can I sleep when you lot keep partying until the early hours and then waking up at 6 to train?”

Pant dashed to join the conversation enthusiastically. “Rohit bhai, it’s not every day you get to play Australia in Australia, and draw a T20 series! Of course, celebrations were due!”

“That is not good enough.”

All eyes in the huddle, walking together, turned to their captain. His commanding voice carried a sternness typically reserved for the ground alone.

Rahane put his arm around Virat’s, hoping he could feel his support. “We didn’t travel this far from India to just ‘draw’ the series, you guys. We have to win the next format now. The T20 matches are over, forget it. BGT is the focus.”

Virat silently squeezed the hand dangling off his left shoulder, returning the acknowledgement, “Jinks is right. Since 1947, no Indian team touring Australia has ever actually won the test series. Draws at best. We are here to create fucking history. I am not leaving Australia without the BGT in our hands.”

“And history we shall create!”, echoed a loud, booming voice behind them. Ravi Shastri finally caught up with the players after sorting out some logistical issues concerning the upcoming photoshoot. “Your headshots better look like you’re here to draw blood! I don’t wanna see any smiling faces. Do not go soft on these Aussies!”

“Their media loves to paint the touring teams as the devil reincarnate anyway,” Ashwin shrugged. “Might as well give them what they’re looking for, no?”

“That’s the spirit, Ash!” The commentator-turned-coach then got straight to business, “Now go into the Hotel Conference Room on the 2/F, where they’ve set up the backdrop for the photoshoot. Virat, you’re gonna have to head to the Hotel Lobby first. They want to film you and Paine together for some promotional footage and wish to discuss the questions they’ll ask with you.”

“Acha – Remember guys, if I see any of your teeth in the headshots for the Test series, I am being dead serious when I say I’ll punch them out myself the next time I see you.” Virat knew his team understood that the threat didn’t carry any real malice, but it was beneficial to push them into adopting an aggressive mindset in any game capacity. Unfortunately, the press and media have become as significant a ritual as one’s performance on the field.

“Arrey kya Cheeks! Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they look like they’ve never experienced happiness in their lives,” reassured the Vice-Captain. “Now go, bechara Paine might have been waiting for you for a long time.”

The team and he split off in opposite directions, with Virat merely responding to a few unsent texts from back home due to the time zone differences. One text from his nephew asked him to bring the largest stuffed koala bear he could find, prompting Virat to search online frantically. 

Virat would have continued walking and missed Tim Paine had he not inhaled the strong scent of salt and mist before crashing into a man who was as dynamic as water itself. 

“Ouch! What the fu–?”

“Sorr–“

At last, his gaze met the ocean swirling within the individual he collided with.

The tide that pulled against his current: his nemesis.

Pat Cummins.

Virat felt the intense eyes of Cummins staring down at him, thanks to their unbelievable height difference. Which he was sure had nothing to do with why Virat's pulse was quickening by the second.

“Woah, careful, King Kohli! Wouldn't want you injured before our match.” Cummins smiled smugly and extended his hand for a shake, but Virat merely nodded in acknowledgement. He refused to meet Cummins' gaze, but his skin prickled where their arms had brushed, like saltwater on a fresh cut. He was already beginning to feel a bit flustered after that accidental bump. He was certain the anger was rising again, and the memory of Cummins’ statement from July was flooding back with full force. Since then, Virat had blocked out everything related to Cummins. He had muted his name across social media and blocked his number as well, even though they had never spoken on the phone in the first place.

Instead, he glanced over Pat’s shoulder and enveloped Paine in a hug. “Good to see you, mate! Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Paine certainly noticed the awkward first interaction between his beloved fast bowler and the opposition captain. Dare he say Patty even looked a little offended that Virat didn’t even say hi. But he didn’t comment on it. After taking a moment too long, he offered one of his welcoming smiles back at Virat. “Ah, that’s no worries! Cummo here was just keeping me company anyway! Discussing our bowlers rotation and whatnot. Shall we head on, then? They’re waiting for us in the Meeting Room and want to ensure we’re both comfortable with the questions they’ll be asking us and our team.”

“Sure, let’s not waste any more time, then.” Virat steeled himself to resist the tall, devilish temptation as they walked away, but their shoulders accidentally brushed once more. Both their breaths hitched, but neither acknowledged it.

Paine suddenly called for Cummins again, and Virat, too, turned back to catch a glimpse of that face he’d hate to admit was handsome.

Did he look... confused?

“Oh, Patty? Wait for me here? We’ll be finished soon, and Virat will head to the Conference Room next for his headshots. I wanna conclude our discussion!”

It was only for a split second, but Virat didn’t miss the eye roll he elicited from Cummins when they made eye contact. And as Cummins spoke with his captain, “Sure, Painey! I’ll be here. Have fun!”, Virat could feel those ocean blue eyes just freezing him to the spot where he stood, daring him for the upcoming series. Pat’s grin eventually slipped, and Virat’s nails bit into his palms. The air between them thickened.

Challenge accepted. Battle lines drawn. Game on.

"So... what was that about?”

Pat looked up from the crossword puzzle on his phone and noticed Painey towering above him. It was only his fourth crossword, which meant it shouldn't have taken more than 20 minutes.

“You’re back early! What do they even ask you in there?” If Pat’s guess was correct, he would do anything right now except answer Tim's question. He could not stop thinking about how those chocolate brown eyes deliberately avoided him. He wanted to look into Kohli's eyes just once more, to throw him an open challenge. He wasn't sure if Paine would understand.

“Eh, you know, ever since that incident with Smithy and Warney, the media has just become a bit sensitive on all sides. Just want to ensure we don’t end up asking each other questions that may trigger anyone.” Pat nodded his head in understanding. “So, what the fuck was that about?”

Patty took a deep breath before feigning innocence, “What the fuck was what about?”

“Come on, Cummo, you were basically a puppy who had been kicked when he refused to speak with you. What did you do?”

Pat’s body emitted a scoff, “I guess the King is still pissed that I don't bow down to him – Mate, are you seriously telling me you don’t remember the absolute media blunder I caused a few months back?”

Paine scratched his chin. “Of course I remember! You’re the only one crazy enough to make such statements about Virat: 'We're gonna knock him off over here'? But CA asked you to clarify what you meant, and they published the cleanup everywhere immediately!”

Pat continued answering, dripping with sarcasm, “Yeah, well, clearly he missed the invitation. I even tried to get his number off Maxi to explain first-hand because that’s what my manager said was the best thing for me to do regarding my image. But when I tried texting, my messages kept bouncing back. So either Maxi played a prank on me and gave me the wrong number, or Virat has me blocked.”

Paine was becoming more amused than concerned, clearly relishing their feud for personal entertainment. “Why would he have you blocked? You’ve never even played for the same IPL Team, so you’ve never been in contact!”

“Whatever, mate, I don’t really care at this point. He can do whatever he likes; he is neither my King nor my Captain. I just need to dismiss him in both innings of all four tests.”

Paine chuckled, “And Hoff is okay with it?”

Pat shrugged nonchalantly, “He said ‘Whatever is best for the team’. He’s cool to let the tally tip in my favour.”

Paine patted the taller man on the back, laughing heartily. “Well, this is great!” Pat looked at him quizzically, prompting him to continue, “You hating Virat, Virat hating on you. Now I know I can rely on you to get him out every single time! As long as you stop him from scoring a 100 like you claimed in your 'wishful thinking'. This mutual hatred of yours might win us the series, mate!”

As Pat ascended to his hotel room, he opened the one-sided chats with failed messages for the fifth time that day. A big "Hey, Kohli! Don't know if you heard what I said recently. I hope it isn't taken the wrong way on your end. Getting you out is always a privilege. It's why I don't want you to score a century: Playing against you makes me a better bowler. No hard feelings. - Cheers!" just staring right back at him with a red exclamation mark to its side.

He didn’t know if he could endure the embarrassment in front of Virat any longer. In this series, Pat had to become a name carved into the cliffside that even the waves won't erase.

Chapter Text

5^th December, 2018

Virat stepped onto the Adelaide ground for one final team training session to assess the pitch and confirm his playing XI for the following day. 

To his dismay, Paine and his men appeared to share the same idea. At least they had positioned their nets at two opposite ends of the field. Still, that did not deter Virat from attempting to pry and discover who might play for Australia tomorrow. 

He didn’t have perfect eyesight; he had posted selfies on Instagram multiple times while wearing his reading glasses (some, admittedly, as thirst traps). Consequently, he often wore contact lenses when he played, which meant his vision was likely close to 20/20 now. He wasn’t certain what or who he hoped to see, but Virat’s breath hitched and betrayed him when he saw that man in action. And he loathed every second of being unable to look away.

Even from afar, his lenses operated like a magnifying glass. He could see how his run-up had improved over the years, how his deliveries consistently hit the right target, and how sweat beaded his body, causing his training kit to cling tightly to him. 

If only he hadn’t openly challenged him; if only he hadn’t intended to text Virat a half-arsed apology, claiming that getting him out was a privilege; if only Cummins’ confidence didn’t feel like a hand around his throat, squeezing and thrilling in equal measure. If only his physique weren’t a fucking masterpiece of muscle and menace. If only…

The truth was that Virat’s final straw was Cummins's follow-up statement. Over the years, Virat had endured many feuds on the field; he had become accustomed to being antagonised by others, particularly the Australians, and had grown indifferent over time. However, that statement? It didn’t just feel professional; Virat could sense it stemmed from a deeply personal place for Cummins. He blocked Cummins shortly after CA released the statement clarifying his words, and he received a notification of a text from “Prick Cummins” confirming whether he had the correct number for Virat. He didn’t have time to deal with insipid PR damage control. He had challenged him openly; so a challenge it was.

The truth was that Cummins was well aware of when the Indian team would arrive on the field to practise today, thanks to some snooping around with his KKR teammates, the two Yadavs. He had deliberately timed his session to coincide with the moment Kohli’s men would come in. He imagined Kohli’s face as he hit the stumps with each delivery. However, if he were candid with himself, his mind still reeled from the incident in the hotel lobby the other day. Pat hated how that twice-accidental touch seemed to have left a permanent mark on his body and soul. It felt like the fire from Virat had passed onto him, and now he wouldn’t stop burning either.

He didn’t know how to tame this heat, so he resolved to give his enemy a taste of his own medicine. He sought to channel this frustration into leaving Kohli a bit restless: he wanted Kohli’s skin to prickle with every glance he stole at the pacer. He wanted Kohli’s breath to hitch when Pat’s name flashed as the next bowler on the scoreboard. He wanted Kohli’s fearless stance to shake momentarily. He wanted Kohli to lie awake, reliving how Pat would get him out, replaying his smirk, sweat, and ownership of every inch of that pitch. He wanted Kohli haunted.

With every run-up he took, he prayed to the Gods above that the Indian captain was watching him. And sure enough, when Patty glanced around the ground during a breather between deliveries, Kohli was there — observing him.  Intently. Mission successful.

Unlike the other day, the two cricketers now found themselves locking eyes, even though they couldn’t have been physically further apart on the pitch. When Patty realised that Kohli, for a change, was not avoiding his gaze, he smirked to himself a silent victory. He knew Kohli wouldn’t be able to see his facial expressions closely, so he exaggerated his movements, miming a delivery, then pointing to his toes, and finally in Kohli’s direction.

Virat tightened his grip on the MRF bat. Across the field, Pat stood with his hands on his hips in a gesture of defiance, as if to say, “This is exactly how I am going to break you tomorrow.” Virat shadow-batted a perfect cover drive, a sign that he had taken to this rivalry and was contemplating it just as much as Pat, if not more.

“I get Virat is handsome, mate, but stop eyefucking him from this end, or just go to him and let me practice now,” Pat’s dear friend, Josh Hazlewood, suddenly broke whatever electrifying intensity the two rivals were building up.

Pat gave Kohli a final lingering stare before returning and joining Hoff for the conversation. “What, and let you outdo me in the 'Kohli Tally'? No chance!”

Josh swatted at Pat's chest, “Hey, at least I don’t stare at my phone like a hopeless romantic all day, creating a fake account just to analyse posts related to Virat, and zooming in on his selfies when he wears those damn glasses!”

Pat’s ears turned scarlet. “Oh, shut up, Hoff. I do that to study his game! Sometimes, it helps knowing he was out all day shooting for an ad; I’d know he was not as rested as he would be otherwise! Easier to rile him up that way – Besides, you’re not even on social media! You cannot comment on what I do or don't do!”

Hoff ruffled Pat’s hair, a sign that his teasing now came from a place of affection. “Yeah? Why have you never zoomed in on my photographs like that, then?”

Patty shook the thoughts of the Indian from his mind. “Awwww, Joshy! Do you want me to?” He pulled Hoff in for a side hug and pretended to kiss his cheek until Hoff dodged him, laughing heartily. “Geez, Cummo, you’re worse than a teenager!”

As Cummins and Hazlewood walked off together in the opposite direction, Virat chose not to dwell on the unpleasant sensation rising in his gut. His jaw had tightened as Cummins threw an arm around Hazlewood, and Hazlewood reciprocated with his lingering hand on Pat’s shoulder. His stomach twisted, leaving him uncertain whether it was due to the toe-crushing balls he would face from them tomorrow or something else.

He called for Shami and asked him to bowl yorkers at him continuously in the nets. He envisioned each delivery as the Australian’s perfect face. With every swing of Virat’s bat now, he made a vow: I will ruin you before you ruin me.

Chapter Text

7^th December 2018: Before the start of Day 2’s play

Virat’s eyes widened in horror, and he nearly choked on his coffee and oats. “No, no, no, no, no!” He flung the local newspaper he had requested into his hotel room along with his breakfast, casting it across the space. As if to taunt him, the newspaper landed perfectly, with the headline of the sports section facing upwards:

“CUMMINS AND KOHLI: CRICKET’S NEXT BEST RIVALRY?”

Beneath that heading was a large picture from yesterday’s dismissal, featuring Virat with his head hung low while the Aussies celebrated in the background. In all fairness, it was a stunning catch by Khawaja. Virat would have shrugged it off if it had been any other bowler. But not this one.

Defeated, he picked up the newspaper once more, and even in the blurred background, he could make out his smirk, as if he had positioned Khawaja to stand precisely where he was. That smirk made Virat’s blood boil. The newspaper ink smudged under his grip, staining his thumb with the ghost of Cummins’ smirk.

He settled back at the coffee table, perusing the rest of the article. The reporter went on to explain how Pat Cummins was the next prodigy (he honestly didn’t know what else he was expecting from an Aussie newspaper) and how the wicket marked a pivotal moment in the fate of this Test match. However, he despised how his eyes drifted back to the large photograph. He loathed that even in the grainy photo, he could make out every shade of Cummins’ triumphant expression: Proud. Beautiful. Infuriating.

Wait, what the fuck!?

To distract himself from his thoughts and clear his head for the match, he reopened the ICT group chat on WhatsApp, but not before briefly hovering over the chat of “Prick Cummins," which he had blocked four months ago.

He quickly exited that chat and returned to his team’s group.

Kohli: We have ten more players if one doesn’t perform well. Remember: Here to create history! Meet you all at the entrance in 20.

When the team gathered to board the bus, Virat noticed Shastri approaching him, and their conversation was displayed on his phone. “Oh, so you did mean to say ‘Australia’ and not ‘England’ in that text this summer!”

In another hotel in Adelaide, Pat and several of his Australian teammates were attacking the breakfast buffet like boys who had just spotted their favourite bar of chocolate. As Pat returned to the table he shared with Starc and Josh, he noticed another hotel guest reading a newspaper.

He froze. A muffin from his plate rolled off the edge, but he did not notice. Instead, he stared intently at the newspaper, as the sports section glared back at him with a bold, mocking, inescapable headline:

“CUMMINS AND KOHLI: CRICKET’S NEXT BEST RIVALRY?”

That was what he had called it countless times over the years, right? So why did the word “rivalry” suddenly unravel so many complex emotions within him? What if it really was as simple as that, but Pat's obsession was causing him to overthink everything? His chest tightened. What if something like “mortal enemies” never existed in the first place? What if, to Kohli, Pat was just another bowler in the long list of bowlers he had faced throughout his career, and Kohli would forget about him the minute he stepped onto that plane back to India? The thought slithered through him, unwelcome.

Starcy was returning to the table when he spotted his friend. “Oi! Patty! You good mate? Our table is that way!”

Suddenly brought back to his senses, Patty dashed over to the guest and politely asked if he could borrow the newspaper. Fortunately for him, the guests were avid cricket fans (coincidentally also headed to the Day 2 game) and were pleased to let him have it.

As he dashed back to the table, balancing the buffet plate in one hand and the crumpled edge of the newspaper in the other, he heard them screech, “Great wicket of Kohli yesterday, by the way!” Mitch, with his long legs, quickly caught up with Patty.

He slammed the newspaper onto the table, startling Josh, who was innocently munching on his toast. “Well, good morning to you too, Cummo!”

“Apparently, Patty is out to humiliate us in front of our fans,” the tallest of the three chimed. “I saw him literally steal the newspaper from a guest’s hand! What has gotten into you anyway?”

“Let me guess, he found another article on himself and will keep it framed because it calls him the best thing to happen to Straya since kangaroos.”

In the meantime, Starc picked up the newspaper and began flipping through it until he came across the page that had caused Pat to forget how to behave normally. “Worse. They published a whole headline about him and his new love.”

Pat cleared his throat. “Love? It literally says ‘Rivalry’ in the headline. That’s what this is, Starcy! Do keep up!” He pushed the newspaper back down from Starc’s hand onto the table so all three pacers could read the article together. Pat’s fingers drummed on the table as they read, a touch too loud for their liking.

Josh was the first to break the silence, “Damn Patty, did you pay them or what? Why are there five paragraphs on you but only one on the stunner Uzzie pulled off? If I were him, I’d be livid.”

Starc asked, “Is this because of that statement you made while we were on stage?”

Pat gulped and nodded, not because he lacked the right words to respond, but because he couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph of Kohli with his head hung low, while Uzzie celebrated in the background alongside him. His mind was doing anything but formulating words.

As if possessed by a ghost, Pat’s hand moved to smooth the photograph, his thumb caressing the spot where Kohli was. His finger lingered where Kohli's ink had smudged the print, as if the touch could bring him back to yesterday’s moment of facing him. He hadn’t realised how long he had been burning a hole by staring at that photograph until Hoff commented, “Awwww Patty, wish you could take that frown off his face, don’t ya?” Fuck. He snatched his hand back.

Pat began to speak again, but his voice betrayed him, cracking at intervals, “He’s not miserable enough. I need him to regret his existence.”

Starc’s eyebrows arched towards his hairline. “Well, aren’t you a dramatic one? Giving Shakespeare a run for his money, I’d say… Now stop gawking at him through the newspaper. If you’ve forgotten, you see your beloved ‘rival’ in person in about an hour. Hurry up and finish eating!”

The trio enjoyed their breakfast in relative peace afterwards. When Pat attempted to sneakily steal the newspaper by putting it in his bag, Starc and Josh exchanged a knowing glance: This rivalry was certainly taking an interesting turn.

As the Aussies boarded their team bus, Hoff approached Pat beside him and said, “By the way, you should frame that article, mate. In 10 years, it’ll look great in the house you two will live in.”

Pat groaned to himself and threw his head back against the headrest. His best mates were now starting to tease him about his obsession. For that alone, Pat was more certain than ever that he hated Virat. Loathed him. Despised him. Probably. Maybe. Fuck if he knew anymore.

Chapter Text

10 ^th December 2018

Pat lay tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. Every time he blinked, the day replayed: the match, the loss, those dark eyes, always watching. Even in solitude, that man seemed to have a knack for keeping Pat on his toes.

In recent days, the team had not been performing too poorly, if he could say so himself. After a close first innings by the Aussies, India set a target of 323 for them to chase. This morning, they began with 104 runs on the board, with only four players back in the pavilion. Painey had assured them they were strong enough to draw it out, if not win. This would make the remainder of the BGT more intense, as it was only a four-match series this time, and each upcoming match would feel like a knockout. Pat was confident they could make it happen. However, it might have been wishful thinking after all. Before he knew it, he found himself on the crease before lunch.

It wasn't as though he had never batted before. On numerous occasions, Patty had to step up for the team as an all-rounder. He even took pride in holding the record for the fastest 50 in the IPL. But today was different. While he was used to playing in front of crowds of 100,000 people, he felt someone's gaze weighing down on him as he stepped onto the pitch today. He wasn’t alone. His ghost clung to Pat like sweat.

With a menacing growl, he kicked the covers off. The hum of the air conditioning mocked him, being the only thing keeping him company. He and the AC both knew damn well what, or who, was keeping him awake.

After what felt like an eternity, he got up to check the air conditioning's temperature settings, yet he knew he was merely deceiving himself, for it was not the city's heat or the room's cooling that truly bothered him. He flung himself back onto the bed, staring at the emptiness of the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for sleep, but his mind dragged him back to replay the day's events for the thousandth time that night.

One moment, he was there, braving the likes of Ashwin and defending the excellent deliveries. The next, he saw India’s greatest pacer of all time, Jasprit Bumrah, sprinting up the pitch.

Five seconds. That was all it took. A flash of Bumrah’s seam, the edge flying, and his hands at first slip, simply waiting, always waiting, for the cherry-red ball. A predator capturing its prey.

The stadium erupted in cheers and groans alike. Yet Pat didn’t hear any of them. Kohli’s roar cut through all the chaos. He sounded delighted, as if he had been waiting years for that moment. That laughter was a knife: more brutal than any bouncer Pat had ever received to his ribs.

“Humiliating” hardly scratched the surface.

Regardless of how hard he tried to move on, that laugh echoed in his ears, taunting, challenging, and mocking him.

He finally gave up on sleep and reached for his phone on the bedside table. He saw a text notification from his captain and opened it.

Paine: Hey Patty, you may wish to look at this [Link].

He rubbed his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the screen before clicking on the link.

It was a link to the post-match press conferences of both captains. Patty didn’t know what had transpired, as he was crushed by Australia’s narrow defeat at that time.

He listened intently to Tim’s comments, but knew it couldn’t have been why the captain would personally send him this link. He fast-forwarded to the moment when the Indian captain took the seat instead.

Interviewer: Thank you, Kohli, for joining us. First of all, congratulations on your victory. It's a brilliant start to the BGT!

Kohli: Thank you; it’s always a pleasure to be on the winning side.

Interviewer: Since you became Test Captain, we haven’t seen a more dominant Indian side. How important is that gritty quality in Test cricket to you?

Pat sat up straighter now, awaiting his answers with bated breath. He was determined to do everything within his power to recover from the loss and was prepared to take notes on his adversary.

Kohli: I actually told the guys after Day 1 that cricket is a team game. Just because I didn’t score well or your number one bowler couldn’t take wickets that day, it doesn’t mean everyone should feel dejected. The others ought to try harder and keep working until we find a breakthrough.

Interviewer: (laughs) Is that what great batsmen like you often say to yourselves when you fail to score?

Kohli: (chuckles) Certainly! Scoring hundreds wouldn’t mean much if I were to achieve them in every innings, would they? Furthermore, bowlers don’t receive enough credit for their efforts in the five-day format. Sometimes, you face an excellent delivery, and as a batsman, you know there is little you can do except yield to it.

Interviewer: Speaking of bowlers –

Pat felt his heart thumping loudly against his chest; he knew exactly where that question was leading even before the interviewer finished speaking.

Interviewer: Over the past five days, the Australian media has produced numerous headlines regarding you and our fast bowler Pat Cummins. What are your thoughts on the new “rivalry” tag that you two have acquired? Can we officially refer to it as such?

Kohli’s shoulders stiffened – a tell Pat had learnt all too well. The wall was up, the chill demeanour now concealed. Virat clenched his jaw a few times before speaking again, his voice smug yet calculated.

Kohli: Look, I mean, to me, they’re all just bowlers. That’s it; there’s no rivalry or anything like that.

Pat noticed how the batter refused to say his name or even acknowledge him directly. The ice-cold voice referring to him as “they” stung like a wasp.

Interviewer: Cummins doesn’t want you scoring a century. Doesn’t that trouble you?

Pat realised this was the first time he would find out if Kohli had actually heard that statement. He hadn’t even known whether the news had ever reached him. All this time, his obsession with their competitive nature had led him to assume Kohli was aware of it. He could see Kohli’s finger drumming the table quickly, before schooling his face into indifference.

Kohli: We all pray for numerous things, but don’t always receive what we hope for. Isn’t that so?

Without saying “yes” or “no,” Kohli had betrayed himself. He did hear what Patty said, and he certainly knew it. That was why Pat received the cold shoulder before the Test match. Not that he had any doubts, but receiving confirmation and putting a name to their hostility was refreshing. Pat Cummins had wounded Virat Kohli’s ego. And Kohli? He always collected his debts.

Interviewer: Indeed! As long as these healthy rivalries continue to provide us with such thrilling contests between bat and ball, cricket fans are not complaining! Well, Virat, thank you once again for your time. Congratulations again on your victory, and best of luck for the remainder of the BGT.

Kohli: Thank you. Cheers!

The video had long since ended, and Pat was now staring at the screen’s glow burning ‘2:30 a.m.’ into his retinas. Healthy rivalries? Pat’s laugh to himself was hollowly empty. What was healthy about this ache? What was thrilling about one half of that rivalry refusing to acknowledge the other? What was normal about a man who clearly invested too much thought in their face-off while the other treated him like the million nobodies he encountered on a regular basis?

Pat’s nails dug into his palms, the bile in his throat tasting like fuel. Kohli’s words weren’t just dismissive; they were a dismissal. As if Pat’s name was not worth the trouble of uttering. It was sickening to have such a revelation past midnight when he was alone. But all at once, those eyes and the laugh that had haunted him all evening no longer did. Instead, he felt every last ounce of doubt and conflict leave his body, moulding confusion into sheer hatred.

Very well.

If Kohli sought a stranger, Pat would carve one into the pitch next time - with his name on every ball.

Chapter Text

15^th December 2018: Day 2

Michael Clarke had called this Perth pitch “unplayable”. Virat thrived on the unplayable. Let them talk about the pitch. He’d make them talk about him.

When India found themselves two wickets down on the second day, Virat strode onto the pitch, bat slung like a samurai sword. The Perth sun branded his skin, the crowd’s roar fading to a blood rush in his ears. 

People called Virat a diamond: mined under pressure. And the Scorpio within him craved it. The higher the stakes, the brighter he’d burn. But at the moment,  nothing fuelled his fire like the name wrapped around his focus. The hopes of a billion Indians felt lighter than that single name. 

Today, he would etch his truth into the pitch, one run at a time. And when Hazlewood’s first ball arrived, Virat did well to defend it with his front foot. He had time; all he needed was patience before he could take control of the ground.

Feeling the heat, his muscles tensed, and his patience snapped like an overstrung bow as Hazlewood’s shadow crossed the crease. The ball left his hand with an audible hiss, like a tracer bullet, seams upright and flashing like knife edges in the sun.

Fuck it.

Five breaths. That was all the patience he could summon before the fire consumed him whole.

On the very next delivery, Virat decided to challenge Hazlewood with a straight drive. The boundary was more than just a shot; it was a declaration. As the ball sped towards the rope, Virat didn’t flinch. He was determined to make the ground scream his name by stumps.

While Hazlewood muttered something under his breath, Virat’s gaze flicked swiftly across the Australian field. With his near-perfect vision beneath his game armour, he saw those glacier-blue eyes fixed on him, unwavering as a hawk sizing its prey. Virat held the stare long enough to seem to dare him to come on next. Your turn.

He might as well have imagined Cummins tightening his jaw slightly, but to Kohli’s disappointment, he simply returned to his fielding position, crouching for the next delivery.

The icy silence from those blue eyes burned hotter than the Perth sun. Virat’s bat cut through the next over, the ball whistling towards Cummins’ fielding position. He aimed to provoke him, make him regret that remark, and have Cummins meet his gaze as Virat raised his bat after reaching the century.

Not long after, he arrived.

One moment, Virat had hammered Hazlewood for three boundaries in the same over, and the next, Cummins was walking towards the crease, those glaciers finally meeting Virat’s gaze. Not out of anger, but with coldly calculated precision. As the Australian took his position, the crowd waited with bated breath. Virat felt his heartbeat sync with the shrieking spikes in the run-up rhythm.

First ball. Off stump. Virat defended it with a perfect back-foot shot.

Second ball. A missile that narrowly missed Virat. He let this one go.

Third ball. Defended. Virat barely brought his bat down in time, the impact vibrating up his arms like live current.

Across the pitch, Cummins’ lips flickered. Not a smile, but a hunter laying intricate traps for his next possession.

Fourth ball. Good length from his opponent. Blocked.

Fifth ball. He left it untouched.

Sixth ball. Virat adjusted at the last moment, and the ball dribbled harmlessly away.

A single bead of sweat sparkled on Cummins’ temple: the first crack in the glacier. As he passed the ball to the next bowler, he made the mistake of locking eyes with the batter. Virat allowed himself a slight smile. The atmosphere between them thickened – not with tension, but with recognition. Today, they were not just here to play cricket. They were here to play chess, and the pieces moved at 136 kph.

By the time it was Drinks, Virat had faced 19 deliveries from Cummins and scored just two runs. He had lost this session, but he would not lose the rest of the day.

But when they returned, every ball Cummins bowled to Virat wasn’t just a delivery – it was a stone, hurled with icy fury. Yet somehow, he didn’t allow that to defeat him. If anything, it demonstrated to Virat that Cummins was still focused on them, their rivalry, and their showdown: He was bowling much more tightly to Virat than he was to Pujara. No matter what cool or cold exterior he was trying to adopt today, his attitude gave Virat enough determination to grind through the rest of the day. 

And as Virat was God’s favourite child, his hard work was fully rewarded. Some time near the end of the day, Cummins was back on attack, and he finally bowled a poor ball. Perhaps the first one of that day. Virat exhaled a quick breath and let his instincts take over. He raised his bat and cut the ball over gully.

The poor ball had been a rarity – just a single seam out of alignment. Virat would wager his career that Cummins knew it too.

The electronic boards erupted “50” in dramatic fashion as the ball kissed the rope. Virat’s bat rose, but his focus remained fixed on the blue-eyed storm waiting on the other end of the 22 yards.

After the next delivery, when Virat reached the non-striker's end with a single, he suddenly heard a voice from his left: “I said you wouldn’t score a hundred”. Virat looked at him properly for the first time that day. The sun glinted off Cummins’ skin, a tanned mix of sweat and muscle. His left thumb rubbed the ball’s seam – once, twice – as he spoke, as if he was already plotting Virat’s downfall. But he was still avoiding eye contact. To the cameras, it looked as if Cummins was mumbling to himself. Virat remained silent for a beat.

“Never mentioned you couldn’t get to fifty.” He shot Virat a quick look; flame meeting flood in a silent detonation. The shadows began to lengthen across the pitch after tea, turning Cummins’ ocean eyes as black as deep water. “Plenty of time to rectify that.”

Virat’s knuckles whitened around his bat handle, his only sign of tension, as Cummins casually walked away to take his run-up.

The countdown had begun – Kohli needed to make 49 more runs, while Cummins had to restrict him by one fewer. The hunt was on: Two predators circling, each certain the other’s throat was already in his teeth.

Chapter Text

16^th December 2018: Day 3

By the time Patty decided to get out of bed, the hotel clock flashed to 6:18 am. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. Not while the number eighteen hung like a noose over him. He staggered into the bathroom in a desperate attempt to freshen up, but the mint toothpaste left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. It tasted like fear and humiliation.

Eighteen. The number burned behind Patty’s eyelids each time he blinked, seared there by hours of restlessness.

Only eighteen more runs until the man in jersey number 18 shattered Pat’s prophecy like broken ceramic.

As he crossed the boundary rope after Painey’s last strategising growl, the same digit throbbed in Pat’s temples like a second heartbeat: eighteen runs until Kohli exposed Pat’s empty words. Eighteen stitches to seal his pride, as permanent as a scar.

Pat reflected on his only interaction from the previous day as he made his way to mid-off, where he could observe every twitch of Kohli’s stance.

Once again, he was the one who had conceded yesterday. He had pledged to ignore Kohli, but it was Pat himself who started the conversation first. He simply couldn’t resist — couldn’t resist poking the hornet’s nest after Kohli had got under his skin by standing motionless like the Himalayas. The memory of Kohli’s bat clearing that four as he reached his half-century, wrist as flexible as a whip crack, still stung him. 

Paine decided to have Starc open the bowling today, with Lyon starting first. As his fast bowler counterpart made his way to the run-up mark, Pat’s focus zeroed in on Kohli again, tracking the movement of his bat. He saw him square his shoulders. If Pat had come in indomitable, so had Kohli. And why wouldn’t he? He was facing some of the world’s most dangerous bowlers. But Pat was as determined as anyone to stop those runs (16 left after Lyon’s over). He’d be Usain Bolt on the field if it came to that. Today, he had to stop him. At any cost.

Instead, he remained rooted to the spot as Starcy’s ball whistled through the air like a falcon’s strike.

A crack reverberated across the silent ground. Tens of thousands of people collectively drew in breath through their teeth – they heard not leather on willow, as everyone expected, but leather on bone.

Pat’s breath caught. Yes, he was prepared to stop Kohli at any cost. But this wasn’t how he had imagined it.

Being a pacer himself, he knew that hit was nasty. The bowlers never intend for it to hit the batsman on purpose. So, it always feels worse when their ball actually makes contact with the batsman's skin.

From what Pat could tell, the short ball was about to hit Kohli’s ribs first, but the batsman moved to block himself, and the cherry-red ball made direct contact with his left elbow instead. He wasn’t sure which outcome was more painful. To make matters worse, he was not wearing any elbow pads.

Within seconds, Pat could see a bruise already forming. But that madman, ever the soldier, flicked his usual dismissive wave towards his dressing room, signalling he was fine and didn't need any intervention just yet. 

He flexed his elbow to emphasise his point. The bruise was slowly blooming like ink in water, but Kohli’s grip didn’t tremble. Only the vein at his temple betrayed him, his breathing unnaturally mechanical – a sign that he was pretending to be okay for the sake of his team. That this was hurting him more than he would ever admit to anyone.

Starc's grimace reflected Pat’s guilt. They were hunters, not butchers. Intentionally harming their enemies went against their code of conduct. They were far too honourable for that. Mitch immediately ran to Kohli and checked on him. Starc’s hands hovered as if confessing guilt, but Kohli simply nodded and gently touched Starc’s arm. To Mitch, that wasn’t just forgiveness; it was absolution.

As Kohli took guard again, Pat noticed how he subtly adjusted his grip – his elbow was clicking as he moved, now clearly stiffening. Every rational cricketer’s instinct told him to tend to the wound; every decent man’s urged him to look away from the purple patch spreading on his skin. But Pat was caught between the two. The elbow was a target painted red. His fingers curled beside him – whether he wanted to point or punch, even he wasn’t sure anymore.

So, although Starc continued to finish his over, Cummins suddenly found himself distracted once more. It was another internal battle he had already lost before it even began. He still found himself unconsciously assessing the damage at his elbow when Starcy walked up to him, “Wanna go on next?” He extended his arm, and in his hand was the crimson ball.

Breaking away from the two batsmen in the middle, Pat turned to glance at his teammate. “That looked like it hurt. A lot.”

Mitch’s face darkened with disapproval at the mention of the incident, “Yeah. Crazy though how he refused the physio. Don’t know why he does it to himself all the time. Keeps facing demons all alone while telling others he’s good. He’s only human, like any of us.”

Obviously, he would rather collapse than admit weakness. Obviously, I am the one who must care.

Pat refused to accept such a victory. If they were going to duel it out on the pitch, he wanted it to be fair play. He took the ball from the older pacer and approached the on-field umpire. The request slipped out before he could stop it. “I really think they should have him checked out by the physio before I bowl the next over. It’s not looking good.” Deep down, he knew he didn’t do it out of chivalry, nor gamesmanship; just something raw he would later deny. The umpire nodded silently and signalled to the Indian pavilion.

Virat clenched his jaw as he saw their physiotherapist move closer to the boundary rope.

Unbeknownst to Cummins, Virat had overheard his request to the umpire. For once since this series began, he was nearly grateful to his arch-enemy because he was right. Of course, Cummins was correct. Things did not look good. In fact, with each passing second, Virat felt as if someone was forging his elbow in hellfire. The salt from the sweat touching the wound was like pouring rubbing alcohol over it. It stung. Every heartbeat sent molten lead pulsing through his joint, yet his stance remained steady. Virat had built his legend on swallowed screams. He had to be a mountain for his country’s sake. He had to endure.

His team was already four wickets down and short of batters. The pitch, though not as brutal as everyone had predicted before the match, had slightly improved but remained challenging. When the physio produced the spray to numb the bruise, Virat might have wept from the relief’s sweetness. Albeit temporary.

Too fixated on his arm, he didn’t even notice when he had played a maiden to Cummins. Before Virat could acknowledge his interference with his injury at the end of the over, Cummins had already walked far away. His retreat was too deliberate: his shoulders were rigid, and his steps measured. As if he were intentionally maintaining a distance between himself and the batter. The cracks between them had multiplied, just like the dry pitch, each fissure holding unspoken grudges and questions.

Virat was unsure what to think about it. Was it simply professional sportsmanship, then? Could Cummins dislike him as a person, which was why they never seemed to get along? They couldn’t even hold a proper conversation.

The spray’s chill cut through the fire. For the first time, Virat wondered if their war was ever truly about cricket. 

Painey brought Pat on the other end shortly after his first over of the day. But if he were honest with himself, he was not bowling very well this morning; his mind was now entirely preoccupied with someone who should be the least of his concerns.

Since Patty advised the umpire to summon the physio, the medic had already arrived on the field three times to check on Virat’s elbow. However, the Indian captain persisted and continued to move slowly, taking singles here and there. By the end of the 78^th over, Kohli was already on 88. 

The ticking bomb of “12” in Cummins’ head exploded behind his eyes; he needed to do something to rouse Kohli, to make the contest enjoyable again.

He recalled Mitchell Johnson and the advice he offered.

He had to sledge Kohli to take action. To show critics and fans alike that Pat Cummins could dismiss Virat Kohli at his best, and not just because he was weakened by circumstances, thus making him an easy wicket.

On the second ball of the 79^th over, Kohli took a single and moved to the non-striker’s end (“11” boomed a voice in Pat’s brain). Pat paused briefly to acknowledge his presence and grimaced instinctively as he watched the elbow turn into a purple-black topography of pain over time.

This time, when they made eye contact, it felt distinctly different from a few hours earlier. Yesterday, it seemed like an explosion had erupted. Today, it appeared as though they both had more to say but were hiding behind curtains.

“Hey, Cummins!”

“What?” Pat wiped his forehead and used his sweat to make the ball shine, making the delay before the next delivery seem more convincing. He gently rubbed the seam of the ball once more, the same way he would have tended to the wound if he were the bowler in place of Starc.

“I heard you forcing our physio to come out.”

Oh.

Well, Pat thought to himself, I’ll need to change my original sledge now. “I just did that because I’ll get more satisfaction when I get you out for 99. What, did you think I cared about you like that?”

There it was: the very first denial.

He saw Kohli’s eyes darting across his face like a supercomputer calculating vengeance. He shifted his bat from one hand to the other, like a surgeon shifting tools with precise accuracy. Perhaps he was counting how many runs he’d need to be on strike at the start of Pat’s next over after this conversation. Fair enough. 

When Kohli didn’t respond further, Pat drove the dagger deeper into his chest, “Getting out on 99 must feel like getting out on a golden duck for you batters, doesn’t it?”

Pat walked away but not before he heard Kohli yell, “Funny how I am the batter yet you seem to be more obsessed with the runs coming off my bat.”

Pat had seen older clips of the Delhite’s ferocity and was aware of how fierce a verbal argument with him might become. He had no desire to be on the receiving end. They were a more sophisticated pair of rivals, more intellectually intertwined. Their minds duelled on levels others couldn’t comprehend.

This wasn’t awakening a dragon. It was poking a wounded tiger – quite literally. It also dawned on him that the new ball would be available in about an over’s time, which meant Starc was likely to be brought back. Pat suddenly felt apprehensive, worried that his teammates might have to endure the consequences of their game of chess.

As if God were mocking Pat’s anxieties, what he had envisioned unfolded almost scene-by-scene. After Lyon’s over, Kohli was on 94. And then the new ball was taken, by none other than Starcy.

Pat guessed his trick had worked because Kohli ran for two on the first delivery as if he were chasing a cheetah.

96. Four more to go.

It was about to end in an instant. Patrick James Cummins was on the brink of becoming an international laughing stock. His own words, “I think Virat Kohli is not gonna get a 100,” were ringing in his ears, causing blood to rush to his face.

Starc’s new ball shone like a guillotine.

And perhaps, Pat thought to himself, it was fortunate that his agony had not lasted beyond the next ball. Kohli had struck Mitch with a particularly exquisite straight drive. He reached his century in the same way he had scored his 50 yesterday — by making a statement. 

Pat knew all eyes were on him, from both the crowd and his teammates. Everyone was likely recalling the embarrassing statement he had made earlier this year.

He had hoped the ground would swallow him completely. But not because of the shame he felt at his incompetence. No, he still had plenty of chances to dismiss Kohli, even in this very innings. What made him want to cease existing was the celebration of the batter.

Although numerous pairs of eyes were fixed on Pat at that moment, he was only gazing into the ones glowing with fire. Kohli didn’t say anything, not even roar like he often did after scoring a century. He was looking at Pat with his laser-like stare: he first held up his bat, fist-bumped the edge of it twice, then signalled with his hand that his bat would do the talking.

And to make matters worse? Kohli was casually chewing gum as if it were just another day in the office. Which, Pat added as an afterthought, it probably was. He actually looked cool, and it killed Pat to admit that.

Pat’s jaw clenched instinctively. He disliked that this was set to be one of the most defining innings of Kohli’s already illustrious career. The pitch was described as a minefield. His team had fallen early, but he persisted, making batting look effortless. He even took a hit on the elbow. And Starc’s deliveries were fierce. Most of all, Pat just hated that Kohli’s success was based on his own failure – if it had been any other match or series, he might have even appreciated this innings by the Indian captain, being an avid lover of Test cricket himself. Begrudgingly, he clapped twice as a sign of respect. He knew the media would have a field day with how he looked at that moment. Probably even have enough content to run for a month if they picked up their conversation from the stump mic.

“Pretty darn good, isn’t he?”

Patty looked up and saw Josh beside him, who was just returning to his field after congratulating Kohli on the century.

Joshy was someone Pat thought he could get to be a little honest with, so he took a deep breath and walked along with him, “I fucked up, didn’t I? I triggered him, and now he’s hammering us.”

Hoff put an arm around Pat’s shoulders and said, “Hey, don’t take this too hard! It’s not like he didn’t smash us all over the park before you made that declaration!” Pat was about to argue further, but Josh interrupted him again. “And besides, remember that we agreed I’d let you have a go at him this series? If anything, I’m glad you’ve stuck to that side of the agreement. Starcy and I are taking all the beating on your behalf. You’ve bowled brilliantly, Cummo, and there’s still time to go and get him and win us the match from here, yeah?” He ruffled his hair as a boost of motivation and stepped back to go near the boundary rope instead.

Immediately, Pat felt much better and nodded but kept his eyes down this time, lest he breach another promise. Hoff was right. Barring that one delivery through which Kohli scored a 50, Pat thought he bowled very neatly throughout this match. He did indeed bring his A-game when facing Kohli, and people around the world took notice of him. Paid attention to him. So, if he could not stop Kohli from scoring a century, he would do the next best thing: stop him from causing further damage.

By the time Pat was bowling again, Virat had already scored 117. But Pat forgot about the numbers. He reminded himself to focus on his basics now: Play the game, not the person.

Just before the clock struck lunchtime, Pat was bowling another over. Kohli had faced three deliveries quite well, leaving them all, his bat avoiding the ball just like he has spent most of his life avoiding conversations with Pat.

But on the final ball of the over, everything shifted.

Cummins ran in to bowl, delivering a full outside-off ball. Everyone knew how much Kohli loved to drive, and he did just that. A thick edge connected with the ball.

Bait set.

Handscomb at second slip dived low to catch the ball, but it was hard to tell if he managed to get his fingers underneath. When he got up, he was convinced it was clean. Kohli simply shook his head, firmly believing he was safe.

Pat and the Australians waited with sour breath as the on-field umpire gave a soft signal of an out to the third umpire. Meanwhile, once Kohli saw the signal, he immediately struck his bat on the ground.

All the players turned to look at the big screen for an official decision. The slow-motion replays, unfortunately, did not clear up any of the doubts in favour of Handscomb. The third umpire reviewed the clip from different angles but eventually conceded and went along with the on-field umpire’s soft signal.

With the bold red letters “OUT” flashing across the ground, the stadium erupted in a standing ovation to honour the masterclass of an innings Kohli had played.

Josh hugged Pat as the decision gave Australia a major breakthrough, “Told you you could do it!”

But Pat lacked the courage to speak to him, or anyone else.

Because he hated this wicket.

He wanted to dismiss Kohli fairly. Loud and clear. Not through an inconclusive decision made by an umpire sitting in a comfortable, air-conditioned room. His teammates’ celebratory pats felt like one big lie. The ball touched the grass. He knew. Kohli knew. But he was helpless. His hands curled into fists, nails biting crescents into his palms. He felt undeserving of Kohli’s wicket. Feeling unworthy of being on the ground. He thought he could prove himself with this moment, but instead, it only left him feeling emptier than ever.

That day, during lunch, at opposite ends of the stadium, sat two men. One shredded a napkin into confetti. The other stabbed his fork into cold eggs. Neither took a single bite.

Chapter Text

18^th December, 2018: Post-match

The Australian dressing room was deafening—the roar of Gazza singing the Victory Song, backslaps ringing like gunfire, and Paine’s laughter thick with relief. Pat should have been drowning in it. Instead, he stood apart from the huddle, fingers tracing the rim of his untouched beer bottle, his mind replaying the same two moments on a loop.

The slow lift of Kohli’s bat, not to the crowd but dedicated to Pat. Two fist bumps against the MRF sticker. A king’s response to prophets who dare doubt him.

And that bloody dismissal. The way the ball had brushed the grass. Pat knew it. Handscomb’s grin stretched too wide, his eyes darting away too quickly from Pat: the sign of a man who knew the truth but would swallow it for the team. The wicket was too precious to question. Even if the truth sat bitter on their tongues. But that tally in Pat’s head now felt like a lie scrawled in his own blood.

Worst of all? Kohli hadn’t even looked at him afterwards. He simply strode past Pat towards the Indian dressing room, as if he were just another ghost in his vast empire of bones or broken bowlers — both the same: interchangeable and forgettable.

He probably thinks less of me now, knowing I had him out unfairly.

Across the room, Tim raised a toast that interrupted Patty’s thoughts, “To Perth! And levelling the series! Well played, lads, we really got India where we wanted them this match! Our GOAT excelling as always with 8 wickets, including one of Virat’s, and Cummo who got him out in the first innings as well!”

Upon hearing his name, Pat smiled as if it caused him pain all over, but the team cheered once again. He didn’t deserve this celebration. Not when his victory tasted like someone else’s stolen rage.

After nodding to seek permission to leave, he walked to his locker and retrieved his phone. Once again, he found himself opening the WhatsApp contact. His thumb hovered over the person who blocked him – a habit now, like picking at a scab. Knowing he was alone, he scoffed loudly into the room. What would he even say if Kohli hadn’t cut off communication with him? "Hey, sorry for getting you out like that? My fielder’s fault? We both deserved better"? He threw his phone back into his bag in defeat. There was nothing he could say or do to make Kohli or himself feel better. Not when he had spent the past half year trying to act so nonchalant about him. He closed his locker and leaned against it. He shut his eyes, letting the conflicting bubble within him grow until it consumed him entirely. The cold metal bit into his shoulder blades, but he welcomed the pain – at least it was real.

He might have sat there for hours, as far as Pat could tell, but his peace was finally disturbed when he heard another locker opening nearby. He peered with one eye to see Shaun Marsh, who had become his older foster brother during tours, thanks to the bond Pat shared with Mitch Marsh.

“What, party’s over?”

Shaun shook his head as he packed his belongings. “I’m getting too old, mate. Standing there, dancing, singing… I’m not built for that any more.”

Pat could tell he was happier than he looked, his reply revealing a tone of fondness. Pat was about to rest his head against the lockers again when Marsh spoke once more. “So what’s a young guy like you hiding out here? You should be there with them! You did well, go celebrate, Patty!”

Pat heaved a sigh, "Tired.”

Marsh slammed his locker shut. “Wow, you and Mitchy are terrible at lying.” He sat down beside Pat on the floor. “So, what’s bothering my brother’s best friend?”

“As a batter, how would you feel if you knew your dismissal was not entirely fair, yet the decision still went against you?”

Pat’s piercing blue eyes looked up at his senior player for an answer, and Marsh was perceptive enough to understand exactly which wicket this question was about. He knew that Patty cared deeply about issues like justice and fairness. But Shaun also recognised that the game was unfair, and that was simply how things sometimes unfolded.

“Well, as a batsman, I have to admit we often face days like these. Sometimes, it’s a close call with runouts, catches, or LBWs before the DRS,” he chuckled to lighten the mood, “It’s part and parcel of the game, Cummo. I’m sure Virat knows this too.”

Pat rubbed his face, then ran his hand through his hair before dropping his head and looking at the floor. “Yeah… No, you’re right. But it’s not about… I mean… You know how the media 'blows up' whatever I said back then, right? I had this one shot to prove myself, and not only does he fucking hurt his elbow first, but when I finally get him out, it’s only because the catch wasn’t clean enough and the on-field umpire was feeling generous towards us.”

“And what does that prove, precisely?”

Pat’s eyes shot up to Shaun’s in disbelief, “That I’m not good enough to get Kohli out on his good day?!”

“That’s bullshit, and even you know it!”

“I couldn’t stop him from scoring a century!”

“You’re not the only bowler on this team to dismiss him, Cummins! They also gave him those runs. Don’t see them blaming themselves… Who cares! He scored a century, yet they still lost. We won. We. Won. And Virat’s probably more pissed at the on-field umpire than you. But if you really want to prove something, do it in Melbourne, when his elbow’s healed.”

“I’m pleased for us! Trust me, I am! But I’m… I’m also scared.”

Shaun glanced to the side, now recognising the apprehension in Cummins’ typically steely eyes.

“I’m worried I might get injured again someday, and then I’ll never have this opportunity again, or be able to show everyone how good I am.”

The phantom ache of his old stress fracture twinged, as if warning him: one wrong move, and you'll be back to watching from the shadows.

Shaun observed that Pat’s hand now subconsciously touched his ankles, his fear prompting a more physical reaction.

“And you want to prove to the world you're the best by beating the world’s best batsman? By getting him out fair and square?”

Pat nodded, resembling a frightened child.

Marsh moved to put an arm around Pat’s shoulder, “You aren’t injured yet, are ya?”

“No... Quite alright, after today’s game.”

“Good. That means you'll play the next test. It also means you now have two more chances to prove to everyone just how good you are. Why are you beating yourself up? The world is your oyster, Cummo. The more you think about your injury, the more likely you are to attract it. Don’t think about it — play with caution.”

“Jesus, is this what the Marsh family has taught each other? No wonder Mitchy is always so cheerful.”

“Too bad his glass-half-full attitude hasn’t rubbed off on you yet. But hey, stop beating yourself up, yeah? You were good. Virat was good. It was a rubbish decision that happened. But it’s life. We move on and concentrate on the next game now.”

“Yeah… Thanks, Shaun. Truly.”

Marsh rose from the floor and offered his hand to help Cummins up as well. “So, we’ve got a couple of days off. Any plans for Christmas yet?”

“You mean besides the Christmas Eve dinner CA has organised for us and the Indian team? Nah, not really. I've asked the family to fly over to Melbourne, but they’re too relaxed on the family farm… You? Mitchy joining anytime soon?”

Shaun laughed heartily, “Please! You know he’d rather be at the beach showing off and flirting with people during the summer than spend it with this old man!”

“Hey, at least we’ll be together! And the team!” Pat genuinely wished Shaun could feel his gratitude through his unspoken words.

“Yeah man! That’s the spirit! Now, are you going to go out there and join them, or are you going to keep sulking in here? Go live in the moment!”

Pat stood in the doorway, one foot inside where the others were still joking around, pouring champagne over each other. He quickly pulled Shaun into a quick hug before joining the others, “Thank you, Marshy! And please don’t tell anyone else I was sulking on my own.”

Shaun chuckled, recalling his own younger brother in this situation, “Your secret is safe with me. But fair warning: If I catch you brooding during karaoke later tonight, I’m telling Hoff about your weird Kohli complex.”

Pat’s laugh sounded nearly normal as he stepped into the light.

As Marsh checked around one final time for his belongings before calling it a night, he saw how his teammates had now included Patty in the centre of their celebration circles, with his fellow New South Wales bowlers all egging him on about being the “next big Aussie thing” as the newspapers claimed him to be. Starcy came close to his ear and yelled, “Next time you take his catch yourself so you feel on top of the world, where you truly belong!” and sprayed champagne all over his head. The liquid stung Patty’s eyes, but for the first time all night, he giggled as if he meant it.

Marsh left the dressing room with a smile, feeling quite proud of the company his brother had chosen for himself as a cricketer. Pat Cummins was a good man. One day, with that stubborn righteousness, he might even captain this lot.

God help them.

Chapter Text

24^th December, 2018: Cricket Australia’s Christmas Dinner, with Team India

Three-piece dapper maroon suit to subtly reflect Christmas? Check. Hair? Check. Applying cologne? Check.

His fingers brushed the elbow brace hidden beneath his sleeve – the one he needed after Starc’s ball. It didn’t hurt as much as it did last week, but sometimes he could still feel the graze if he moved his arm too quickly, and he was suddenly transported back to that day, where the ball felt like molten lava rock.

It wasn’t such a nasty scar anymore, and it would heal completely by the third Test. But it was still wiser to be safe than sorry. The press couldn’t see his weakness, and Virat decided that neither could he.

Virat looked at his reflection one last time in the mirror before taking a selfie for his Instagram followers. After some careful thought, he captioned it “Looking forward to a fun night with fellow cricketers! Thanks @CricketAustralia 🎄” – because ‘friends’ would have been a lie even social media and his PR team couldn’t stomach.

He locked his phone, aware that the media was probably overanalysing his deliberate choice of “fellow cricketers” rather than “mates.” He already felt he had secured the first moral victory of the night against the Aussies. He stepped out of the room, took a deep breath, smelling only his sandalwood perfume, and then bumped into Rishabh Pant in the hotel corridor. 

“Arrey Virat bhai! Kya mast lag rahe ho! (You look fantastic!) As the ladies would say: Looking like a killer! So, who are you off to kill today? Pat Cummins?”

At the mention of his name, Virat’s left hand twitched, as if Rishabh had reignited the match memories once again. “Do I look that free to you?”

Pant failed to notice Virat's discomfort and continued laughing as they headed to the lift. “Oh ho bhaiya, I’m only joking! I was just saying because the media here haven't stopped talking about you two! You know, uss din match ke baad, jab usne aapki wicket li (that day after he took your wicket in the match), by God, social media was on fire! More drama than Star Plus! Some even said that after your wicket, Cummins looked as if he was disap—"

Virat’s jaw involuntarily clenched; he had no interest in hearing about how the bowler looked when he was dismissed without a clean catch. “Bas. (Enough).” He winced as he heard his own icy voice.

He had also read some of the articles. He knew it was a bad habit to actively seek out his name, but secretly, he enjoyed knowing what opinions people held of him from time to time. So, when his Google suggestions pinged with a notification bearing a headline, “Cummins one-ups Kohli again in their brewing rivalry,” the headline burned his retina. His thumb trembled — not from anger, but from the traitorous urge to click.

The articles this time, however, were much gentler than when Cummins dismissed him in the first match. At least this time, people appreciated the effort Virat had to put into batting for such a long period and to score a century on that unplayable pitch. However, they called his century “valiant, but vain”. Valiant. Vain. Two sides of the same losing coin.

But Virat knew there was no point crying over spilt milk now. As captain, he could no longer consider the “What-ifs” of the past. He had to help his team look ahead to the MCG Test now. He pressed the button to call the lift and bring them into the battlefield for the night.

On another floor of the same hotel, Pat Cummins was sitting on the edge of his bed, tidying his hair and then messing it up again every five seconds. 

Pat’s phone lay open beside him – a half-typed message to Hoff: “Do I stick with the navy-blue suit or-”, deleted for the third time. What if the navy colour looked like he was trying too hard? But what if the black was too plain?

“For fuck’s sake, Cummo, it’s not a date with the Queen! Just wear whatever you want!” Pat overheard muffled shouting on the other side of his door and sighed with relief as he opened it to find Hazlewood there, as if he had summoned his personal Fairy Godmother.

Patty let Hoff in quickly before softly shutting the door, “How’d you know I was struggling?”

Hoff looked around at the messy mountain of clothes on Pat’s bed. “I was about to text ya asking if you were ready, but I saw the “texting” bubble appear and disappear like, 8 times. So I figured I’ll come get you outta here myself.” Josh finally met Pat’s face and smiled, “Yeah, stick with the navy.”

Cummo scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling shy with the attention on his appearance, “Yeah?”

Josh let out a soft chuckle once more, “Dead serious, you look very handsome.” He stepped closer to fix his gaze on Patty’s eyes now, “The navy makes your eyes look even bluer, if that were even possible. Not that he has ever looked at you twice, though.”

Pat immediately looked like a tomato, “Why would I care if Koh–”

“– I never said his name, Cummo. You’re just exposing yourself here.”

Ping! Pat was grateful for the interruption and picked up his phone hastily from the bed to see what was new.

Speak of the devil.

“Twitter: Retweeted by @CricketAustralia - @viratkohli: Looking forward to a fun night with fellow cricketers! Thanks @CricketAustralia 🎄”

Pat read the caption first from the notification, and then the ground slipped from under his feet when he finally saw the post.

The photo loaded: Kohli in his dark maroon velvet, all sharp edges and smouldering gaze, with gelled-up hair. Pat’s throat went dry. This wasn’t the enemy he’d dismissed at Adelaide and Perth. This was Bollywood. He was giving his old KKR owner, Shah Rukh Khan, a run for his money.

Why does he have to be so refined? All velvety and – infuriating. Like he’s deliberately trying to ruin my peace. 

“You do know if you leave the room now, you can stare at him as much as you like in person?” While Pat was busy getting lost in his thoughts, Joshy had snuck up behind him to look at the contents of his screen too. Pat’s thumb hovered over the ‘Like’ button for a nervous second before recoiling as if he’d touched a hot stove.

“Hoff, you'd better keep quiet before you bring it into reality.”

Their Secret Santa assignment slip buzzed in his pocket like a live grenade. The board’s “random draw” was either cruel fate or the management’s sick joke. His gift box beside the bed held elbow guards for him, and not the cheap kinds. But the ones with Kookaburra’s latest shock-absorption tech. “I’ve already burned my wallet trying to think of a Chrissy prezzie for him, and if I have to sit beside him tonight too, one of us isn’t leaving the ballroom alive.”

“Hah! Sucks to be you, pretty boy! I got Rohit Sharma, so I just bought him a three-hour spa and massage package for when we arrive in Sydney afterwards. He’ll be playing in the ODI too, so they’ll be there for quite a while. I’m sure he loves to relax and sleep anyway.”

Pat shrugged his shoulders. “I reckon they should just take whatever they get in good stride, no? I mean, I think it’s quite thoughtful of our board to let us hosts gift them something without expecting anything in return, because not all of them might be big on Christmas on their end. We’re just doing our bit in good spirits.”

Joshy went to open the door. “Yeap! Don’t forget to grab that precious gift bag now, and let’s get moving! It’s almost half past seven!”

The two Aussies entered the lift in a peaceful silence. Little did Pat realise that those were the final moments of calm for the rest of his evening.

When they reached the first-floor ballroom by the lift, where the chandeliers sparkled like a minefield, the second lift also opened its doors. Amidst that green, red, and golden haze, Patty first saw the Indian wicketkeeper, followed by Virat Kohli. 

7:31 PM: As Virat stepped out of the lift, he adjusted his maroon sleeves—one last armour check before entering the lion’s den. However, it might have been a little too late because when he looked up, Virat’s pulse jumped a beat. A porcelain statue stood in front of him, dressed to the nines in a striking navy blue.

To his misfortune, it was only Prick Cummins entering the venue once again holding onto Josh Hazlewood.

Pat also turned towards the lift as he heard the doors opening, and their gazes locked — Virat’s sharp enough to carve ice, Pat’s grip tightening on his gift bag as if it were a cricket ball. Suddenly, the room’s chatter faded into white noise. 

Virat wasn’t sure if it was a side effect of all the Christmas lights hanging around them, but he was convinced that if he held eye contact for just three more seconds, he would drown in those oceanic eyes. He examined his face as best as he could while the lights remained blinding: slightly tousled hair, a hint of colour on the apples of his cheeks, the shade of blue in his suit somehow accentuating the tan on his skin and making the colour of his eyes stand out even more.

Fuck, Virat thought to himself, he could have made it in Hollywood if he had tried. Like Tom Cruise, but from Target, or any other department store that was more popular in Australia.

Virat thought he saw Cummins gulp, and his eyes naturally followed the motion, briefly flicking to the Australian’s slender neck. A vein fluttered there, just as it had when Cummins celebrated his wicket in Adelaide. The same neck that had strained with victory roars in Perth was now laid bare, vulnerable under the festive atmosphere. He was convinced that the air conditioning in the room had stopped working by then.

Then Tim Paine’s voice cut through the haze, and Virat finally remembered how to breathe.

“Thank goodness you’re all finally here! Virat, your post is the talk of the town! The photographers are going mad trying to get a shot of you. Come on in, all four of you!”

Tim took them to their media team's location, where the photographer greeted the players warmly. They all posed for a group photograph first, with Paine perfectly separating the two Indian batsmen from the two Australian seamers.

Just as Tim was about to escort the two batters to the Indian table, they were called back by one of the photographers, “Actually, Virat, if you don’t mind...”

Virat forced a brave face and the fakest smile he could muster, already knowing the Australian media a bit too well and anticipating what their request would be.

“Could we please have a photo of you and Patty together? Just the two of you?”

His smile froze. Of course. There it was. Because he was foolish enough to think he could escape unscathed without the universe throwing them right next to each other.

He cast a quick glance at Cummins, who was now intentionally avoiding eye contact with Virat. He remained as still as a mannequin until Virat saw Josh laughing and whispering something in Cummins’ ear before shoving him to the centre.

Virat cleared his throat deliberately. “I’m game, but he,” he said, raising his eyebrows towards Cummins, “doesn’t seem all that interested in taking one.”

At that remark, Pat smirked, “Now why would I refuse to be clicked with my,” adjusting his cuffs, “newest rival?”

As the two men drew closer, Virat felt as though he was stepping into a boxing ring. They both cautiously manoeuvred around each other, wary of revealing their hatred too plainly and risking a PR disaster. They stopped just inches apart, careful not to touch one another. Pat caught a whiff of Kohli’s cologne – something woody and expensive – which brought to mind his childhood on the farm, running to the trees with his siblings; he hated how that thought made his stomach churn.

“Oi Patty!" Tim grinned, already three drinks down. “Come on, lads! Smile like you didn’t try to murder each other last week! Put your arm around him!”

Virat took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the touch, this time with intention. This was quite different from their previous physical encounter at the team photo shoot. Finally, he felt Cummins’ hand land on his shoulder: hesitant, heavy, and warm.

Although they didn’t show it, both men froze, unable to think of anything other than the presence beside them.

“Nah, there’s enough space for me to fit Marnus in there! Get closer!” Patty thought to have a long, nice private chat with his captain later.

The flash from the cameras was blinding, but luckily it was over shortly after it began. As the two men prepared to go their separate ways, Cummins’ hand accidentally brushed Virat’s elbow. The elbow. 

Virat was sure he could feel the outline of the elbow brace as they moved away. His suspicion was confirmed when he saw Cummins inhaling sharply first. Their eyes met; Pat’s widened in realisation, Virat’s flashed with vulnerability.

As Pat moved towards the Australian table, his fingers nervously twitched at his side, recalling the Kookaburra guards burning a hole in his gift bag, which now sat with the management. Although he had bought the gift out of genuine concern, he was now convinced it would be received unfavourably. Kohli would almost certainly see it as a mockery, an insult to his pride, as if he couldn’t look after himself.

Virat’s mind raced as he joined his team on the Indian side too: That sharp inhale – was that concern on Cummins’ face? Or had he just spotted another weakness to exploit next time?

The party could wait. But that look, a mixture of concern and calculation, haunted Virat long after their champagne lost its fizz. 

Chapter Text

24^th December, 2018, 9 pm

“Yaar, this Western khaana is good, theek hai, but if they had woh –“

KL rolled his eyes. “Rohit, they tried, okay. Look at the number of Indian dishes they’ve provided. Their butter chicken isn’t bad. And of course, they’ll have more Western food. It’s a Christmas dinner. Diwali thodi hai. (It’s not Diwali). Although, with these fairy lights, they’re definitely trying hard.”

Rohit licked the last bit of vanilla ice cream off his spoon. “Haan, next thing you know they’ll serve turkey biryani and call it fusion too! I just wanted to have some gulab jamun for my dessert. Do you even know how good it tastes when paired with ice cream?”

Virat let out a laugh that sounded more like a snort, “You will combine any two foods and say it tastes amazing. What’s new?”

“Alright, Mister Fitness Fanatic, we understand, you prefer eating this salad wagerah. Just admit you’re secretly one of them too.”

“Mar jaunga par ‘I love Australia’ nahi bolunga. (I’d rather die than to declare ‘I love Australia.’)”

Just as Rohit was about to continue joking with his oldest buddy in the team, they spotted Justin Langer and Ravi Shastri on stage.

“Good evening everyone!” the unmistakable voice of Shastri boomed through the room, “And thank you Cricket Australia for having us here tonight again! It’s always good to meet fellow players outside the field and forge some genuine connections!”

Langer patted Shastri’s arm in recognition, “Well Ravi, India always brings out the best in us, on and off the field! And besides, Christmas is all about sharing! Couldn’t have imagined a better time to spend with you and your team!”

At this, Virat scoffed to himself. The best in us? Sure, if cheating counts. Sandpaper earlier this year, and then unclean catches... The Aussies surely knew no bounds.

The Indian coach spoke again, “And we couldn’t have been more honoured to spend such a special time of the year with you! You have proven that cricket truly is a gentleman’s game!”

Virat rolled his eyes at that painstakingly curated diplomatic transcript. If a photographer looked at him now, he was definitely doing a brilliant job of safeguarding their public image.

Langer cheekily responded with, “Well then, what better way to be a gentleman than by exchanging gifts?! Yes, you heard it right! In the spirit of Christmas, the Australian players all received one Indian player as their Secret Santa assignment. And of course, to keep things anonymous, our support staff will deliver the gifts to the Indian players as I call out their names. Unless… the player has already revealed themselves along with the gift. Then I suppose they aren’t breaking any rules anyway! Team India, are you ready?”

Virat leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed as a murmur of amusement rippled through the room. Great. More forced camaraderie.

Langer continued, “Now, our boys put real thought into their gifts –“

“Allegedly,” Travis Head called out, prompting a laugh from the Aussie table.

“— or just grabbed the first thing at the airport!” he finished, winking at the Indian table. “Happy guessing!"

Virat watched as the staff approached to present a sleek envelope to Rohit Sharma first. He opened it to reveal a spa voucher for a 7-star luxury hotel in Sydney. Rohit gawked at the envelope as if he had discovered gulab jamuns in the room. “Finally, someone who knows me! I must find out who gifted me this and hug them!”

Next was Rishabh Pant, who received a talking kangaroo toy. Seeing Rishabh’s initially confused expression, Virat couldn’t help but chuckle. “Arrey, it’s because you’re talking non-stop behind the stumps! I bet the Australians just wanted to let you have a taste of your own medicine and hear what you sound like to yourself!”

As the gifts continued arriving, Virat relaxed a little more, with some of his earlier annoyance gradually fading away. After all, it was hard to stay angry when his teammates were enjoying themselves too. 

“And finally, the Indian captain! For Virat Kohli.” The room fell silent, and Virat immediately disliked how all the Australians at the table were staring at him. Curious. Like a visitor observing a zoo animal. Well, everybody at the table, except one man. Virat saw from the corner of his eye that he was fiddling with his fingers and was somehow very enthralled by the ceiling lights instead.

As the staff left the exquisite gift bag in front of him, Virat feigned a smile towards the Australian table in acknowledgement. He then glanced around his own table and saw his teammates were thankfully distracted by their gifts. He took a deep breath and held the bag in his hands. His fingers hesitated on the ribbon, carefully knotted, and he deduced it must have been someone who paid close attention to detail.

When the ribbon finally slipped off the bag, he saw a box of Kookaburra gear inside. Although he couldn't yet tell what was inside the sleek box, part of him felt grateful that his Secret Santa had given him something genuinely related to their profession, rather than a gift like Rishabh’s. Whatever it was, at least it looked professional.

He gazed at the sleek Kookaburra box in his hands, the weight suddenly feeling heavier than it should be. The Australian table had fallen eerily silent, apart from the occasional clink of cutlery. He could still sense Hazlewood’s amused smirk and Starc’s poorly hidden curiosity. He cast a final glance to see Cummins still studying the ceiling, as if it held the secrets of the universe, his grip on his drink blanching his knuckles.

Coward.

Virat shook his head in an attempt to shake off those thoughts as well, then peeled back the lid.

And froze.

Nestled in foam padding was a pair of elbow pads: high-end, the kind with shock-absorbing technology he’d seen in sports catalogues but never purchased. He picked one up and noticed that the exact spot where Starc’s ball had hit him was outlined in subtle grey stitching, reinforced for impact. The precise shape of his bruise was mapped in foam and fibre. As if whoever gifted him this had memorised the damage Starc’s ball had caused.

So this was Team Australia’s “thoughtful” gift for him... A joke. A mockery. His jaw clenched.

Across the room, someone coughed. Virat lowered the guards into the box, and his gaze snapped up straight into Cummins’. His glass hovered mid-sip, his throat working. For a heartbeat, Virat saw it: the flicker of a young boy who had spent too many years watching from the sidelines, desperate to be seen, scared to fuck it up again.

Neither moved for a heartbeat.

Then Virat smirked, slow and razor-sharp, and clicked the box shut. The room exhaled.

Virat didn’t know who had given him this, but he had his suspicions. If this was Hazlewood’s idea of a joke, Virat would shove the guards down his throat. Or Starc’s. Or —

His eyes flicked to Cummins again. Virat caught a quick glimpse of him before Cummins hurried to the washroom. 

Whoever it was, he was resolute in making them pay for it. Come hell or high water.

10:20 PM

Virat was usually someone who wouldn’t shy away from dancing at parties; in fact, he was known as the life of them. However, that Christmas gift had left a sour taste in his mouth, and when he noticed a lull in the music, he saw it as a chance to excuse himself from Rohit to get what was perhaps his third glass of whisky. Or fourth. The bartender raised an eyebrow at his neat whisky but said nothing. Good. Virat needed the burn to drown out the memory of foam moulded to his bruise.

The bar was jam-packed, but Virat spotted them immediately: Head and Hazlewood, hunched over their drinks like conspirators.

Perfect. Perhaps he could eavesdrop and gather more intelligence on his enemies, then use it against them.

He seized his glass of neat whisky and subtly moved closer, pretending to scrutinise the festive garlands hanging above the counter.

“— That was you?! Mate, Rohit Sharma was on Cloud Nine! I wish that had been me giving him that!”

Virat’s face turned into a scowl. Huh. His mind was moving slower than usual but was still sharp enough to pick up two key pieces of intelligence: 1. Hazlewood was not his Secret Santa. 2. Travis Head wanted to… befriend Rohit Sharma?!!

Hazlewood shook his head, “Gotta feel for Patty though… You know, he probably put in the most thought out of us all.”

Head’s words slurred from the numerous beers he had, “Custom-made, wasn’t it? I remember him rushing to their shop after play that day had finished. Did he drag you along as well?”

Hazlewood’s voice jumped an octave, “He did! Said the store was gonna close, and it was an emergency, so he called ahead and paid the staff for working overtime too, just for him. Man’s crazy!”

Head exhaled through his nose, “Didn’t seem like he liked it though. Seemed pissed when he smirked… No wonder Patty rushed to the loo after.”

Hazlewood was now whispering, and Virat had to lean in a bit more to catch what he said over the DJ beginning to play a new beat. “Cummo is just very unlucky. The timings never work for him. Injuries were all mistimed. Then he had already planned this gift before Starcy hit that stinker on him… On that day, he dragged me to the shop with him because he forced the Kookaburra staff to include the latest shock-absorbing foam,” he murmured. “Bloody hell, he even wore those guards himself and made me bowl at him, asking me to target his elbows to see if it was even effective!”

A beat. Head took another big gulp from his beer can and whistled. “That’s actually… sweet. Sucks Kohli will never find out, though.”

Fuck me. Not only is Cummins my Secret Santa, but the gift is both professional and personal. Extremely so.

“Then he panicked last night – “What if he thinks I’m taking the piss?” – and nearly swapped it for a bloody fruit basket. Guess he reads Virat really well despite never talking to him for more than 10 seconds, as he definitely looked like someone had personally offended him and five generations of his family line.”

Virat’s anger flickered, unmoored. He’d assumed Cummins had casually taken the guards from somewhere, a taunt wrapped in ribbon just for him. Not… this.

The whisky turned to ash in his mouth. All this time he’d assumed – God, the reinforced stitching wasn’t a target. It was a map. A bloody apology written in Kookaburra foam. For a bruise he hadn’t even left on Virat.

A loud pop song blared, drowning out whatever Head said next. Virat walked away from the bar, deciding that what he had heard was overwhelming enough already. He turned away from the bar – and his feet felt as if they were cemented to the ground, unable to look away.

There, in the centre of the dance floor, Cummins was laughing with his head thrown back as Mitch Marsh draped an arm around his shoulders. They were now swaying to ABBA’s 'Dancing Queen,' completely off-beat and ridiculous. Suddenly, as if by magic, someone threw Christmas trinkets into the air, and they both caught one, wrapping it around each other’s necks.

Cummins had long since discarded his navy jacket and now wore his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tan skin glinting under the fairy lights. Marsh moved closer to Cummins, if that were even possible, whispering something, and Pat grinned, tilting his head back once more: Carefree. Virat noticed how his muscles strained under that slim-fit shirt as he sang along, “You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your life!”

Virat’s stomach clenched at the sight of this.

Here he was, gazing like some starstruck fan. But God, the way Cummins moved: loose-limbed and effortless, as if his body had forgotten all about the memo on their rivalry. Like he wasn’t the same man who’d bowled Virat over and out twice in this series. 

“Ahem ahem,” KL materialised beside Virat, grinning, “See something you like, captain?”

Virat finished his last whisky and reached for a fourth or fifth glass. “Just a man who cannot dance.”

Rahul’s eyes flicked towards the dance floor. “And yet you’re still staring.”

Virat didn’t need to glance at his teammate to know the line was delivered with a smug smirk on his face.

11:53 pm

All things considered, Pat didn’t want this evening to end. He knew his appearance today drew attention in the room, and although his gift was poorly received as he had already feared last night, at least his best mate Mitch Marsh was there to lift his spirits. Dancing and drinking with his teammates, he realised it was best to live in the moment, and not dwell on past incidents or future fears.

He stepped out onto what could barely be called a balcony to catch his breath before heading back to the dancefloor. Feeling a little lightheaded from all the wine, he leaned on the railing for support.

He looked out over the city before him. Just minutes before Christmas Day, the city appeared peaceful. But despite everything, a pang tugged at Pat at the back of his mind. His fingers brushed the spot where Hazlewood’s ball had struck during testing. He thought then it was worth it. Now, with Kohli’s smirk etched behind his eyelids, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

It would have been the cherry on the cake tonight if Kohli had liked his gift, even just a little. He could have at least pretended, just as Pat was pretending that his reaction to the gift didn’t affect him.

Whatever. He really should have exchanged it for the fruit basket. Screw Hoff for talking me out of that.

“PATTY!!!!! THE DANCE FLOOR MISSES YOU, DARLING!”

Pat fondly shook his head upon hearing his Bison yell for him in full drunken glory. He pushed himself off the railing and was about to head out, but bumped into the unmistakable scent of sandalwood again, mixed with some whisky. Just the last person he wanted to lock eyes with right now.

Both men had one foot inside the ballroom and the other outside on the balcony, their bodies hanging awkwardly at the doorframe. If Patty breathed more heavily than usual, he was sure their chests would collide.

From this distance, he scrutinised the Indian, whose pupils were dilated. Clearly under the influence of alcohol. “Cummins. Hi.”

Pat squinted his eyes, disbelief flashing across his face at the idea Kohli would be the one to start a conversation. “Uh, hi?”

Virat ran a hand through his hair, and Pat’s eyes instinctively darted to his flexed bicep. "I..." He restarted again, “You couldn’t stop me. Last time. I scored that century.”

“And we won that match. So who’s really the winner, Mr King?” Pat wasn’t sure whether it was the alcohol that had made him bolder or if senior Marsh’s words had finally registered. Either way, he was glad he said that because he saw Kohli grimace at his response.

When Kohli didn’t reply, Pat kept filling the silence, “Look. I’ve gotten you out twice now. I think it’s fair to say I am coming out on top in this series. Who cares about a century which came in a losing cause?”

Just as Kohli was about to protest, and Pat predicted he would rightfully raise the foul catch, their argument was cut short by a heavily intoxicated Starc staggering towards them. And if Cummins’ memory served him right, a very drunk Starc was a bad Starc.

“Hey!!!! If it isn’t my favourite Aussie blue-eyed pacer and my RCB teammate!” His long limbs pulled them into a rather awkward hug, with neither of them managing to move from their spots in the doorway.

Starc was hiccupping now, “I just came here to,” hiccup, “tell you two something!”

When Starc released the hug, he wore a grin that Pat could only describe as devilish. Pat followed Starc’s gaze to the door frame above him. He noticed the green and red oval hanging overhead, ominous.

Shit. Shit shit shit. SHIT!

"Now, Virat,” Starc chuckled menacingly, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but do you know what you’re standing under?”

It was now Kohli’s turn to look up, and noticing the mortified expression on his face, Pat knew that Kohli didn’t need an answer to Starcy’s question.

Pat turned to Starc, his eyes silently begging him to stop this before it escalated further.

But Starc ignored him and kept loudly talking to Kohli, “Now, as per tradition... You two have to kiss! AND WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME, JUST A MINUTE BEFORE CHRISTMAS! HOW ROMANTIC!”

The dancefloor noise faded away. For a brief suspended moment, all Patty could hear was Kohli’s sharp intake of breath – mirroring the sound he had made himself when their hands had brushed at the photo op. Then Starc roared, “KISS!”, and the spell broke apart.

Pat felt his heartbeat pounding faster than a racecar. He could think of a million more ways to die, and this was definitely the worst one. He prayed Kohli’s ego was hurt enough to get them both out of this situation.

But to his surprise, when he finally looked at his archnemesis again, he appeared as a blank slate. As if he had no thoughts in his mind, or perhaps too many to settle on one.

Bloody hell. So Pat had to be his own saviour. And with delayed inhibitions, he could only think of the one thing he had always done on the pitch: provoke.

“Starcy, I don’t think I should be seen kissing someone who is on his way to becoming my bunny. That’ll damage Australia’s reputation!”

Pat breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the fire return in Kohli’s chocolate eyes, “Reputation?! After what you’ve done in South Africa? It’s irreparable to begin with! And besides, I don’t have any interest in kissing someone who claims the right over a wicket where the catch wasn’t even clean!”

Sure, Pat wanted to provoke him, but the last part still hurt his feelings a bit, especially since Pat felt guilty about the same thing. However, he wasn’t about to give Kohli that satisfaction just yet; the series was only halfway through, and he needed to keep that fire burning. So he squealed, to the best of his abilities, “Yeah?! And I am not dying to kiss somebody who blocks people on WhatsApp and iMessages and Instagram like a damn toddler either!”

Pat’s mouth twitched into a smirk when he saw Virat’s jaw drop: That was his knockout punch for tonight.

He kept staring at Virat as he blinked endlessly, as if recalibrating himself. In the end, Virat could only manage a “Whatever. Merry fucking Christmas, Cummins” and a shove to his and Starc’s shoulders as he left the ballroom.

As Pat watched Kohli's silhouette fade further, he wondered how things might have folded differently if he had simply let Kohli’s cluelessness run its course naturally at this moment. Could they have…

The answer to that question was going to keep Pat awake for yet another night.

25^th December, 2018, 12:08 AM

The hotel room door slammed shut behind Virat with a satisfying thud. He tossed the Kookaburra box onto the bed, where it bounced once before settling against the pillows as if it were an accusation.

Blocks people like a damn toddler? That lanky bastard had some nerve. Virat yanked at his tie, the silk strangling him as effectively as Cummins’ signature smirk.

The whisky haze had dulled to a low hum after that confrontation, but his fingers still trembled – whether from residual anger or the memory of Cummins’ chest nearly brushing his under the mistletoe, he refused to examine.

He snatched the box again, intent on throwing it into the rubbish bin where it belonged, when a previously unnoticed slip of paper fluttered out.

Virat’s heartbeat increased in speed.

There, in handwriting so neat it looked as if it had been practised a million times, read:

“Cricket's no fun without decent opponents. Don't make me bowl to ghosts. – Take care :)”

A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. Fun. Of course, he enjoyed this rivalry. Revelled in it. That idiot had probably paid the media to run those articles, and he wouldn’t put it past him now.

Virat’s thumb traced the carefully drawn smiley face. There was something almost intimate about it, as if Cummins was revealing a part of his soul onto this slip without ever announcing he was his intended Secret Santa.

He picked up the elbow pads from the bed, examining them in a new light. He ran his thumb across them to study the texture, and a smile crept on his face despite his self-control when he realised an "18" was stitched on the inside. His jersey number.

A genuinely professional and personal gift.

Outside, fireworks exploded over Melbourne, casting bursts of gold and green across his room. Somewhere in the same hotel, Cummins was probably being persuaded into another round of drinks by Mitch Marsh, his laughter echoing as casually as it had on the dance floor.

Virat should have crumpled the note. Should have burned it.

Instead, he carefully folded it into his wallet, placing it right behind his nephew’s school photo.

His thumb brushed the stitched '18' one last time before snapping the wallet shut.

Merry fucking Christmas indeed.

Chapter Text

25^th December, 2018

Being a man of discipline, Virat woke up just a few hours later at his usual time of 6 am, his head throbbing as if a toy monkey was constantly playing the cymbals inside it.

The second thing he observed was one of the elbow guards still in his hand. Clearly, he had clung to it like a teddy bear while fast asleep.

Suddenly, he felt as though the pads were burning, and he tore them away onto the carpeted floor.

What the hell happened last night?

Virat sat with his head in his hands, trying to retrace the events as best as he could.

He remembered receiving the gift; he remembered loathing it. He also remembered fleeing from the dance floor because he wasn't feeling the music. Then, he vaguely remembered having another drink, and that was when his memory began to betray him.

He shut his eyes now, as if narrowing his senses could transport him back into the moment.

A hazy memory emerged: Fuck. He’d pretended to be a spy, hadn’t he? Eavesdropping like some amateur, all because Hazlewood’s voice had carried the words ‘Secret Santa’ and ‘Patty’… Was there something about Head having a thing for Rohit? And Hazlewood certainly wasn’t my Secret Santa…

Instinctively, as his mind pieced together the night, his eyes snapped open to look at the discarded elbow pads on the floor – and it hit him like a brick: Prick Cummins had given him these. Not mockery, but concern. 

Virat yanked the quilt off him and carefully placed his feet on the ground with strained effort. He stared at the guards. They were Kookaburra’s best: shock-absorbent, tailored to his measurements. The kind of gift you didn’t buy at the last minute. The kind that said, 'I notice everything.' As he picked them up in his hands and brushed away any dust, his contact with the texture suddenly brought the rest of the key details back:

• A subtle “18” was embroidered on these pads.
• He spotted Cummins on the balcony and wanted to go thank him.
• They clumsily bumped into each other.
• Cummins wanted to be anywhere except talking to him.
• Starc, clearly intoxicated, gave them a group hug.
• The mistletoe hanging above them.
• Cummins’ panicked blue eyes.
• Virat’s own pulse throbbed in his ears at Starc’s command.
• Did they almost kiss?!!?!?
• Then they fought, as usual.
• Cummins called him a damn toddler.
• Virat stormed out of the party.

His wallet was also somehow on the bed, laid open. He picked it up again and saw a piece of paper peeking out just behind his nephew’s photo. Virat rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate on reading it.

“Cricket’s no fun without decent opponents. Don’t make me bowl to ghosts. – Take care :)”

Bloody hell. Had he – no. He wouldn’t have reread it last night, would he? Wouldn’t have traced the smiley face like some sentimental fool… He frantically looked around for his kit bag and shoved the guards into it.

He zipped the kit bag closed. The elbow guards were just tools. Nothing more. Even if they smelled like a mixture of the ocean and salt – the same scent that had clung to Cummins’ neck when they’d stumbled under the mistletoe.

Every time Australia had to play a Boxing Day Test, Pat woke up feeling a lot of regret on Christmas Day. The hangover from their team Christmas dinners meant that the whole team was just pretending to get by at the nets.

As he dragged his feet across the grass, he saw Starc sitting on the ground, who was obviously feeling worse than him. But Patty was feeling petty today, and decided to take revenge on him after the embarrassment he had caused last night.

Pat quietly slipped up behind Starc and then bellowed, “Merry Christmas Starcy!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cummins.” He covered his ears, indicating that any sound was causing him unbearable pain.

“Yeah?” Pat couldn’t hide the smugness in his voice. “You should have thought ahead before you drowned, what, 9 beer bottles in 2 hours?”

 Starc was struggling to keep his balance, so Pat helped him get upright, “I don’t remember anything after the Secret Santa gifts… Did something happen?"

“Did something happen?!” Pat’s eyes widened in shock. “Mate, you’re telling me you do not remember… You know?”

Starcy shook his head. “What?”

Pat looked around to ensure no one else was within earshot, then whispered confrontationally, “You told me and Kohli to kiss under the mistletoe!”

Pat expected Starc to show some remorse over his actions, but was surprised to hear him giggling in response, “Oh, did I? You should be thanking me then for making it happen!”

Starc received a harsh slap across his stomach for that response, “Before you open that big mouth of yours anywhere else, let me remind you: Nothing happened. Why on Earth would I thank you? He and I are enemies.”

The taller man stopped in his tracks, head tilting quizzically in the direction of the Indian camp, “Oh… So if the two of you didn’t make out and sleep in the same bed last night, why is he wearing your gift? Unless I’m blind, but that is Virat wearing the Kookaburra guards, right?”

Pat’s gaze shifted to where Mitch was now pointing. And sure enough, the Indian team was there, training.

And the Indian captain was present. Training. Hard.

While wearing elbow guards.

His gifted elbow guards.

Pat’s stomach sank. Kohli was wearing them. Not just wearing them — he was adjusting them, as if he knew Pat was watching. As if this were still a game to him. And Virat Kohli never lost games.

“– Hello? Earth to Cummo?”

“Huh? Yeah… sorry…” He snapped out of his daze. “Yeah, those are the new elbow guards I gave him.” They fit him perfectly. Of course they did. Pat had memorized the curve of that elbow like it was his own.

Starcy playfully nudged his shoulder, “Damn son! Did he thank ya?”

He doesn’t realise how I noticed he hadn’t worn elbow pads even before that match or your ball, Starcy. He doesn’t understand how I rushed to the shop that very same evening to ensure they could protect him properly. He doesn’t know how I felt the same pain in my elbow for days on end too. 

That was what Patty wanted to say. Instead, he settled on, “Pfftch, thank me?! He doesn’t even know I gifted him those!”

Starc, still clearly affected by the alcohol, cooed, “Aww, Patty, we can’t have that now, can we? Let me help out!”

Before Pat could even process what was happening, Starc ran to the centre of the ground, standing closer to the Indian team than the Australians. Patty barely caught up with him and tried to cover Starc’s mouth with his hand, but it was too late as Starc had already called for Kohli.

Oh god. He’s going to say it.

“Oi! Virat!”

Virat furrowed his brows upon hearing an Australian accent call out to him. It was unusual for the two teams to interact during training sessions, especially before a grand test like the MCG Boxing Day Test.

When he turned around, he saw a rare sight: Cummins and Starc looked as if they had been caught in the act, with Starc grinning like a cheeky madman, and Cummins, all pale, with his arms over Starc’s shoulder, his hands trying to cover his mouth. If the words “damn toddler” weren’t ringing in his ears, he might have even chuckled at that.

He let out a huff instead, indicating he only meant business, “Yes, Mitch? Is there anything else left to say after what you did yesterday?”

Starc scratched the back of his neck as Pat reddened at the mention of that incident simultaneously, “Er, yeah. Sorry about that, mate. I was drunk outta my mind!”

“Clearly.”

“I just came over to say sorry, and to wish you a happy Christmas! That’s all!”

Virat didn’t miss the way Pat exhaled a sigh of relief when Starc uttered the last two words.

“That’s all? Huh… Okay, uh – Merry Christmas to you as well, Mitch,” Virat then craned his neck and nodded in Cummins’ direction, “You too.”

Now it was Cummins’ turn to furrow his brows. “Thanks.” A curt one-word reply.

Mitch now extended his hand and said, “Good luck for tomorrow!”

Virat removed his right glove and shook his hand firmly, “You too.”

Just as Virat was about to let go, Mitch pulled him closer and pointed at his arm, “Woah! Cool elbow pads! Kookaburra, too! Really immersing yourself in the Aussie culture, huh?”

Virat cast a quick glance at Cummins, who looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He chose to play along to stretch his discomfort. “These? Oh. Yeah. Wearing it for some charity case.”

A charity case?!?!?!!? Patty couldn’t believe his ears and nearly strained his neck with the speed at which he glared at Kohli. 

A gift Pat had poured his heart and soul into, and Kohli couldn’t even recognise it as what he received for Christmas? After everything: the note, the bloody mistletoe, the near-kiss and tumble – Kohli was reducing it to... charity.

For some inexplicable reason, Kohli was coldly staring at Pat as he adjusted his elbow guards, the usually-hidden “18” now glinting in the sunlight. "I just need to be seen wearing them a few times, get some photos. Promote them." The gods were now mocking Pat: Kohli had worn them, Kohli had acknowledged them, and now Kohli was pretending as if he was above the note Pat left him.

Pat’s jaw clenched. Fine. If Kohli wanted to pretend, he’d play along. But when he got him out at the MCG, he would bowl so fast even Kookaburra’s best couldn’t save him. He’d make sure Virat remembered exactly who’d given him those guards – and why.

Chapter Text

26^th December, 2018: MCG Test Day 1

The MCG echoed with about eighty thousand voices that morning, but Virat Kohli only heard one cutting through the haze of the intense heat and freshly cut grass.

“Happy Boxing Day, Mr. King,” Pat Cummins’ voice at Virat’s shoulder was deceptively light, his ocean eyes glinting like polished steel against the morning sun.

Virat’s back stiffened at his presence – whether from their on-field challenge or from the lingering twinge from yesterday’s practice session, he couldn’t tell. “Save it for the post-match presentation.” Cummins’ glare burned into Virat’s mind like a brand.

Paine had heard it all while waiting for the match officials to arrive, his forced laugh echoing off the pitch in an attempt to ease some of the tension that could cut through glass. “Christ, you two. I thought it was just some friendly fire before the start of the series. Save some tension for the actual match!”

“Mm hmm,” Cummins voice dripping with sarcasm for all to hear, “We are very friendly.”

Virat’s eyebrows shot up before he could adjust his expression. Since when did Cummins have the nerve to be so brazen? When he saw the bowler smirk upon their unbroken eye contact, Virat shook his head and turned back to the Australian captain, his fingers digging into Paine’s shoulder as he patted it. “Whatever helps with the TRP. Your media loves me anyway, don’t they? Just doing my bit.”

As the match officials reached the centre, Cummins stepped back but not before having the final word: “Ah, ever so charitable, Mr Kohli. Where would our journalism be without you?”

Virat’s thumb twitched against his thigh – the same nervous tic he’d had since his U19 days. Only Jadeja would recognise it from his current teammates.

But none of them noticed the sound engineer’s panic as his feed went live, broadcasting Paine’s pained “Right. Well… Let’s save it for the pitch, alright?” to their 140,000 viewers.

55 overs. It took Pat 55 overs to take India’s second wicket and have him out on strike. But the universe was mocking him, and the umpires called for tea after his fifth delivery. His wait was further extended by another 20 minutes. The tea tasted like Virat’s glare – burnt sugar and unsaid words – when he’d called him “charitable”.

But when they stepped onto the pitch after tea, the noise hit Pat like a wrong’un to the ribs: eighty thousand voices unleashing hell on one man. On his target, his man. The thought jarred him. His jaw clenched as he heard the jeers – Pat caught the words “overrated” and “choker” as Kohli walked out.

Kohli also annoyed him, so why does it feel so wrong when his own countrymen boo him too?

As he approached his captain to prepare the field, he couldn’t help but mention, “Mate, why are they booing him?”

Paine’s glare was stern, clearly scrutinising ahead, “No idea. Maybe they heard you both before the toss? Either way, I’m a bit worried now. Booing Virat? When has that ever worked out for us?”

Patty recalled all the times he had watched Kohli play against Australia. He was the only one brave enough to flip the bird back at the crowd. He scored his first Test century against them. He became the Indian Test captain on Australian soil four years ago. Every time critics doubted him, he shut them up with his performance — 90% of the time when playing against Australia.

Pat wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead: Painey was right. If Kohli was being himself, he would turn this noise into applause very soon.

He allowed himself to steal a glance at the batter, trying to read whether he was immune to the crowd. And though his overall demeanour made him appear like a man of steel, Pat’s breath hitched. There it was again: that betraying twitch of Virat’s thumb. The same tell from this morning, from Adelaide years ago, from every damn time the world doubted him.

And Pat was the only one who noticed it.

“Hey. Painey.” As the wicketkeeper looked at his bowler, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

The boos rolled over him like a wave. Normally, he’d thrive on it – but today, his back ached, and Cummins’ smirk burned hotter than the Melbourne sun.

The noise from the crowd diminished into a hum as usual after a while, but to his dismay, when Cummins came back to bowl with Virat on strike, he suddenly felt the weight of the elbow pads grow heavier. The pads he had worn that morning after rereading the note with a fleeting hint of sincerity in that smiley face.

He knew Cummins was observing those too. His gaze kept snagging on the ‘18’ stitched into his elbows.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have worn them on a matchday, but even Virat was not foolish enough to prioritise pride over practicality. These elbow pads were not only functional but also comfortable. He would have been silly to let them sit and gather dust in his kit bag.

His mind was preoccupied with their interaction from yesterday when Kohli played an inside edge past the leg stump. He was fortunate not to be dismissed by that reverse swing, but the twist of his torso sent a sharp twinge down his spine. He gritted his teeth. Not now.

As he watched the replay of that very playable delivery on the big screen, Virat noticed his own focus starting to slip. He struck his bat against his leg.

The stump mic crackled, amplifying his hissed curse to the world. On the big screen, his lips were crystal clear: “Focus, god dammit!”

Cummins’s smile was a blade. At last, he had pierced that impenetrable skin.

26^th December, 2018: MCG Test, End of Day 1, Social Media Buzz

@childofthenight2035: So… we all heard that at the toss, right? Tim telling Virat and Pat to save the tension for the match 👀 This rivalry is getting intense #MCGTest #ItsGettingHot

ESPNCricinfo: “Discussion: Do fans deserve the right to boo opposition players? Or does it go against the Spirit of the Game?”

@AvaChan08: Has anyone else noticed how Pat kept staring at Kohli today? And Kohli shouting “Focus” as Pat was bowling... Sir, was that for yourself, or for Pat? 😏 #PatRat is real 🤭

@CricketDownUnder: LMFAO Kohli telling himself to focus? Just admit you can’t handle Cummo’s heat! #AussieAussieAussie

27^th December, 2018: MCG Test, Day 2

Virat spent the night in a fog of ice packs and restless sleep. But he was the leader, and he couldn't let something as minor as back pain keep him down. So, he showed up to work, day in and day out, like the soldier his country expected him to be.

But even soldiers had their limits. And after rereading the note in his wallet last night, perhaps a part of him acknowledged that he really needed to take better care of himself.

“Puji, please come over here.”

Pujara was startled at the request: Virat never pleaded. He hurried over, lowering his voice. “Sab theek? (All good?)”

Virat avoided his gaze, thrusting the muscle spray into his hands. “Just need this.”

Pujara hesitantly took it in his hands, “Virat, if it’s this bad, the physio should check it out...”

“No physio.” Virat turned around, pulling his shirt up before Pujara could protest. The locker room lights glinted off the sweat-slicked bruise, purple fading to yellow at the edges. The mottled bruise along his lower back was darker than Pujara had expected. Older, too. How long had he been hiding this? 

The spray hissed against Virat’s skin. He stiffened, jaw tightening around a sound Pujara had never heard from him before – a whimper.

“I’ve managed it for years, with training,” Virat gritted out, as if convincing himself. “I’ll manage today, too.”

Virat just needed to step out there and do what he did best – turn pain into runs, boos into applause, and his smirk into something shattered. He needed to win for India, and he also needed Cummins to know: his focus wasn’t a wicket to be taken. Not even by ocean-eyed demons. 

I’ll be a ghost, for sure. Deadly. Lingering. Everlasting.

On the second day, Patty encouraged Painey to let him open the bowling attack. He had heard Allan Border say that this would be the best day for batting, and he knew he had to give his best effort to dismiss the opposition. Fortunately, Langer agreed, noting that Cummins was bowling much tighter whenever Kohli was on the pitch. “If your little cat-and-mouse game helps you focus on getting the best batsman in the world out, I don’t really care who opens the bowling, mate,” were his exact words.

And Pat was doing well, truly. But before the final ball of his first over, he noticed the “18” on those elbow pads glinting in the sunlight, which briefly distracted him. As he released the ball, it was too full, and Kohli flicked it away, earning his first runs of the morning. He ran three and reached his 20^th test fifty.

Yet another feather in Kohli’s cap. Yet another battle Pat feared he would lose.

While Starc was preparing to bowl the next over, Paine positioned Patty alongside Hazlewood at mid-on. 

“Heya, handsome.” Patty rolled his eyes at the nickname, “You’d better get ready to buy a back brace, by the way.”

At this, Pat looked at his friend in confusion, “Why do I need one?”

Hoff waved him off with his hand before signalling back to the Indian batsmen. “Not for you. For him. He was struggling when he ran those three runs against you just now. I recognise a back injury when I see one. Been there, done that.”

Cummins shook his head vigorously, “He’s not injured! He just scored a 50 as easy as breathing!”

“Yeah? Watch him now.”

Both the fielders fell silent for a moment as Starcy bowled the first ball.

Kohli ran for a single, and Pat saw how he immediately favoured his back after reaching the non-striker’s end. His hand twitched towards his lower back – just for a second – before he forced it back to his hip, his face a mask of indifference.

Ah, shit.

Joshy smirked and turned back to Pat, “What’d I say?”

Patty crossed his arms, his fingers digging into his own biceps. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. He wanted Kohli at his best – wanted to beat him with his bowling, not see him crumble already. Wanted to crack Kohli’s armour, not watch it rust. A dismissal stolen by injury was no dismissal at all – just theft.

 “Whatever, he’s doing just fine, thrashing us anyway. We don’t need to take care of him.” But his eyes tracked Virat’s stiff movements nonetheless. Broken batsmen don’t score centuries.

Hoff imitated Pat’s actions and crossed his arms as well, clearly teasing his defensive stance, “No, we don’t need to. But you want to.”

Patty exhaled sharply through his nose as colour crept up his face. “Bullshit.”

Josh’s voice rose an octave. “Oh Virat!” He fluttered his lashes. “How am I supposed to prove to the world I’m the best if you’re not playing? How will I sleep at night if you’re not at your best? Get well soon, darling! XOXO.”

Pat’s stomach dropped. If Virat heard that – he quickly cast an offended look at his mate, “Oh, fuck off, Joshy, before the stump mic or the cameras catch hold of what you’re saying.”

They said nothing as Virat turned to glare at them from across the pitch while Starc bowled the next ball, but soon Hoff responded, “What, like his ‘FOCUS’ yesterday? Was that really for you, do ya reckon?”

“JL himself said I’ve been bowling better to him than anyone else. I don’t think I’m the one who needs to focus, Hoff.”

“Yeah, yeah... Bet ya 5 dollars he’s going to use his ‘injuries’ to get closer to you.”

Patty didn’t miss the irony of how two of the most frequently injured bowlers were discussing the one batsman who had never seemed to miss a match due to injuries before. A sharp memory of Patty making his Test debut at 18 came rushing back, followed by seven years of perpetual darkness and injuries.

They understood what it was like to hide limps, to swallow their groans. To be broken and furious about it.

During lunch, Virat found it hard to eat as the pain worsened. He quickly excused himself from the table and awkwardly tried to apply a cooling muscle patch himself.

So naturally, when he stepped back onto the ground again, under the scorching sun that drained his energy more swiftly than usual, he felt feverish. The muscle patch burned behind his back. The sun wasn’t melting the pitch – it was melting him.

The ‘18’ on his guards swam in his vision, the numbers bleeding into the sunspots dancing behind his eyelids.

One more, just one more over to go.

He could only endure about five more of those before his body finally gave up on his mind.

When Starc bowled short, Virat played it far away to avoid running further, but before it could reach the boundary, Finch caught it at third man.

Pujara approached him as he was about to leave, “Virat, bhai, please, get some rest now. I’ll handle it.”

Virat gently patted his teammate's arm, offering reassurance to his most trusted companion. “Yeah… I will…”

He was just about to cross the boundary rope, with one foot in the air, when he heard that voice calling to him.

“Oi! Kohli!”

Virat lacked the energy for it. He stepped back behind the boundary rope and sighed resignedly, though his back still faced the Australian bowler. “What?”

“You know? You’re no good to me when you’re broken!”

The words hung between them, ugly and raw.

In slow motion, he turned around and finally faced those ice-cold eyes. “Since when… do you care… about my utility?”

First the elbow pads, and now this statement? What does he want from me?

He saw Cummins gulp his words and flinch as they heard some nearby fans gasp, phones in their hands, having recorded every bit of their brief conversation.

Virat looked away first as his world suddenly dissolved into watercolours – green pitch, blue sky, Pat’s white-knuckled grip beside himself.

His knees buckled as he approached the stairs. The world tilted sideways – Rahane’s hands were the only solid thing left as the ground yawned beneath him. For a delirious second, Virat thought it was Cummins – broad shoulders, a grip like iron – before reality snapped back. “I’m fine,” Virat lied, voice cracking, to his Vice-Captain when he saw concern flickering in his eyes.

The lie felt like blood. The elbow guards – Cummins’ guards – jabbed into his arms like an insult.

I’m still standing. Still yours to break – if you dare.

The fans saw Cummins’ smirk fade as Kohli stumbled. His hands clenched around empty air. Too late. Always too late when it came to him.

27^th December, 2018: MCG Test, End of Day 2, Social Media Buzz

Cricbuzz: Worrying signs for India as Captain Kohli nearly faints while walking off. Is Cummins’ rivalry to blame?

@CricFanAtMCG uploaded a video: “ESCALATING CLASH BETWEEN PAT CUMMINS AND VIRAT KOHLI?”

-> Reply: @jda123: “no good to me broken?!?!?!!” oh Pat Cummins HATES Virat Kohli

-> Reply: @AvaChan08: “@jda123 on the contrary, I fear. DID YOU MISS HIS HAND FLEX?! And his face when Kohli almost fainted?!?!??? Dude looked like he’d just been clean bowled. MR DARCY WHO?!”

-> Reply: @childofthenight2035: “@jda123 nah, that line is classic toxic love language at best. What he really meant to say was “I need you at your best so I can be the one to break you on my own” 😈 ”

Chapter Text

27^th December, 2018

Knock, knock, knock.

Virat checked his watch: 8:30 pm. He wondered who might be calling for him at this hour.

“Coming, wait!” With strained effort, Virat finally managed to get out of bed. His fingers trembled against the doorframe as he straightened, his spine protesting with a sharp jolt. Rahane stood on the other side, with food in his hand. He entered Virat’s room without asking for permission and was soon followed by their physiotherapist right behind him.

The physio’s eyes darted to Virat’s hunched posture: No hiding now.

Virat sighed in disapproval, “Seriously, Jinx? Did Puji tell you?”

Ajinkya placed the food on the table before smiling sheepishly, “What? I just brought you food because you didn’t join us for dinner just now.”

“Back acting up again?” The physio’s voice was light, but his gaze wasn’t.

Virat’s grunt was enough of a reply. Admitting weakness seemed like bile.

Rahane sat down beside Virat and placed his hand on his knee, “Vi, you’re the captain, take care of yourself, please.”

“Take care”, just like the note.

However, Pat’s words were infused with a challenge, a dare.

The words echoed in his mind, paired with a smirk he’d seen far too often over the past four weeks – on a face that haunted his best and worst moments. Virat scowled at the memory: Since when did Cummins’ voice get stuck like this?

Virat couldn’t decide which hurt more: the pain in his back or the memory of that smiley face.

It wasn’t just the voice. It was Pat’s hands lingering near his elbow after Starc’s ball: close enough to touch, yet never crossing the gap. It was the way his smirk faltered today, just for a moment, when Virat got out. As if he cared. As if he’d ever earned the right.

“This isn’t just about you. If you collapse mid-test, what will happen to the team?”

Virat clenched his fists. He’d carried injuries before, but this time, this series, felt different. Letting pain show wasn’t an option. Not when a billion eyes expected him to be invincible. Not when his eyes were watching.

Virat placed his hand on Rahane’s, prompting a chuckle that turned into a wheeze – half pain, half surrender, “Tu hai na. (You’re there.)”

“Stop ignoring the elephant in the room, Virat. I’ve brought bhaiya here now; let him help you out. I’m sure he can do something so you can at least play well tomorrow.”

“I’ve had this back niggle for years now, trust me.”

The physio now folded his arms, his standing figure looming over Virat’s seated form on the edge of his bed. “If you had just told me, Virat, it wouldn’t have gone on this long. Now, please, let me take a look?”

Virat’s jaw clenched, knowing he should give in, but a stubborn part of him still held him back.

“If you don’t let him check you out,” Rahane now smirked, “I will just take these chole bhature away. Or should I call Cummins? Bet he’d love to know his ‘rival’ can’t stand straight.”

Upon hearing the name of his favourite dish, Virat suddenly realised his room was filled with the aroma of spices – cardamom, cumin, the ghost of home. He tuned out the rest of Rahane’s threat, “Where did you find that in Melbourne this late at night?”

“Doesn’t matter. Will you get checked now?”

“You know, chole bhature are my #1 weakness.” Virat turned to their physio, his eyes expressing both gratitude and guilt, “Bhaiya, please be quick, huh? I haven’t eaten since this morning, after all.”

As the physio’s hands pressed into his lower back, Virat clenched his jaw. Tomorrow, he’d face Cummins again – broken or not. And this time, he’d make sure Pat’s smirk didn’t just flicker. He would wipe it off.

Half a mile away, in the Australian team hotel, Patty scrolled past the video once. Twice. On the third time, his thumb froze midway through the swipe. There it was again – Virat stumbling at the MCG, that split second when his knees buckled before Rahane caught him. Pat had seen the way those knees buckled before – in mirrors. In rehab clinics. In the years stolen from him. The clip looped endlessly, each replay tightening something in Pat’s chest. He’d give anything to unsee it now on Kohli.

“God, I look pathetic,” he thought, gazing at his distressed face in the background. Then, quietly, “Not as pathetic as wanting to catch him.”

His phone screen cracked in his hand. The charger cable pressed into his thigh where he had been sitting too long. Three hours since the play finished, and he was still in his travelling kit, still smelling of sweat and failure.

The hotel air conditioner hummed too loudly, or perhaps it was just the blood rushing in his ears as he reopened the forbidden chat and typed a message, if only to ease his mind: He crafted different iterations of the text before deleting each of them.

“You’re an idiot for hiding injuries.” Too harsh.

“Let the physio examine you.” Too clinical.

Third time’s the charm: “I’ve always cared, BTW.”

With his muscle memory, he pressed “Send.”

Notification: MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED ⚠️

“Of course.” Pat ran his hand over his face, not understanding why he felt his stomach drop when he wasn’t expecting any different outcome: He should have known better. Virat Kohli didn’t accept concern – not from rivals, not from ghosts, and certainly not from him.

He left that chat and started another with a teammate who wasn't touring with them at the moment: BIG SHOW MAXI.

Pat: Hey Maxi! How ya doing?

Big Show Maxi: Still awake? Tmr is ur match day.

Big Show Maxi: I’m good tho. U?

Pat: Need a favour… If that’s alright?

Big Show Maxi: What can I help with at this hour?

Pat typed, then erased his following message, unsure whether Maxi was even aware of what was happening to him.

Pat: Just… need u to check on ur friend.

Big Show Maxi: Ah…

Big Show Maxi: Virat?

Pat: … Yeah.

Big Show Maxi: Didn't think u’d be that concerned for him…

Neither did Pat.

Pat: I saw him almost faint today… That’s not good.

Big Show Maxi: Just professional respect? Or is there something more? 😏

Pat: Maxwell, mate. Come on.

Pat: Can u just ask him if he’s all right?

Big Show Maxi: Saw that video, btw. Nice and nonchalant. 😏

Pat: Jesus, stop using that emoji…

Pat: Just… tell him to wear the damn elbow guards. I didn’t bankrupt myself for a decoration. And maybe follow the advice on that paper.

Pat: Maybe wear a back brace as well.

Big Show Maxi: Advice, elbow guards, eh??? A love letter with the gift???

Big Show Maxi: 😏😏😏😏

Pat: 🖕🏼🖕🏼🖕🏼

Big Show Maxi: I’m joking. He’s fine, just so u know. Said PT checked him over, did some stretches, and he’s feeling much better.

Pat exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, feeling the weight lift from his chest. However, that euphoric moment didn’t last long, as his friend bombarded him with more texts just three seconds later.

Big Show Maxi: You’ll see him on the pitch tmr, fit and ready to go, if that’s what u wanted to know.

Big Show Maxi: Make sure u turn up looking stunning to catch his eye 😏😏😏😏

Big Show Maxi: Take his wicket again in the second innings. That way, ur names will appear together on the scorecard 😍

Pat threw his phone across the room and stared at his reflection in the dark hotel window. Since when had he become the sort of man who begged for updates on his rival’s health? The kind who sent gifts with hidden notes?

28^th December, MCG Test, Day 3

Although he eventually fell asleep comforted by Maxwell’s texts, Pat wanted, no, needed to see the confirmation himself. When he went out to bat in the afternoon, his eyes instinctively searched for the Indian captain on the field.

And sure enough, there he was — roaring and chirping at the slip position. The man in all his glory. As Pat prepared to face the bowler, he was hyperaware of the stump mic being close to him. He couldn’t call for Kohli like he did at the boundary rope yesterday.

So, he aimed the ball towards slip a few times, until Kohli stepped a few paces forward before returning the ball to his bowler. As Kohli moved back to his position, he finally looked up and recognised Pat there.

For a brief moment, seemingly unassuming unless people paid close attention, Pat asked him the question that had been running through his mind all night, accompanied by a slight tapping behind his back.

Fortunately, Virat recognised his gesture and nodded briefly, then offered a tight-lipped smile. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.

And although Pat’s grip on his bat tightened, his mind felt considerably lighter.

One nod from Kohli reassured him more than any coach’s pep talk. He could now finally concentrate on his game: now the ball was all that mattered.

Now that Virat could finally move freely without feeling as if he was carrying a thousand bricks on his back, his mind was much clearer too – he needed to eliminate any distractions. During the first innings, there were only two things constantly on his mind as he batted: the elbow guards and the person who had gifted them.

The person? Virat couldn’t ignore him on the field. He had already taken two wickets, and the team was only at 28 runs. So, he decided to leave the elbow guards behind in the changing room this time.

A sensible move, after all, as Virat was about to step in during Cummins’ over. The guards stayed in his locker. The ’18’ stitching seemed to glare at him accusingly – their absence on the field would send a clear message even Cummins would understand: I mean business.

Pat couldn’t fucking believe it.

It took two balls before Pat noticed the bare elbows. The lack of coverage hit him harder than any bouncer.

He spent a fortune on those customised elbow pads. He spent the whole night worrying about his enemy.

And now he refused to wear them as a way of getting back at him? Out of pride?

He was just angry after the Christmas dinner, but now he was utterly furious. If Kohli wanted a war without armour, he’d give him one.

The third ball was a grenade, grazing just past where the elbow pads had sat the day before. Pat’s fingers tingled — not with triumph, but the bitter taste of being erased.

The two exchanged a look then, and Pat saw Virat’s lips form an “Oooh” as if he were taken aback by the competitiveness Pat suddenly displayed.

When Pat returned to the run-up, Josh passed by, whistling softly, “Aiming for the bruises, Cummo?”

Pat didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The ball’s trajectory – exactly where the guards should have been – told the story.

The fourth delivery, the final of Pat’s over, was one into which Pat poured all his frustration.

When he released the ball, everything seemed to slow down. It was a short-length delivery on the thigh. Kohli flicked it a bit too early. Harris at leg gully with an easy catch.

And then suddenly, the noise erupted once more, with every Australian player piling on top of Pat to celebrate.

Finally, a wicket he had rightfully earned.

The anger still simmered beneath him, and he couldn’t help but sprint over to Kohli as he stood there in disbelief at his team being just three down for 28 now. “Hey, Kohli! How’s that for a charity case?”

He saw the fire burning within the Indian, but Pat didn’t care. He had proven himself right then and there. He had outwitted the best batsman in the world. But the next thing Pat knew, Kohli had dropped his bat onto the ground and rushed over, grabbing Pat by his shirt, each syllable enunciating his hurt pride, “Say. That. Again.”

Pat couldn’t help but smirk, “Doesn’t feel nice getting the charity, does it?”

Kohli clenched his teeth, but Pat didn’t miss the way the hand on his shirt now twitched – just for a second. As Pat looked down at their contact, the question forming in his eyes, Kohli muttered, “Adrenaline”.

A lie.

Overwhelmed by emotions, Pat was seconds from asking why he wasn’t wearing the elbow guards, but the on-field umpires finally separated the two men before he could let it slip.

Cummins kept watching Kohli until his shadow disappeared into the Indian dressing room.

28^th December, 2018: MCG Test, End of Day 3, Social Media Buzz

@AvaChan08: OH. MY. GOD. THAT WAS THE HOTTEST FIGHT OF THE DECADE IN CRICKET. 🔥 I FELT LIKE I WAS INTRUDING ON A PRIVATE MOMENT. GET A ROOM @PATCUMMINS30 @VIRATKOHLI YOU TWO.

ESPNCricinfo: ICC to impose an 80% match fee fine on Pat Cummins and Virat Kohli for indecent conduct.

@childofthenight2035: What’s the “charity case” lore, though?! Does anyone know???? #MCGTest #KohliVSCummins 👀

@CricDownUnder: 4-fah for Cumdog just today and the innings isn’t over yet – I WILL PAY THE FINE FOR HIM MYSELF IF HE KEEPS BOWLING LIKE THIS 😍

Chapter Text

30^th December 2018, Post-match, Indian Dressing Room

Team India was celebrating their second victory of the series, which meant they could not lose the trophy now, at least. Virat and Bumrah were at the centre of it all, champagne dripping from their hair as Pant attempted to pour another bottle down their backs –

“— Excuse me, folks!” Shastri’s voice cut through the chaos, “May I borrow Virat for a moment?”

Virat shook the alcohol out of his hair and grinned, “Kya, Coach! Come celebrate with us!”

Shastri pressed his left temple. “I’m afraid it’s important business.”

“Important?” Rahane sidled up, eyebrows raised. “Are we in some trouble?”

A beat. Shastri’s mustache twitched. “Uhhhhhh. Just Virat’s fitness, personal stuff.”

Rohit snorted. “Personal? Like his back? Or his elbow?”

The Kookaburra guards flashed in Virat’s mind — still tucked in his kit, untouched since Day 2. He forced a laugh, “Nice try, Ro. You just want to steal my share of champagne.”

As Shastri pulled him into the corridor, Virat’s twitching thumb tapped against the champagne bottle. Once, twice. The same rhythm as his heartbeat when Cummins bowls outswingers at him.

“It’s not about my fitness, is it?”

Shastri exhaled. “Nope.” The /p/ popped like a cork.

Virat pouted. “Okay, fine. But why are we walking out to the ground again?”

“You will see.”

The tunnel lights flickered. At the far end, Justin Langer appeared – and beside him, a familiar silhouette, broad-shouldered and scowling. Ocean eyes fixed on Virat as a slip fielder awaiting an edge.

Oh.

Cummins wiped sweat from his brow, causing his jersey to cling to his chest. Just damp fabric and the faint hint of saltwater.

“Well?” Shastri nudged Virat forward. “Go say hello to your charity case.”

When the Indian coach and captain stepped out from the other end, JL had them all sit on the bench often reserved for ballboys.

Pat had just finished settling himself into the seat at the far end of Kohli when Shastri thrust his phone under Pat’s nose. On the screen was a tweet from ESPNCricinfo.

BREAKING: Kohli and Cummins fined for ‘indecent conduct’ after MCG clash. ICC warns: “Further incidents may lead to suspension.”

At the same time, JL threw a folder at Kohli’s chest, causing some papers to scatter through the gap between the two players. More screenshots of social media posts appeared, this time from both fans and critics. At the very top was a screenshot showing a photo of Kohli grabbing Pat’s collar and glaring at them as if accusing: “THIS “CHARITY CASE” HAS MORE SEXUAL TENSION THAN A HOLLYWOOD MOVIE @PATCUMMINS30 @VIRATKOHLI”

Pat picked up the paper, intrigued by the nearly imperceptible gap between the chests. Not that he had measured or dwelled on it when Virat’s collarbone had gleamed under stadium lights. But soon, his eyes fell on the second paper underneath, this time from a reputable newspaper: “Cricket’s Spiciest Rivalry: War or… Love?”

From the corner of his eye, Pat saw Virat’s grip cracking the champagne bottle as he beckoned, “Why should I get suspended for wanting to throttle him? He started it! This is ridiculous!”

Pat muttered under his breath, “Says the guy who blocked me over a compliment I was trying to pay.” Pat wasn’t sure if Kohli’s back stiffened at his words, or if he simply wished it had. Either way, the asshole owed him an apology. Or a punch. Both, preferably.

Langer scoffed, “Oh ho ho, you don’t get to say that, Virat! This,” he said, pointing from Pat now to Kohli, “is what is ridiculous. This is what happens when you two forget you’re athletes, not soap opera stars. This isn’t just about cricket any more. You’ve turned a rivalry into a circus.”

Pat’s ears turned pink. Somewhere in a Melbourne hotel, a sprig of mistletoe still taunted him. “I didn’t –“

“ – Save it, you both! You’re creating more drama for the media than the actual cricket. Fix it,” Shastri interrupted.

“How?” Pat glanced at the man sitting beside him who had spoken. "Should I kiss his feet next time?”

Now Pat flushed with fury. “You’d have to unblock me first.”

The coaches ignored that and slipped two manila folders into the gap between the two players. “You’re spending all of tomorrow afternoon at the Sydney Children’s Hospital. No media, no cameras. Just prove you can behave like adults in front of those kids for four hours.”

Kohli’s jaw dropped to the floor, “Tomorrow?! But it’s New Year’s Eve!”

For once, Pat found himself agreeing with that man. “Yeah! I’ve already got plans!”

Langer adopted his sternest coach voice then, “You’ll have the night free. But Sydney’s fireworks wait for no one, not even cricket’s most dramatic duo. With each whine, we add an hour. Your choice. I’m sure the hospital won’t mind more volunteering.”

Pat’s knee bounced – the same restless energy from when he’d waited for Virat’s wicket. “Fine.”

Kohli crossed his arms, his bare elbows a deliberate provocation to Pat. “Fantastic way to spend New Year’s Eve.”

But Shastri had the final say, “Cummins, you will be flying at midnight so you can still meet your family for breakfast in Sydney. Virat, you’re leaving on the 7 am flight tomorrow. Alone. Now go back to your hotel rooms, and pack.”

Pat gingerly rose to his feet and was about to grasp a folder when Kohli pulled at it at the same time. His fingers lingered near Kohli’s for a second too long – warm despite the champagne's chill. Pat’s throat tightened. Three months ago, he would have broken Kohli’s fingers for less. Now he fought the urge to turn his palm up and – “Er, here you go. Your folder.”

Kohli nodded and also stood up to leave.

But the two men failed to notice the way Shastri smirked. “Oh, and boys? Try not to murder each other before tomorrow.” He paused. “Or do. The kids love a good story.”

31^st December, 2018, Sydney

Virat waited outside the hotel lobby for the shared car that the Australian board had arranged for both players. “Arriving together shows a level of cooperation,” they had said.

Virat sighed heavily, already dreading the long day ahead. It was going to be at least four hours sharing the same rooms as Prick Cummins, and Virat was certain that one of them wouldn’t make it to the next year, given their history.

Somewhere in Sydney Harbour, technicians were testing fireworks that would, in just a few hours, light up the sky with bursts of blue and yellow. Virat wondered if they’d explode as fiercely as this car ride.

A sleek black car with tinted windows stopped right in front of Virat’s feet just then. A chauffeur opened the passenger door, and Virat saw him already seated inside, his head resting against the right window, his leg bouncing — a sign of his anxiety that Cummins believed he had concealed well from the public. He took a steady breath before stepping in and taking the left side, as if preparing for a confrontation. The car, Virat noted, smelled of artificial pine, regret, and the faintest hint of saltwater and citrus from Cummins’ shampoo.

“Look who’s here,” Cummins drawled, fingers tapping on the window.

“Not by choice.” Matching fire with fire.

As the driver prepared to start the engines, Virat noticed a bag of takeaway coffee neatly positioned between the two players, acting as a barrier.

Cummins noticed him looking at the bag, “Oh. Yeah. Had brekkie with my mum. Said I should be a gentleman and bring you coffee.”

Upon hearing about the drink, Virat was convinced he had started to drool. Good. I need a black coffee after all that travelling.

“Wasn’t sure about your order,” Was that blush rising on his face? Or was the sunlight playing tricks on my eyes? “So, I got a black coffee and a flat white. Really hoping you don’t take my flat white.”

Virat deliberately snatched the flat white, just to see Cummins’ jaw tighten. But the bastard simply sighed and handed the black coffee to the driver – as if he’d expected this. As if he knew Virat better than he should. “Asshole, I knew you’d pick the flat white on purpose. Good thing I already had a cup with my Mum.” The realisation prickled under Virat’s skin.

Virat reflected that it was an unexpectedly considerate gesture. He often saw players or celebrities treat workers around them as less than human, but he noticed the warmth with which Cummins greeted the driver, had learnt his name, and gave him the remaining coffee with a smile as warm as the Sydney sun that morning.

But that gentle moment quickly turned into a scowl over his stolen coffee. With strangers, Cummins was all sunshine. With me? Only storm clouds and the static before lightning strikes – as if we lived in a private war where only we knew the rules.

The driver, suddenly alert after his first sip of caffeine, finally spoke up, “Buckle up, fellas! It’s going to be a 40-minute ride from here.” The air conditioning blasted cold enough to see their breath, yet Virat’s neck prickled with heat every time Pat shifted beside him. “Woah… last time I had this much tension in my car, it was my divorce,” the driver muttered, adjusting the rearview mirror to avoid their glares. He then turned on the radio to fill the awkward silence.

To the world’s greatest irony, it was playing the first chorus of Miley Cyrus’ hit single, “7 things”

/The seven things I hate about you: You’re vain. Your games. You’re insecure. You love me, you like her. You make me laugh, you make me cry, I don’t know which side to buy. Your friends, they’re jerks; when you act like them, just know it hurts. I wanna be with the one I know. And the seventh thing I hate the most that you do – You make me love you./

Virat groaned at the cheesy ending to that verse, unaware that the lyrics had caused the same sound from Cummins as well. They both looked at each other and froze, horrified by the accidental sync.

No fucking way.

So, it was going to be forty minutes of Virat trying to ignore how Cummins’ thigh muscle tensed whenever their knees accidentally brushed. Forty minutes of Virat pretending he hadn’t memorised the eye colour of the person sitting beside him. Forty minutes of Virat attempting to think of some professional small talk to impress their driver, only for the conversation to die before it even reached his lips.

Sydney Children’s Hospital

Pat scrubbed his palms against his jeans, as if he could erase the memory of Kohli’s knee against his just now. It was absurd. He’d bowled at 150 kph, faced down hordes of fans – yet forty minutes in a car with Kohli left him frayed like an old seam.

He took a step forward and immediately inhaled deeply to rid himself of Kohli’s sandalwood scent, which had overwhelmed him during the journey. That aroma had an inexplicable effect on Pat; it was as if it reminded him of his old sanctuary, a place where he once felt he belonged. It was as if Kohli himself also belonged in that setting. 

He pushed the last thought aside, his fingers twitching towards where Kohli’s elbow had nearly grazed his ribs in the car during a particularly rough bend. Since when did Kohli’s scent remind him of home? Since when had ‘home’ become a word that ached?

Pat blinked his eyes quickly and adjusted to the outdoor light. Kohli emerged from the other ride, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the memory of the car journey too. The hospital doors reflected their twin scowls back at them – matching bookends of irritation.

Kohli exhaled, a little louder than needed, “Four hours of pretending we can tolerate each other.”

“Can you at least smile and pretend to be happy before we walk in, Jesus Christ? We can’t walk in looking like we want to murder each other.”

Kohli forced a smile he often reserved for journalists, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “There. Now can we go in?”

Pat studied Virat briefly, his brow furrowing as he tried to decipher the mystery that was Virat Kohli: how quickly he shifted in and out of his public persona, but he reminded himself of the task ahead. “Let’s do this.”

The two of them pushed open the hospital door and were immediately met with squeaky giggles and the sound of trainers grinding against the disinfectant-cleaned floor.

Within seconds, Pat and Kohli were both pulled away by small children tugging at their hands with all their toddler might. As Pat looked at his counterpart, he saw that smile finally turn genuine among three little girls, no older than five years old. Huh. So the King does have a soft side to him. “Mistuh Kohli, fank yew for coming!” Kohli ruffled their hair but froze when another girl asked, “Mr. Kohli, is it true you and Mr Patty don’t wike each other?” Pat didn’t miss the giveaway: his jaw clenched and shoulders squared. Yet another question which made him uncomfortable, just like that press conference after the first test match. Pat had only just briefly heard Kohli deflecting, “Now who told you that, sweetheart?” before the hospital director came chiming in.

He began by apologising for being late and then quickly guided the two men to his side. They delivered the usual opening speech, in which he explained the hospital's vision and mission, and before long, Pat didn’t entirely regret being there on New Year’s Eve. A part of him always wanted to give back to the community that had given him so much. And as bittersweet as the memory of hospitals was for Pat, he couldn’t ignore the faint glimmer of hope each person nearby carried. Maybe he could make something of the day, after all.

The director invited the two cricketers to the makeshift stage near the reception and took a position in the middle himself for an official photograph. “Don’t worry, CA told us not to post this until after your Sydney Test Match,” he added with a wink, “They said to keep this photo as blackmail material in case you both don’t behave well again. Shake hands now! Come on!”

Kohli reacted first: muscle memory from a decade of diplomacy. His arm shot out, palm upturned, before Pat could blink. A public gesture, smooth as his cover drives. But Pat caught the way his fingers trembled, just once, betraying the storm beneath.

Pat looked at that hand. The same one that had grabbed his collar a few days earlier, knuckles white with rage. Now it floated between them, an unspoken ceasefire. 

Or a trap.

Pat grasped it.

Kohli’s skin felt warmer than expected. Pat’s bowling-calloused palm wrapped around Kohli’s soft batter hand, the size difference suddenly strikingly clear. Virat’s fingers curled slightly, as if instinctively testing the grip’s strength. A jolt shot up Pat’s wrist, as electrifying as a bouncer’s sting. He felt Virat’s pulse quicken. Or maybe it was his own.

For three seconds (Pat counted), they stood frozen. The camera flashed, but all Pat saw was Kohli’s throat bob, a swallow he’d only ever noticed when Virat edged an off-stump ball. Is he nervous? That thought both thrilled and terrified Pat.

Then Kohli’s thumb twitched once against Pat’s wrist. A flicker of pressure, too quick to be deliberate. But once was enough: Pat’s breath hitched. As Kohli shifted, his pulse thudded where Pat’s thumb accidentally pressed his vein.

As soon as the flash faded, they disintegrated as if their touch had ignited into flames.

“Perfect!” the director beamed, oblivious. “Now, let’s go off and meet the kids!”

Kohli wiped his palm on his jeans. Pat, meanwhile, clenched his right fist, as if he could trap the ghost of that touch. Somewhere beneath his ribs, an old injury ached – though he couldn’t remember which bone he’d fractured there anymore.

Chapter Text

The hospital director rambled about “emotional sensitivity” and “positive energy,” but Virat had tuned out after the first sentence. He’d been on enough charity visits to know the routine – smile, kneel to the child's eye level, pretend not to notice the IV drips. Simple.

But now his treacherous mind was fixated on the photo op. On Cummins’ grip, steady and deliberate, his thumb lingered on Virat’s pulse point as if he were counting his heartbeat. His skin still burned. Focus, you idiot. But his pulse refused to obey, pounding as if he had just edged a bouncer into the slips.

And the worst part? Cummins probably hadn’t even noticed. Because why would he? Virat was just another name on his wicket tally – he wasn’t some starstruck fool replaying a three-second handshake like it mattered.

If Cummins had noticed, he’d probably smirk and say something infuriatingly earnest – just like that damn note he’d slipped into the elbow guards. ‘Take care.’ As if Virat needed his concern. As if he hadn’t spent years proving he could survive without anyone’s help – least of all Cummins.

“ – You in there, Kohli?” The same hand that intruded on his thoughts now waved in front of his face, teasing him.

“Huh? Yeah… Wait, where’s the director?” It took every fibre in Virat’s body to recognise that they had reached the door of the Special Ward. Alone.

“He said he’d leave us here for about an hour. You nodded as if you were listening.” Cummins’ eyebrows did that infuriating thing where they knit together – a look he reserved for dropped catches and DRS reviews. The one that made Virat’s stomach twist. “You good to go?”

“Yeah…” Hearing how uncertain he sounded even to himself, Virat tried filling his lungs with resolve once more, steel threading through every molecule of air. “Yeah.” Better. He pushed the door open and immediately hated how his eyes burned. Rows of small beds, IV lines snaking like vines.

Children were not meant to fight wars.

He never liked it when people had to die unfairly, especially when the world had so much to offer. Hell, he had lost his father too young, and a part of Virat would always rage against the cruel twist of fate. Resenting the inevitability of it all, yet still eager to challenge the deities for every stolen second.

Just then, Cummins cleared his throat – too loud, too pointed. Virat wasn’t sure if it was an act of mercy or a provocation, but he still offered a tight-lipped smile in response, followed by a soldier’s nod. Eight beds. Eight stories waiting to be told. They could do this.

And then, without any discussion, they parted ways: Cummins turned left, Virat to the right. Two predators circling the same prey, except that today, the only thing to hunt was time. And for once, they found themselves on the same side.

About 30 minutes later, when both Virat and Cummins reached the centre of the room, Virat came across a sweet and shy boy of about nine years. Cummins’ back was turned to him, as he was talking to another patient. The boy was clearly a cricket fan, wearing an Australian ODI jersey. “Good afternoon, Mr Kohli.”

“Just call me Virat.” Virat gently shook his hand. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Oliver. I really love your batting!” And he wasn’t lying because Virat thought he resembled the human version of the starry-eyed emoji.

Virat blushed at that compliment, touched by its sincerity. “Thank you, Oliver.”

“Um, Mr Koh – Sorry, Virat. I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly not, go ahead, sweetheart.”

Virat saw the young boy now shifting on his bed, failing to hide something behind his pillow, but Virat was just happy to play along. “Do you like gifts?”

“Yes, yeah, I do! I love receiving them, of course, who doesn’t?” the boy laughed good-naturedly. “But I love giving gifts to others more than getting them myself.”

The boy nodded with the wisdom of an old soul, but suddenly gasped, his hands flying to his mouth, “Oh, but you weren’t with your family this Christmas! So does that mean you didn’t get or give any gifts?”

A vision of his kit bag and the 18 on his elbow guards flickered behind his eyes, prompting Virat to glance ahead at the muscled back of the Australian. Virat’s throat clicked as he swallowed, then briefly looked up to the ceiling, praying to the Gods above that his arch-nemesis wouldn’t hear what he was going to say next.

“Hmmm, actually, I received this really lovely gift, you know? Someone gave me elbow pads, and they had my jersey number on them too!”

Virat caught a flicker of movement in his periphery – Cummins’ shoulders stiffening, as if straining to hear. Or is that just wishful thinking?

The kid gasped again, this time in wonder, “Your number 18! Woah! Did they fit?”

Virat smiled softly at the child and the memory, saying, “Like a glove.”

Oliver was surprisingly mature for his age because his next comment was, “Such a valuable gift too, I bet, as a batter! Our Aussie bowlers are tough!” He mimicked Brett Lee’s iconic hair fixing and bowling action, making a whooshing sound with his mouth. “Who gifted it to you? They must be really kind and clever.”

 Virat remembered the conversation he had overheard, how Cummins forced Hazlewood to test the guards together, and allowed himself to glance again, still only having Cummins’ back in his view. Indeed, very kind, but Virat couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Cummins was now seated in a chair, presumably reading something from a book to the girl. No cameras. No witnesses. Just the truth hanging, unanswered. Still, Virat had to assume he was within earshot, so for once he had to lie in this conversation. “Err, no. It was a part of Secret Santa, actually, and my Santa Claus hid their secret really well.” His fingers grazed his pocket, where Cummins’ words festered beside his nephew’s photo.

He jerked away. Coward, he cursed himself. Since when did paper cuts burn so deep?

“Awwwww, shucks!” Oliver now pouted, and immediately Virat was overwhelmed by the cuteness of it all. He couldn’t help but soothe the boy’s arm to lift his spirits. “Actually, Mr Virat, I have a gift for you too. It’s why I asked...”

Virat had suspected such when he saw his attempts to hide a piece of paper behind him, but his heart melted upon hearing the confirmation. “Oliver, that’s so sweet of you! Thank you for thinking of me!”

Oliver wriggled eagerly, and Virat helped him keep his pillow upright so he could easily get the paper out. “I drew this photo of you and Mr Cummins yesterday, because you are my favourite batter and he is my favourite bowler.”

The paper trembled slightly in Oliver’s hands. Virat took it carefully, as if accepting a live grenade.

He flipped it over to see a drawing in crayons: stadium lights at the far corners, grass at the bottom, wickets and stumps to the left, and a cricket bat to the right. In the middle, a height-accurate depiction of Virat and Cummins as stick figures, except that Virat was wearing a yellow-and-green jersey with the number #30 splattered on, and Cummins was wearing a blue-and-orange shirt with the number #18.

Virat’s fingers clenched the paper. For a dizzying moment, the Aussie gold and Indian blue colours blurred. Was it merely a child’s fantasy, or a prophecy he was not yet ready to confront?

“— I swapped your shirts because I’ve seen in many sports matches where players exchange jerseys as a sign of sportsmanship. You two are my favourite cricketers, and I would love to see this happen one day. Do you like it, Mr Virat?”

Virat’s eyes crinkled with a gentle smile that spread across his face and heart, and he patted Oliver’s cheek as he stood up to move on to the next child. “I love it, Oliver. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

He folded the drawing carefully, slipping it into his pocket where it pressed against his wallet (and the note inside). In front of him, a chair creaked. Virat didn’t turn to look. He couldn’t.

Pat had a hidden talent he hadn’t yet shown to his teammates: his hands, usually curled around a cricket ball, were unexpectedly adept with embroidery threads and crafts. As he tied a knot on Jamie’s friendship bracelet, his needle slipped, stabbing his thumb. He inhaled sharply – not from the sting, but from the way Kohli’s voice had softened earlier. Like a glove. The phrase coiled around Pat’s lungs. Kohli knew. He had to. And the bastard was dangling it between them like a dare.

The crafts table was obviously designed for children. Pat’s knees pressed against the underside as he leaned forward to help Jamie with her beadwork, his thighs taking up what felt like half the room. “There you go!” he held up the finished bracelet, fingers lingering on the braided threads and dismissing thoughts of Kohli. Jamie beamed as if he’d just handed her the World Cup.

To his dismay, Kohli immediately entered the Crafts Room with another young girl, his laughter echoing from the far end of the room. It sounded warm and unguarded, so unlike the sharp beak he used on the pitch. Pat watched him as he knelt by the supply cupboards, selecting materials for himself and the girl, when he noticed his back pocket slightly bulging with what appeared to be… a folded drawing?

When Kohli stood up and started walking again, his eyes met Patty’s. Pat looked around at the already crowded table and noticed only two seats remaining: one directly beside him and the other opposite Jamie. He gestured for them to come and join him. Kohli agreed, without any objection.

Pat had expected Kohli to sit opposite Jamie, so when he suddenly felt a presence pressing against him at the empty chair, Pat inhaled sharply in surprise.

Kohli’s presence seemed to shrink the already cramped space. Their knees collided instantly – Pat jerked back like he’d been scalded, but there was nowhere else to go. The table was too small, the chairs too close. Every shift of Kohli’s legs made Pat’s pulse flutter.

“- Oops! Sorry, Mr. Pat,” Jamie giggled as her elbow bumped Pat’s ribs. He steadied her, but the movement made his knee press fully against Kohli’s under the table.

Neither of them moved away.

Heat seeped through the fabric of their jeans. Pat could feel the exact moment Kohli realised – his leg tensed, the muscle flexing against Pat’s. But he didn’t retreat. A silent challenge. Pat’s breath hitched – since when did Kohli run so hot?

“Hi, Mr Patrick! I’m Maya. Mr Virat and I are going to make a really shiny New Year’s card!" The young girl looked at Kohli as if he could bring stars down from the sky. Pat didn’t miss how Kohli’s hand quickly moved to the back of her rocking chair to stop her from falling.

“Hi, bubba! That sounds brilliant! Jamie and I were making friendship bracelets for each other!”

“Yah! Look at the one I’m making for him, Maya!” Jamie held up her bracelet, which had the letters “Best Bowler” put together meticulously.

Kohli remained silent throughout, his focus solely on the card. It was amusing, Pat thought, how he gave the same attention to this craft as he did when batting, even though he was genuinely only skilled at one of those activities. He was helping Maya glue sequins onto the card, but his fingers were uncharacteristically awkward. And he was too proud to ask for help. 

“You’re getting the glue everywhere”, Pat muttered, just to break the silence.

Kohli’s head snapped up. “Unlike you, I lack experience with delicate handiwork.” However, for once, Pat noticed there was no malice behind that line. It almost sounded like a compliment.

But then there it was, a deliberate press of Kohli’s knee against his. Like a game.

Like Kohli was signalling that he was trying to wind him up on purpose. That it was too late to back out of their game of cat-and-mouse now.

Despite himself, Pat couldn’t help but chuckle softly. What the fuck is happening?

The two men continued quietly working with the girls for a few more minutes, occasionally swapping materials. At one point, both Pat and Kohli reached for the hot glue gun simultaneously, and their pinkies brushed – a spark of static electricity where skin met skin. Kohli’s eyes flicked up, wide and questioning, and for once, Pat had no smirk ready. Just a heartbeat thudding where their hands almost tangled.

“Mr Pa-trick?” Maya said in a singsong voice.

Patty replied with the same energy, “Yes, Maya?”

“Do you have any children?”

Pat choked on something invisible, “Uhm, no. No kids. Just a lot of godchildren.” He then faux-whispered, “And a few crybaby batters I’ve terrorised.”

Virat retorted, “Terrorized? Is that what you call it when they score centuries off you?”

Maya pouted, their answer clearly disappointing her. Pat’s crafts partner must have noticed it too, because she soon shifted the focus to Kohli, “How about you, Mr Virat?”

Kohli giggled softly, “No, but I have a nephew I love more than life. Do you want to see him?”

And thank God for that, because Maya’s mood instantly brightened, “YES!”

Kohli reached into his back pocket and took out both his wallet and the folded drawing. He placed the drawing on the desk first before retrieving his nephew’s photo from the wallet.

It was only for a brief moment, but the wind from the fan lifted the flap of the drawing, and Pat saw its contents: A child had unmistakably drawn both of them, but Pat’s chest bore Virat’s jersey number, and vice versa.

His throat went dry. Was Kohli going to keep this drawing safe? Or was it just another trophy to stash away? Like he did the elbow pads?

Kohli passed the photo to Maya first, who then handed it to Jamie, and it finally reached Pat. The young boy was flashing his toothless grin, with the same mischievous spark in his eye that Kohli had when fielding. “He looks like he loves causing trouble.”

Kohli laughed, a deep baritone, unrestrained, as he took the photo back. “Aryaveer takes that after me.”

Kohli quickly slipped the photo back into his wallet, angling himself away from Pat just enough to conceal its contents. Strange. Not that Pat was prying in the first place.

It wasn’t until they had finished the crafts room session and Kohli and Maya had long since gone that Pat noticed a piece of paper which had fallen right under Kohli’s chair.

Pat only noticed it because he had bent down to pick up a pencil for Jamie. But he would recognise that piece of paper anywhere.

Hell, it was his own piece of paper. He had spent quite a bit on buying a new stationery set, and he took even longer to write that note.

The cursed note now stared back at him, unsigned but unmistakable. Kohli had indeed kept it.

He cared. That damn son of a bitch cared enough to keep the note on him and bring it here.

He picked it up, and the paper quivered in his grip – or was that his hand? The paper no longer felt as smooth as when he had wrapped it as a gift. It was crumpled at the edges, as if someone had held it in their hands many times. He smoothed out the creases unconsciously, much like one would stroke their pet.

The paper carried the faintest trace of sandalwood – Kohli’s scent – and saltwater, clinging to the words Pat had scribbled in a moment of foolish earnestness. How many times had Kohli unfolded this, rereading it like a prayer?

Pat carefully slipped the note into the front pocket of his jeans as he left the room. He wasn’t ready to face the New Year with this old shadow still hanging over him.

He began tracking his scent down the corridors like a hound.

The world tilted on its axis the moment Virat entered the hospital. It wasn’t the sterile smell of antiseptic or the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped wasps that unsettled him – it began with the way his pulse faltered when Cummins’ hand stayed in his, warm and steady, as if he’d forgotten they were meant to hate each other.

He hurriedly excused himself from the nurses and ran off to gather his thoughts alone. The best spot he could find was a darkened supply room at the corner of the ground floor.

The memory clung to him like sweat: the rough callouses on Cummins’ fingers, the way his thumb had just pressed there, against the flutter of Virat’s wrist, as if he could gauge the turmoil beneath his skin.

This morning, he had boarded the plane, ready to strangle the man. Now? Now he was lost in some surreal limbo where Cummins sat beside sick children with a patience Virat had never seen on the pitch, where his laughter — when has Cummins ever laughed? — rumbled low and unguarded, where every accidental brush of knees under cramped craft tables sent sparks racing up Virat’s spine.

It was worse than facing bouncers. At least on the pitch, Virat knew his position.

Now, the ground hadn’t just shifted – it had cracked open, and Virat was hanging on the edge, staring into a chasm where Cummins’ laughter echoed, warm and disarming. No helmets, no guards. Just freefall.

Slam!

Virat’s trance was broken when the Aussie pacer somehow managed to breach this safe space as well. Not that he could see Cummins, of course, since the lights were still off, but Virat was beginning to become very familiar with the aquatic scent that followed the man.

Virat’s back was still facing the door, “How did you…”

“Didn’t mean to. Just needed some air.”

Something in his curt voice implied to Virat that the bowler was lying. “Yeah, sure. In a supply closet with no windows?” Behind him, he heard Cummins turn on the lights.

“You kept it.”

“Huh?” Virat spun round as their conversation suddenly shifted to something entirely unexpected, and he could now see Cummins glowing beneath the soft yellow lights.

Cummins took a step closer. Virat instinctively stepped back. “All this time. You knew. Didn’t you?” Each syllable sounded like an accusation to Virat.

So he heard me. Virat twisted the corner of his mouth, voice cracking, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Pat swept his hand across his face in agitation, “You’re a shit liar, Kohli. Your tells are worse than your cover drives.”

Hearing his name on Cummins’ tongue made Virat’s heart jump erratically, “I am serious! What are you tal –“

Cummins now moved towards Virat, further closing the distance between them. He pulled Virat’s hand into the middle and smacked a piece of paper on his palm.

A paper whose touch Virat had memorised as instinctively as breathing.

Shit. It must have fallen out when he took out Aryaveer’s photo.

Virat spent the entire last week imagining how the person would have sounded, but now, he was finally hearing Cummins say those words aloud himself: “Cricket’s no fun without decent opponents. Don’t make me bowl to ghosts. Take care.” Each word cut deeper than a knife.

Virat looked at the piece of paper, then at those eyes flashing with anger, hurt, and something else, and finally back at his palm. He gulped, “Why does it matter? You’ve made it clear what I am to you – Another tally on your ‘Best Bowler’ bracelet.” His thumb twitched beneath the paper, revealing the lie. “You don’t care about this, and neither do I.”

Cummins shook his head furiously, clearly not falling for it. “Then why’d you call it a charity case? Why did you take them off in the second innings at the MCG?”

Virat wished he could have told him the truth. But he couldn’t, not when it would make him look like a hopeless fool. So he stayed silent, gazing up at the peeling ceiling now.

Cummins’ voice now dropped to a whisper, “Why were you carrying me around like I’m some sort of fucking secret you’re ashamed to admit?”

Something in Virat snapped after hearing the hurt in the Australian’s voice: he didn’t have the right to act so entitled. “Because it was you! You don’t get to be kind and cruel to me in the same breath! You don’t get to throw missiles at me and tell me I can’t score a hundred and then gift me elbow pads like some fucking consolation trophy and ask my friends for updates on my injuries! You don’t get to say ‘Take care’ and then bowl at my ribs! You don’t get to make fun of me –”

“— Make fun of you?!” Cummins now placed his hands on his hips, closing in yet another inch between them. “What about the joke you’ve turned me into? Every damned time I step out into the field, I’m looking for ways to get you out. When I’m not on the field, I keep studying the way you play. My mates think I’ve gone mad, but they don’t understand that…”

Is he hearing himself? “Understand what? That you are obsessed with me?”

“You want to call me obsessed? Fine! But look at yourself.” Six inches now separated them. “How many times did you unfold this note? Were you hoping I’d signed it? So you could finally have a name to curse? How many times did you watch that interview of mine?”

Five inches.

Virat took another step back, his pulse racing at his throat as Cummins leaned in. “You think I don’t see you? Every flinch, every fucking tell? You’re transparent, Kohli. Even when you lie.”

Virat withdrew his hand immediately, crushing the note back into his back pocket as if curling into himself could make him feel less exposed and vulnerable. He took another step back, feeling his left heel touch the foot of the supplies shelf. Behind him, the bandages and IV bags rattled. “You tell me the truth, then. Why did you bring me up in that interview? Why did you get me elbow pads like some bloody slap in the face? Why can’t you mind your own fucking business?”

Cummins closed the gap, their chests now just brushing against each other. 

Four inches.

Virat observed as those blue eyes scrutinised his face, as if he were fighting within himself, just as Virat struggled with the voices in his mind and heart. Then, as suddenly as they had started shouting, Cummins sighed, and Virat felt all the resistance drain away. “Because I hate you. I hate that I paid attention to how you never wear elbow pads during training or matches. I hate that I considered getting you those guards before Starc messed up that one ball. I hate that you think it was an attempt to mock you. I hate that I ever wrote that fucking note. I hate that you’ve kept my note close to you like a prayer but called me a ‘charity case’ in front of our teammates.”

Three inches.

“I hate that while I spent the past half-decade battling my own bloody body, you were out there proving to the world that you were the best batter. I hate that every time I step onto the field, people are waiting for me to get hurt again just so they can say ‘Told you so, he’s no good.’ I hate that I have to prove my place in the team every single match. I hate that the only way to do so is by taking a wicket that actually counts, which happens to be yours. And I hate that you refuse to take care of yourself. I hate that I know your right thumb twitches when you are nervous, but you play it off as adrenaline.” Virat flinched, hearing that, the memory still too fresh. “I hate that I memorised the way you adjust your grip when your back hurts. I hate that, to prove I am the best, you need to be at your best too. Don’t you see?”

Virat’s lips parted, his voice barely audible as he stepped back to drown in the storm of those eyes, “See what?”

Cummins’ hands wrapped around Kohli’s lower back before he could fully collide with the shelves, cradling him like a catch he refused to drop, shielding his injury like he’d shielded Virat’s pride many times this series – unseen, unthanked. “I meant it. You’re no use to me broken, Kohli. I spent years as a ghost in my own career. I won’t be one in yours.”

Virat’s gaze briefly lingered on Cummins’ lips, his uneven breath matching the hum of the lights. “You’re only a bowler. It’s not your job to ‘fix’ what’s broken, Cummins.” The arms around his waist tightened in silent defiance. Virat’s lungs seemed to forget how to breathe. The shelf rattled more, but neither did Cummins pull him closer, nor did Virat push him away. At some point, Virat wasn’t sure if he had heard footsteps approaching or if it was just his blood rushing in his ears.

Two inches.

A question lingered in the space between their lips: What now?

One inc –

Virat finally pushed the taller man with shaky hands the moment he heard the door unlock, but not before whispering, “This isn’t over”.

“— I swear, Christie, it’s probably just a rat in there —" Cummins’ back was facing the two nurses, his eyes still scanning the older man’s face, like a rejected puppy. “— Oh! It’s you two!”

Christie shrieked what was clearly a fake laugh, “We thought a mouse was in here, tearing through our supplies!” She eyed their reddened faces for a beat too long. “What are you doing here anyway? It’s so hot in here!” Cummins looked at Virat one final time, then spun around to face the nurses, expression perfectly neutral. “Errr, and claustrophobic! You’re supposed to be at the reception anyway! Hurry along now.”

Cummins left the room immediately, without glancing back to see if Virat was following.

The door clicked shut behind him and the nurses. Virat slumped against the shelves, the note crumpled in his pocket – a confession he still couldn’t voice. Outside, somewhere in the crowd, Cummins walked away. Virat wondered if he’d ever stop chasing his shadow.

Chapter Text

When Virat left the supply room, the corridor's lights blazed into his eyes, relentless in their glare. His head throbbed, not only from the brightness but also from the chaos of whatever the hell had just taken place inside. He needed a moment to pause, narrow his eyes, and readjust before following the sound of the commotion. 

By the time he arrived at the reception, he almost wished the earlier lights had blinded him instead.

Because there he was: Cummins, kneeling between the two girls from the Crafts Room, their small hands clutching him as if he were some sort of Superman. As they whispered something in his ear, he tilted his head down closer to listen, his laughter forming lines around his eyes that Virat had only glimpsed in stolen moments after match wins, raw and unguarded. Cummins let them pull him towards the final group photograph. The same hands that had cinched Virat’s waist minutes earlier, holding him as if he were fragile, now high-fived Maya, gentle as a summer tide.

Bile travelled up Virat’s throat.

Five minutes ago, Cummins breathed a confession: “I spent years as a ghost in my own career. I won’t be one in yours.” Now, he appeared all sunshine and patience, as if Virat alone had been trusted with the storm brewing within him.

It made him want to sneer. Or punch a wall. Or be sick. Or –

A nurse brushed past, jostling Virat back into reality. He clenched his jaw as he made his way to the photo area, burdened by the unbearable weight of a truth he couldn’t unhear.

He knew that terror intimately. The constant dread of never being enough, of needing to prove your worth through blood and bone, because talent alone was never enough when competing against millions. His father’s voice echoed: “If you can do it with your sweat and sacrifice, then play. Otherwise, pack your bags and go home. No shortcuts.” And yet Cummins…

He didn’t hate me. He never did.

And that truth?

That was infinitely worse.

Then, Virat felt a hand tug his fingers, and he looked down to see Oliver beaming up at him with the same stars in his eyes, asking if Virat could stand beside him in the group photograph.

“Of course, sweetheart." Virat kneeled down instinctively and extended one knee for Oliver. “Come here.”

Oliver giggled at the thought of being so close to his favourite batter. For a moment, Virat allowed the child’s euphoria to briefly overshadow the turmoil within him. He let himself forget the hands that had held him as if he were sacred, and he let himself forget the man who had truly meant every word.

Shortly after the photograph, Virat and Cummins were both quietly escorted back to the car, signalling the end of a rather successful mission jointly organised by the BCCI and CA. Virat slid into the car first, noticing the initial hesitation of the bowler, only to freeze when Cummins’ palm seared through his shirt, fingers splaying possessively over the same spot they’d cradled in the supply room. Virat found himself leaning into the touch before catching himself and clearing his throat, as if it could help dismiss his actions.

The touch sparked another memory from the supply room, this time of Virat’s voice pleading, “This isn’t over”.

When the bowler finally settled in, with a noticeable gap between them and their knees not touching, the driver quietly started the engine and drove off in silence. No music was played on the journey back, and Virat felt it was for the best because his thoughts were loud enough for all three of them in the vehicle.

All those times Virat mistook Cummins’s focus for fury – the crease between his brows, the way his gaze tracked Virat’s every twitch – it wasn’t hatred. It was something far more dangerous: respect. Perhaps even worse; it was a need to measure himself against Virat’s fire, to prove he belonged in his light.

He looked at the bowler now, who was on his phone, hurriedly typing something. The soft blue light from the screen reflected on his face, and Virat paused to examine his side profile illuminated by it: his hair, often gelled up on match days, now fell softly across his forehead. He had very expressive, thick eyebrows, and the long dark eyelashes fluttered in perfect contrast to his blue eyes, which looked as lively under the lights as a body of water. His cheeks had just a slight salmon-like hue; was it always there? 

Virat’s gaze then dropped to his lips for the second time that day – it was something he had become increasingly aware of doing recently, as Cummins kept occupying his thoughts. Cummins was pursing his lips at first but then broke into a radiant smile when he heard a new notification sound, clearly receiving some good news from someone. The kind of smile that could power a thousand solar panels, not that Virat would ever admit it.

Cummins’ smile broadened, slow and knowing, as he tilted his phone screen down, “You’re staring, Kohli.”

Virat clicked his tongue like a child caught red-handed, swiftly correcting him with “Observing”.

“Mm-hmm.” Cummins brushed his lower lip, a casual yet irritating gesture. “Observe this, then: You’re terrible at being subtle.”

“Um… I wanted to talk,” Virat said, scratching the back of his head, uncertain how to proceed. “Was waiting for you to be free.”

Cummins chuckled, adopting a slightly more formal tone this time as the air of nonchalance from the hospital gradually dissipated. “I am free, no worries. Hoff and Mitch can wait for my replies.”

“Starc?”

“Ttch. Marsh.” He locked his phone and finally looked up at Virat. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

Virat’s pulse hammered in his throat. The words lodged there, half-formed and terrifying: “I wan –“

The car hit a pothole, jolting them together. It sent Virat lurching sideways, his thigh pressing firmly against Cummins’, the heat of him searing through the fabric. Cummins’ hand clenched around his forearm, fingers tightening just short of causing pain. “Careful,” he muttered, voice low. His thumb stroked once, absentmindedly, before he seemed to realise what he was doing.

Virat felt the heat rising to his ears, “Thank you”.

Cummins spoke to the driver, telling him to proceed carefully before pulling back. “No biggie.” Virat immediately missed the phantom of his touch on his forearm.

“No, I mean, I just wanted to thank you.”

Cummins tilted his head to the side, his brows knitting together. “For?”

Virat took a deep breath, emphasising just enough to make Cummins smirk cheekily in anticipation. “For the elbow guards.”

The smirk disappeared from his opponent’s face, now replaced by a sincerity Virat believed he could get used to seeing. “Oh – Uh, yeah. No worries. Water under the bridge now.”

“I did know, by the way. Since the night of the party, I’ve known.”

Those expressive eyebrows were now arching, and one of them lifted to brush Cummins’ hairline: “How did you work it out, then?”

“I didn’t. I overheard your teammates at the bar, who genuinely care for you. They were sympathising with you because they all thought I wouldn’t like your gift.”

Cummins huffed, “Weren’t wrong, were they?”

Virat chuckled, partly to lighten the mood and partly because he realised how childish it all seemed in hindsight, “No, no, I didn’t, at first. I really thought you were mocking me. But then I heard Hazlewood telling Head how you got really worried when Starc hit my elbow, and you dragged him to the shop after stumps… Made him throw at you, right?”

“Jeez,” Cummins rubbed a hand over his face, “How drunk were they? Did they also tell you how much they cost?”

The weight of the situation bore down on him as Virat realised he was the centre of Cummins’ attention during the second test. He strained, but couldn’t hide the smugness in his voice, “Only that you paid the staff for working overtime.”

Cummins now hid his face behind both hands, ears burning pink. “This is so embarrassing.”

“I really liked them, you know.” Cummins now looked up from his hands, eyes twinkling like a child's who had just received the birthday present they desperately wanted. “That night, I was coming to the balcony to thank you for those.” Cummins drew in a breath and looked over at the driver. Kohli’s gaze followed suit and understood the silent message: Do not bring up the mistletoe in public. He nodded before continuing, “But then we fought as usual, and I hated those guards even more than I hated you.”

Cummins now leaned back against the headrest, his gaze fixed on Virat’s face, “If you hated them so much, why did you wear them out on training the next day?”

Virat traced the seam of his jeans, avoiding Cummins’ suddenly blazing gaze. “I wore them because…” Because your hands touched them first. Because your handwriting was on that note. “Because they worked.” A coward’s answer.

Cummins’ smile dimmed slightly, but his eyes remained fixed on Virat’s mouth, as if he could taste the unspoken words there. “Hmm. I’ll take that. You’re welcome. So will you wear them in the future, or is King Kohli’s pride too big to handle those?”

“Hey!” Virat now twiddled his thumbs sitting on his thighs, “I really don’t like it when people call me King. I’m just an average boy from Delhi who dreamt big.”

“And worked hard to achieve them.” Virat offered a gentle smile to his counterpart, grateful for his grace. But the sparkle in Cummins’ eyes returned, this time playful, “So whenever I want to make you angry, all I need to do is call you King and you’ll bring your A-game to the pitch?”

“I’m always angry when I play Australia, especially against you. So don’t worry.”

Cummins chuckled, “Alright, Hulk! ‘Always angry’, eh? I don’t doubt it.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a while, with only the constant hum of the engine and Virat admiring the scenic views outside the window, when he sensed Cummins shuffling beside him again.

“Hey, Kohli, mind if I ask you something?”

Virat now looked back at the bowler, who suddenly appeared much younger and more carefree.

“Nothing more for us to do. Go on.”

“Why did you really block me? I mean, people have said worse things about you. Surely you don’t go around blocking everyone!"

I don’t, because they are not you.

But this time, Virat couldn’t find a single phrase to hide behind, so he swallowed his words instead.

Cummins searched his face for an answer, but when Virat simply looked at him with helpless eyes, Cummins’ grip on his phone tightened, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s cool. You don’t have to tell me! Just, would’ve been nice to know, I suppose.” With the amount of observation Virat had made lately, he could tell Cummins was forcing himself to smile now. It was as if he was hurt by the response, or lack thereof, but too proud to admit it. Something Virat often does himself. He muttered, “Guess some things don’t change” to himself, but Virat heard it either way.

And because Virat enjoyed viewing everything as a challenge, he quietly set out to prove Cummins wrong. He took his phone, opened WhatsApp and iMessages, and unblocked the contact “Prick Cummins” while he was present. Instagram and Twitter, unfortunately, would still have to wait.

He wasn’t going to tell him about it, not yet. Virat was starting to enjoy this game of chase they were playing with each other. Let’s see how long it takes him to realise he was wrong about me. Let the prick work for it.

Soon after, the car smoothly came to a stop at Virat’s hotel. “Well, Mr Kohli, it was a pleasure to drive you around today! Any New Year’s plans?” the driver chirped.

Virat had one hand ready on the door handle, “Just the fireworks with the Indian team… How about you?”

Cummins once again looked surprised that Virat wanted to start a chat with him, “Um… Meeting some mates, just texted them.”

Virat nodded, suddenly swallowing what felt very much like jealousy. “Right. Well, happy new year, you lot!”

“Happy 2019 soon, Mr. Kohli!” Virat then looked at the bowler, waiting to hear his words like a dry land waiting for the first raindrop.

“See you next year on the field,” he smirked, and Virat somehow knew exactly what was going to come out of his mouth, “King!”

“You’re an asshole…” Virat chuckled despite himself. “Bye!” The last thing Virat saw as he shut the car door was a reciprocal smile on Cummins’ face. He was certain that image would replay in his mind on a loop until the next match day.

As the cold air conditioning in the hotel lobby hit Virat’s face, he shook his head in fond disbelief: he really is a prick.

Chapter Text

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

“Oh, Marsh, thank goodness you’re here!” Josh walked past to let Mitch in, “Look at what I have to deal with.”

Mitch looked around hurriedly at his best friend’s house, spotless except for Pat himself, who was pacing like a caged animal, hands clenched in his hair. Josh stayed nearby, appearing torn between worry and frustration.

“I cancelled a date with an actual human for this, Patto. If you’re not hemorrhaging or arrested, I’m tossing you into the harbour myself.”

Hoff closed the door with a sigh. “He’s been muttering about ‘stupid charity day’ and ‘elbow guards’ for an hour! When I asked him to explain, he just growled, ‘Wait for Mitch.’”

Marsh stepped into Pat’s path, blocking his next frantic turn. “Earth to Patty! Hi there!” He grabbed Pat’s shoulders, giving him a slight shake. “I ditched my date for this, Cummo. Start talking before I strangle you with your own shoelaces.”

Pat blinked fiercely, as if he had just realised that his friend had arrived at his house. “Oh. You’re here.” His voice was eerily calm, like the eye of a hurricane.

“Yes, I am. We both are,” Mitch deadpanned. “Now, care to tell us why I am spending a countdown with you when I could be out there enjoying myself?”

Pat’s gaze darted between them, his nails digging half-moons into his palms, “I’m fucked.”

Hoff yelled from behind, “Seriously? This revelation could’ve been a text!”

Mitch rolled his eyes, “Like you’d reply to our texts in real-time!”

Josh feigned offence, “I came here for Patty immediately, didn’t I? I do read messages, thank you very much.”

“Once in a blue moon.” Mitch shoved Pat’s stomach, “Come on, spit it out. What is this ‘elbow guards’ Hoff is talking about?”

“My best guess? It’s still about Virat… I’m right, aren’t I?”

Patty now sat on the sofa, leg trembling and helplessly gazing up at his two best friends. Hesitantly, he nodded.

Mitch ran a hand through his hair, “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re worse than a high school girl having a crush! Don’t you two hate each other? Move on!”

Josh sat to the left of Pat, “So what happened? Did he find out you gifted him those?”

Suddenly, life returned to Pat’s body, and he shouted in Hoff’s ear. “He knew since the night of the party, no thanks to you!” 

Josh clutched his ears, “What did I do?”

“He said he overheard you and Heady wallowing in pity for me at the bar!”

Mitch took the empty space on the right, “Woah, woah… ‘He said’? You two talked? Like a civil conversation? You spent six months trying to murder each other on the pitch, and now the Virat Kohli has you stress-pacing over a gift? What are you? Thirteen?”

Pat threw the cushion in his hand at Mitch’s chest and said, “I’m grabbing a beer before I talk about it. Anyone else?”

Not hearing any protest, Pat took out three chilled bottles from his fridge before heading back to the sofa.

Pat dramatically plopped back down in the middle, taking a long swig of beer, “So… I was with him all day today.”

Mitch choked on his beer, droplets spraying all over Pat’s newly bought rug. “Did the Sun rise from the West today?”

“Langer forced us.”

Hoff’s eyes gleamed with new understanding, “Ahh, that’s why JL looked ready to strangle you yesterday.”

“Yeah… They said we were being too childish, ruining their reputations as cricketing boards –“

“– Hah! You could say that again!” Pat’s glare could have melted steel. Unfortunately, Mitch was fireproof.

“… Since the whole ‘charity case’ jab blew up on the Net, they thought it would be the perfect punishment for us to actually do some charity.”

Josh chuckled now, “Holy shit, they’re treating you like schoolgoing kids. So where did they send you?”

“At the Children’s Hospital.”

Mitch now rested his head in Pat’s lap, clearly too comfortable enjoying his best friend’s misery. “I take it didn’t go well? That’s why you’re having this emergency meeting with us?”

Pat looked up at the ceiling instead.

“Cider, it didn’t go well, right?”

Pat gulped, his Adam’s apple looking exceptionally gigantic from Mitch’s eye level.

Mitch lightly tapped Pat’s chin now. “Right?!”

Pat swatted his hand away, “Depends what you define as ‘well’.”

Josh now leaned in closer to the two of them, “In Pat’s dream world, which he would never admit to himself, ‘going well’ probably means they finally made up and then made out. In our practical world, ‘going well’ likely means they both finally acted like adults. So, which is it, Patty?”

Pat started fiddling with the label on his bottle. “Both? Neither?” He threw his head back on the headrest. “Gah, I don’t know any more. Today has been odd. Like, odder than my oddest dream...”

Hoff put his arm around Pat’s shoulder and said, “Hey, Hey, Patty, let’s take it step by step, yeah? So, yesterday Coach told you that you both had to be here. Then what happened?”

“I flew to Sydney last night, had brekkie with mum this morning, and I bought coffee for Kohli too on the way.”

Mitch giggled on his lap, but Josh and Pat ignored him. “That’s good. An olive branch – How did he react?”

“Well, he was still being annoying and deliberately took the flat white when I said that was my preference.”

Now Mitch bellowed. “Mate, he’s riling you up on purpose, and you keep falling for his bait! This is classic romcom stuff!”

“There is no rom or com in this story, Bison.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Cummo… I know a movie when I see one.” He purred in his lap now, akin to a cat.

“Then what happened? What did you do when you reached the hospital?”

Pat looked at Josh now, his expression sincere. “Uhm, right off the bat, some kids asked him if we hated each other. He deflected that question. Professional. Then we took a photo together with a handshake…” Pat recalled the way his thumb accidentally took Kohli’s pulse. “It was… strange? I’m not sure... It felt like being struck by lightning. For both of us – But not in a bad way?”

Mitch sang out loud, “Romcom!”, which earned a slap on his shoulder from both men.

“Then we visited a special ward and spent some time talking to some kids. That’s where I found out he knew about the guards.”

Josh took a swig of his beer, “What exactly were his words?”

Pat scrunched his face now, trying to relive that moment, “He was talking to this boy, and I reckon he didn’t know I could hear everything they were talking about. The kid asked him about Christmas presents, and he said he received this ‘really lovely gift’, referring to the elbow guards.”

Josh shifted in his seat now. “So, Virat liked your gift? And you’re freaking out because of that? Shouldn’t you be happy, mate? You ate my brains worrying over that!”

Mitch sighed dramatically, “Life was so much easier when the two of them just wanted to murder each other on the field, and not gaze into each other’s eyes like you both wanted to fuck.”

Pat covered Mitch’s mouth with his hands, “I swear Mitchy, one more stupid thing out of your mouth and I will toss you into the harbour. Good luck swimming back to your date afterwards.”

“Hmm, but how did you know that he knows that it was you who gifted him the guards?”

Pat’s mind now took him back to the Crafts Room, the way his hand trembled when he saw his familiar handwriting staring back at him. “Remember the note I wrote and put in the box last second?”

“Yeah?”

“I found it on the floor, where he sat earlier.” Pat decided to leave out how they were playing tug-of-war with their knees at the same spot. “He kept the fucking note, Hoff. After calling it a charity case. What the fuck does that mean?”

Mitch raised his hand, like a student. “I promise, no funny comment this time – I don’t know what note you’re talking about. What was on it?”

Pat accidentally crushed the bottle cap, but fortunately Josh understood the emotion and stepped in to reply, “Oh, he wrote something along the lines of ‘Take care, bowling is boring if I’m not bowling to you.’ Yeah, something like that.”

Mitch placed a finger on his chin, adopting a thinking pose. “Know what I think? I believe he loved the note and kept it close as a reminder. Maybe… Maybe he doesn’t hate you like he claimed.”

Josh interrupted now, “Which brings me back to my earlier question – Why are you all worked up if he liked your gift? That was all you wanted!”

Pat angrily downed the rest of his bottle in one go, but the alcohol couldn't wash away the image of Kohli’s pure joy and vulnerability with the children. “Because, I thought I hated him! But today,” he closed his eyes, and the memory of them being so close he could feel Kohli’s breath on his face ignited. “I don’t – It’s not – Fuck.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Today… I didn’t hate him. Not even a little.”

He saw Mitch and Josh exchanging a look, passing a smile wordlessly. “What? Why are you both grinning like that? I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

“I’m not going to say anything because you’ll just push me into the sea... Hoff, wanna enlighten him?”

“I don’t think he’s emotionally ready to hear it yet, Mitchy.” Josh smirked, which earned a flying cushion in his direction.

“Alright alright, I’ll say it… Patty, mate, you like him.” Then, a little softly, “Like, like him like him.”

“Fuck off – No I don’t!” Although, deep down, Pat couldn’t stop thinking about how his body betrayed him every time and kept craving contact with the Indian. He knew his best friends were right; they always were.

Mitch finally lifted off his lap and tousled Pat’s hair as he sat up, “Patto, it’s alright. You don’t need to lie to yourself, or lie to us. We’ll keep your secret safe.”

“Stop it, guys! I really don’t!” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He stood up to grab another beer before his world fell apart.

Pat’s breath came quickly, his chest heaving. This was bad, because no amount of ice baths or physio could mend the way his traitorous heart pounded at the thought of him: the curve of Kohli’s smirk, the way his voice dipped when he was annoyed, the fucking note he’d clung to as if it meant something. Pat dug his nails into his palms, but the sting couldn’t drown out the truth clawing up his throat: I want him.

The realisation hit like slow poison, seeping through his veins – he wanted Virat Kohli. Not as an adversary to defeat, but as a man to understand in quiet moments, to trace the stories behind every scar and smirk; to have, to unravel, to press into until they both forgot whose skin was whose.

He was fucked, because hating Virat Kohli had been easy. But this? This wasn’t a rivalry any longer. It was hunger – sharp and relentless – carving Pat hollow. And the worst part? He didn’t want it to stop.

Hoff's voice snapped him out of his spiral, “Okay, alright, even if you aren’t in love with him. At least you can admit this: You’re not rivals. You never wanted to be. You crave his attention because you want to earn his respect. You don’t want his wicket, Pat. You want his ‘yes’.”

Pat pressed the cold bottle against his face, trying to soothe his reddening face. “I… I may have told him that today.”

Mitch now hurried over to where Pat was standing and said, “Tell us more.”

“I… confronted him about the note. Asked him why he kept it and if he knew it was me all along. Then he said I was being ‘kind and cruel’ to him at the same time.” Pat’s breath involuntarily hitched when he remembered the way Kohli’s body vibrated with hidden emotions – the way he had him cornered, staring into those eyes flaming with fury, and maybe, Pat hoped, something more.

Hoff spoke up from across the room, still on the sofa, “You know? Weirdly, I understand where Virat is coming from. I’d be confused as hell too if a batsman mentioned me unprovoked in a press conference, saying he’d like to smash me for fours and sixes, and then gave me a very pricey gift with personal meaning behind it.”

Pat threw another bottle to Hoff from where he was standing, “Yeah, may have given him some mixed signals there.”

Mitch waved his arms in the air, “None of that matters. Tell us this: Are you two friendly now? Friends, perhaps?” He wriggled his eyebrows, indicating mischief, “Something more?”

“When I texted you both, we were in the car on our way back... And we were – uh, talking? Making jokes? That’s why I panicked and needed to see you two – What does that make us?”

Hoff replied, “Friends,” while Mitch said, “Lovers” at the same time. This time, another cushion was thrown, from Josh’s direction to Mitch’s.

Pat ignored the strange feeling in his stomach at the thought of him and Kohli ever being lovers and decided to expand on Josh’s reply. “I don’t think we are friends. Not yet. He still has me blocked and won’t tell me why.”

Mitch spoke up again, “Ugh, I hate when you start sulking, Patto. Look at how you’re pouting! Come here!”

Mitch pulled Pat into a hug, and he finally relaxed into it after a few minutes. As Mitch cradled his head, Hoff secretly took a photo of the two of them before running over to join the hug as well.

Mitch broke away first, “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. It’s currently 10 pm. I am going to order some pizza and more beers. We’re going to watch something terrible on the telly and laugh at it together, and then you are going to forget about Virat Kohli. Leave him behind in 2018. You can send him one final message on the blocked chat to get it off your chest once and for all. But in 2019, no more of that anymore. You are Patrick James Cummins, for God’s sake! You can get any man or woman you want!”

“That’s an odd way to approach it, but Bison’s right. If Virat is really causing you that much stress, maybe it’s time to let it go once and for all.”

Mitch handed Pat his phone, who gingerly took it from his hands. “What do I even text?”

“He’s not gonna see it, right? So, whatever! Who cares?”

Pat bit his bottom lip and slowly opened the WhatsApp chat with Kohli. His thumbs tapped the screen mindlessly before he finally thought of something to say.

His heart told him to type “I hate that you have this effect on me”, but he eventually settled on something a little less on-the-nose:

“I don’t know what you do to me. But maybe you’ll finally unblock me this year. Happy 2019, Kohli. – PC”

He flipped his screen to Mitch and Josh, “This okay?”

Marsh picked up the phone again, pressed send, and then flung Pat’s phone onto the table without a second glance. “Sent. And now you will not look at your phone for the rest of the night!”

“Speaking of phones, I just took a really lovely photo of you two – Look!” He passed his phone around to the other men, his chest swelling with pride at his own skills.

In the photo, Pat’s back was facing the camera while Mitch’s arm was slung possessively over his shoulders, kissing Patty’s forehead to calm him down.

“Oh my god, Hoff, Airdrop that to me right now! You know how to Airdrop, right?”

“Marsh, you ass. Of course I do… Sent.”

“Patty, I’m posting it on Instagram. Post, not stories, with a truly romantic caption. I deserve that after your emergency. I look too good in this picture!”

Pat gently rolled his eyes, still in disbelief at how he became best friends with two seemingly opposite personalities. “Can I at least know what it will be?”

“Hmmm... Let me think. ‘Entering 2019 with my love, and many, many years to come’ with loads of hearts. Sounds good, right Joshy? I’ll give you the photography credits, don’t worry.”

“I’m not on Instagram, so I don’t know what will get you the most likes. But yeah, fair enough.” He gave Pat a bright smile, “Who wouldn’t want to welcome the New Year with Australia's most handsome fast bowler?”

Pat laughed now, a roar rising from his belly. “God, you two are insufferable.”

“See how you didn’t deny the ‘most handsome fast bowler’ bit? You know it too! Now tell me, which pizza do you want?”

As the three men settled into domestic comfort, somewhere under the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Virat’s phone flashed brighter than any fireworks in the sky that night. Virat’s thumb hovered over the notification:

New message from Prick Cummins: I don’t know what you do to me. But maybe you’ll finally unblock me this year. Happy 2019, Kohli. – PC

For a heartbeat, the fireworks froze, along with his breath: His New Year was unravelling before it even began.

Chapter Text

The first firework of the night burst over Sydney Harbour, a chrysanthemum of gold against the deep violet sky. A collective “Ooh” rose from the crowd, but Virat didn’t hear it. The world had shrunk, pressed into the sudden, jarring weight in his pocket and the notification searing into the retina of his mind.

“WhatsApp: New message from Prick Cummins”

His heart did something it only did when he was chasing close games – a hard, visceral slam against his ribs that left him breathless. The noise of the celebration – Rohit’s loud laughter, the beat of the music, Pant shouting about the view – faded into a dull, distant hum, as if he’d been plunged underwater. His thumb hovered over his screen…

After today... After the supply closet... The secrets revealed between them... What could he possibly...

He opened the chat.

“I don’t know what you do to me. But maybe you’ll finally unblock me this year. Happy 2019, Kohli. – PC”

Virat’s world didn’t just tilt; it upended itself, spilling every certainty he had clung to for months. The solid ground of their rivalry became shifting sand beneath his feet.

Disbelief struck like a cold wave – He read the message ten times, the words blurring and sharpening… This wasn’t a taunt. It wasn’t a challenge, either. It was a raw, unfiltered nerve, exposed and offered up – A confession sent into the void, a message he was never meant to see, and it felt more intimate than a touch.

Then, Virat felt nothing but confusion, a dense and disorienting sensation. “I don’t know what you do to me.”

The sentence echoed, with each word like a puzzle piece from a different box, refusing to fit the familiar, hateful image of the snarling bowler he’d built in his mind. It was too vulnerable. Too disarmingly honest. It hinted at a loss of control that reflected his own, and that was terrifying.

His eyes locked onto the next word. “finally”. A sharp, unexpected pang of guilt pierced through him, sharp and acidic. The word was heavy with the ghostly weight of every failed message, every bounced-back notification he’d never received, but now, horrifyingly, knew existed. It spoke of a persistence, a dogged focus on him that he’d dismissed as mere gamesmanship.

A vivid, unwelcome image flashed in his mind: Pat, alone, in a silent hotel room, frustration etched on his face as he stared at a red exclamation mark. The image stirred a strange, aching pull in Virat’s chest, a feeling suspiciously like regret.

But then his gaze fell on the signature “– PC”. Not an anonymous smiley face on a note like the elbow guards; this was deliberate and personal — a direct connection from Patrick Cummins to him. A slow, fond smile touched his lips as the realisation dawned, warmth spreading through the chill of his confusion – He knows I have his number saved. I had to block him, after all. He knows I’ll see his name. He’s making sure I know it’s him.

That clever, infuriating, utterly perplexing bastard.

A foreign sensation unfurled in his chest, a quiet, hopeful hum that felt entirely separate from the booming fireworks. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years, not since the early days of a new relationship – the thrill of the unknown, the promise of something new.

In his bones, for the first time in a long while, he sensed a flicker of certainty – a promising feeling about 2019.

His thumbs moved of their own accord, typing a reply that felt like a white flag and a challenge all at once, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his chest: “Consider yourself unblocked :)”

His finger hovered over the send button – a nervous, hopeful thrill tingling beneath his skin. This was it. A step across a line they’d been toeing for weeks, into a space he didn’t understand but suddenly, desperately wanted to explore.

“Oye, Virat!” Rohit’s voice, loud and full of drunken glee, shattered the moment like glass. An arm was slung around his shoulders; a phone shoved under his nose. “Dekh bechare Cummins ko! (Look at poor Cummins!) Marsh ne usey apna boyfriend bana liya hai! (Marsh has made him his boyfriend!) Mast caption daala hai – Entering 2019 with my love! (What a caption he’s posted…!)”

The warmth in Virat’s chest instantly turned cold. He looked at the Instagram post on Rohit’s screen – there they were: Mitch Marsh, his face shining with genuine affection, pressing a firm kiss on Pat Cummins’ forehead. Pat’s eyes were shut, and he had a gentle, entirely content and relaxed posture as he leaned into the gesture. It was an intimacy Virat had never been granted access to. The caption below hit him like a sledgehammer to the ribs.

“Entering 2019 with my love, and many, many years to come ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️”

The hopeful, humming feeling turned into something acidic and sharp. Jealousy, hot and humiliating, coiled in his gut; a possessive, ugly sensation he didn’t recognise. At the same time, a firework exploded like a grenade in his chest. It manifested as a physical ache, a tightness in his throat. His fingers, which had been poised to send a peace offering, now curled into a tight fist at his side, nails digging into his palm.

That’s how at ease he appeared when he was with the kids. Not with me. Never with me. But with Marsh. The text message now seemed like a cruel joke, a line he must have sent to several people. The fondness he’d felt just moments ago turned to ash.

His jaw clenched. With a quick, firm movement, he deleted his own message, the screen flickering back to Pat’s message alone – a message that now seemed like a lie meant for someone else. He shoved his phone into his pocket, the memory of that unsent smiley face feeling like the deepest humiliation of Virat’s life. The good feeling about 2019 vanished, replaced by a familiar yet hollow chill.

The rest of the night slipped by in a haze of forced laughter and flat champagne. He retreated to his hotel room shortly after the countdown ended, while the roar of “Happy New Year!” from the streets sounded like it came from another planet, a celebration for people whose worlds weren’t being swept away by a tide.

Alone in the silence, he did the one thing he knew was pathetic, a compulsion he couldn’t resist. He opened Instagram and searched for Mitch Marsh’s profile.

He found the post.

His thumb hovered, then he clicked on the photo, enlarging it until it filled the screen.

He studied it as if it were a rival team, his chest a hollow, aching pit. Pat seemed… happy. Relaxed. Peaceful… Everything Virat himself never made him. He zoomed in, his finger tracing the back of Pat on the cool glass, the way his hair looked ruffled from behind. A crumpled T-shirt and joggers showed how comfortable he felt. 

The thought arose unbidden and unwelcome, causing his throat to tighten fiercely. 

He still looks beautiful.

This was what Pat did to him: He made him feel things that were messy, inconvenient, and illogical.

His finger, trembling slightly, slipped.

The heart icon turned red – Liked by virat.kohli

No… No, no, no. No.

Panic, cold and immediate, gripped him. It was a full-body rush of heat followed by a wave of cold dread. He slammed his thumb on the icon again, unliking it so quickly his screen blurred. He threw the phone onto the bed as if it had burned him, his heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.

Fool. Silly, clumsy, lovesick fool.

He was losing his grip, and all the blame was placed on Pat Cummins. The man was a chaos agent in his life, dismantling his control one text, one look, one moment at a time.

He looked at the ceiling, the silence of the room weighing heavily on him. The ghost of Pat’s message seemed to shimmer in the dark. “I don’t know what you do to me.” And Virat knew, with a certainty that settled deep within his soul, that he felt exactly the same.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire bewildering year, he turned over and reached for his phone. The screen illuminated his face in the darkness. His thumb hovered above the keyboard.

He was unsure about what he was doing. All he knew was that he had to say something, and he began typing out his truth into the silence.

Back at Pat’s home, the remains of five pizza boxes were scattered across the coffee table, the air thick with the scent of leftover food and beer.

“I’m just saying,” Josh slurred, pointing a finger at Mitch, who was sprawled triumphantly across Pat’s sofa, “that if everyone is going to call me the third wheel, you should at least buy me a drink first.”

“You’re not a third wheel, Joshy, you’re the… luggage rack!” Mitch declared, raising his beer bottle. “The essential, slightly neglected support system!”

Pat groaned, with his head in his hands. The emergency meeting had descended into a chaotic, messy New Year’s Eve party among three people. His phone was face down on the coffee table, where Mitch had thrown it — a permanent reminder of his humiliation. 

He had sent the message. Its weight was both frightening and liberating.

Mitch’s phone, however, was glued to his hand. He was giggling to himself as he scrolled through the likes and comments on his now-infamous post. “Oooh, Hoff, look, Maxi commented. He says, ‘Get a room, you two.’ – Hah! I should tell him we’re already in Pat’s room. It’s a mess, but the company is top-tier!”

Josh snorted, “Tell him you are the mess, Bison.”

While the boys were expecting a comeback, Mitch suddenly sat bolt upright. He made a sound like a tea-kettle starting to boil. “Gah – Wha – Huh!”

“What?” Josh asked, mid-yawn. “Did you finally get reprimanded for your playboy behaviour by the Australian cricket team handle?”

“Shut up!” Mitch whisper-yelled. He slowly turned the phone towards the two men, as if it were a live bomb. “Patty… Look…”

Pat lifted his head, expecting yet another silly meme. But on the screen was the Instagram post. And right there, beneath the photo, clear as day, was a notification that had just appeared and – as they all watched in stunned, synchronized horror – vanished suddenly.

Liked by virat.kohli

The air escaped from Pat’s lungs. For a full five seconds, the room was so silent they could hear the neighbour’s sprinklers going off.

Then, Pat absolutely combusted.

“He liked it!?” he exploded, leaping off the sofa so quickly he nearly knocked over the coffee table. “He saw it – he saw the post and he – and he liked it! Oh my God, he thinks we’re together! He thinks I’m dating you!” Mitch was now staring at his phone with the focused concentration of a bomb disposal expert. “Delete it! Mitch, delete the post, right now! Bury it! Burn the whole app!” He pointed a trembling finger at Mitch, his other hand clutching his chest as if having a heart attack.

Mitch, however, was beginning to beam, a slow, dawning horror-show of delight spreading across his face. “No way! This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me! The Virat Kohli liked my photo! My agent is going to weep tears of joy! Do you know what this does for my brand?!”

“I don’t care about your brand!” Pat yelled, pulling at his own hair. “He can’t think that! I am very single! And available! Extremely, notably, pathetically available! He has to know I’m available! We finally started talking today! We had a thing! This post ruins the thing!”

Josh, the only voice of reason, calmly snatched the phone from Mitch’s death grip. “Alright, you two, breathe. We are not incinerating the internet, as much as I would love that… Mitch, we’re not deleting it. But we are editing the caption. Right now. Before he screenshots it and uses it as psychological warfare in the Sydney match.”

“Fine,” Mitch muttered, yanking the phone back as if Josh had suggested giving away his firstborn. “But I’m not pleased about it. You’re ruining my social media ambitions." His thumbs flew across the screen. “… There. ‘Entering 2019 with my best friend, Patty! Many more years to come! ❤️’ Happy? It’s still emotionally true.”

Pat looked over his shoulder, quickening his breath. “It’s not enough! He’ll still think –“

“— Wait,” Mitch was refreshing the page, a frown on his face. “The like has disappeared. He unliked it.”

He looked up at Pat, his expression a mixture of deep disappointment and dawning realisation. “He must have recognised it and disliked it immediately… Wow. He panicked. Virat Kohli panicked because of my post. This is even better.”

Pat sank back onto the sofa, his head spinning. Virat had seen the post. He’d liked it. And then, in a mirror of Pat’s own spectacular panic, he’d unliked it. The image of Virat, alone in his hotel room, frantically unliking a photo, was so vividly, painfully human and awkward that it robbed Pat of breath all over again.

He wasn’t engaged in a game. He was just as confused and absurd as Pat was.

Without saying a word, Pat reached for his own phone, flipping it over with the reverence of a man marching to his doom. The screen lit up, still displaying the WhatsApp chat.

It no longer displayed “Message Not Delivered”.

It said “Delivered”.

And then, as he watched, paralysed, three dots appeared.

They pulsed. A phantom heartbeat.

They vanished, and Pat pleaded for them to return.

Which they indeed did.

A new message finally popped up.

Virat Kohli: I don't know what you’re doing to me either.

Pat’s phone clattered onto the coffee table. He stared at it, then at his friends, his eyes wide with a terror that felt quite a lot like hope.

“He replied,” Pat whispered, his voice hoarse. “He unblocked me. He saw your stupid post, had a panic attack, and he still replied.”

Mitch and Josh glanced at each other, then back at the phone, and finally at Pat’s utterly shell-shocked face.

The game had not just changed. It had exploded, and they were standing amidst the beautiful, terrifying wreckage.

Chapter Text

5^th January, 2019: Sydney Test Day 3

The roar of the SCG was distant and muffled, drowned beneath the relentless patter of rain on the stadium roof. For the third consecutive day, Virat stood with his hands on his hips, gazing out at the soaked pitch where a battle had been painfully left unresolved. The weather had transformed the ground into a pale shadow of its former self, a watery grave for both sides' ambitions.

The rain had perfectly reflected his inner state.

His boots and spikes were caked in mud, and his jersey clung to him with a damp chill that had seeped into his bones. But the cold he felt was nothing compared to the frustrating, electric stagnation that had haunted him since midnight on New Year’s Eve. He scored a meagre 23 in the first innings; his focus was shattered, his mind replaying a single text chain on a loop instead of analysing the line and the length of the ball.

Across the field, he realised Cummins had been just as out of sorts, with his usually lethal rhythm disrupted, going wicketless. They were two champions, reduced to shadows of themselves in this match, haunted by the same unanswered question.

The rain returned just as Cummins stepped out to bat. The air was heavy with the threat of a storm, and Virat felt it crackle against his skin. He started fielding dangerously close to the bat — a reckless, foolish move, his captain’s instincts overridden by a deeper, primal pull that made his team exchange worried glances. But he didn’t care. All he sensed was an irresistible urge to be near him, to resolve the unbearable tension that had crackled between them since their bodies nearly touched under the mistletoe. He needed to be close to the eye of his own personal storm.

Virat could smell the salt-and-soap scent of his sweat, see the focused crease between his brows as Cummins watched the bowler. Every exhale was a visible cloud in the humid air, and Virat felt each one as if it were a physical touch.

And then it occurred.

A mistimed shot, a scramble for a single. Pat surged forward, a picture of powerful motion, and Virat moved in from short cover, a professional predator drawn to his prey. They converged in the middle of the pitch, a chaotic ballet of muscle and intent. For a heart-stopping second, they were chest to chest, the rough fabric of their shirts brushing. Their teammates thought it would be a repeat of the MCG Test. The impact was minimal, but the shockwave was seismic.

Pat’s blue ocean eyes, wide and startled, locked onto his. Virat’s breath caught in his throat. The world shrank to that point of contact, to the heat radiating between them.

A thousand words hung unspoken in the humid air: “This isn’t over.” “I don’t know what you do to me.” “I know you saw Marsh’s post.” “Why didn’t you reply to my message after begging me to unblock you?”

It was a challenge, a question, and a confession — all in a single, charged glance.

“Virat!” A voice cut through the tension like a knife. KL Rahul’s hand was on his arm, pulling him back. “You can ogle him all you want later, yeah? The sky is about to fall on our heads... Chalo! (Let’s go!)”

The moment shattered completely, and the spell was broken. Virat allowed himself to be drawn towards the pavilion as the first heavy drops of rain hit his face. But as the teams hurried off the pitch, a mass exodus of white clothes took place, causing their paths to cross once more near the boundary rope. Virat’s eyes found Pat’s again, and without hesitation, he extended his hand.

Pat gazed at it briefly before feeling a deliberate nudge against his shoulder from Josh as he was walking back to the dressing room, shoving him closer to Virat. He ended up clasping Virat’s hand; his grip was firm, his palm calloused and warm despite the cold rain. It was a handshake that lingered a second too long, a silent acknowledgement of the unfinished business between them before they disappeared into their separate sanctuaries.

The rain fell in earnest then, washing away the moment and locking them both away for another day of waiting.

6^th January, 2019: Sydney Test Day 4

The fourth day was a washout, a dull stretch of grey sky and persistent rain. For Pat, confined within the Australian dressing room, it was a particular kind of torture: he wasn’t eagerly waiting for the rain to stop just to save the match; he was hoping for a chance to get back out there and see him again. To somehow settle what their words had failed to achieve through sport.

His frustration felt like a physical ache: He was a man of action, yet he was forced into agonising stillness.

He was simply watching the water streak down the windows, his mind a reel of all the recent near-misses, when a CA staff member approached him with a puzzled smile. “For you, Patty.”

It was a takeaway coffee cup – a flat white. Taped to the side was a small, plain note.

“Apologies for stealing your drink the other day :)”

Pat’s heart performed a perfect, full-length dive within his chest. He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face, a goofy, unrestrained expression that felt both strange and wonderful.

His initial, overwhelming instinct was to grab his phone. To text him immediately: “You remembered.” Or a “This is an olive branch I’ll accept.” But his fingers remained still. Texting Kohli now felt like crossing a line he’d drawn for himself years ago – a sacred rule against fraternising with the enemy during combat. A Test match, even a drowning one, was still a battlefield. Sending that New Year’s text had been a moment of desperate weakness, egged on by his friends. Replying to a coffee now would be a conscious decision to step onto a different kind of field altogether, one without rulebooks he could read and understand.

Plus, what would he even say, really? Thanks for the coffee? It sounded so dull compared to the profound shift of their last exchange. The gesture was perfect in its simplicity; any words from him now would only complicate its flawless, silent meaning.

“Oi! What’s that?” Starc asked, nudging him. “Why are you giggling into a coffee cup like you’ve just received a love letter? Who’s it from?”

Pat clutched the cup, concealing the note from his teammates’ view as the warmth of the coffee seeped into his skin. “No one,” he said, his voice brighter than it had been in days. He took a sip, the rich taste feeling like a secret. “Just… a peace offering.”

7^th January, 2019: Sydney Test Day 5

The final day was called off without a ball being bowled. The rain won. The match ended in a draw, with India winning the Border-Gavaskar Trophy.

The Indian team erupted into a frenzy of joy on the outfield, a splash of roaring celebration in the otherwise grey day. Virat was lifted onto shoulders by all his teammates, the historic weight of being the first Asian captain to win a Test series in Australia settling on him like a crown, fitting for the King. He roared with his team, embraced his players, his smile wide and genuine throughout.

But amidst the champagne spray and the victory dances dedicated to Pujara, Virat’s eyes remained restless. They swept across the opposite dressing room, where the scattered group of players hung their heads in disappointment and heartbreak. Virat’s gaze searched for just one figure, one pair of blue eyes, yearning to share this moment with the one person who had made the fight so personal, so utterly maddening, and yet so immensely rewarding.

From the Australian balcony, Pat watched the celebration. He should have felt the bitter sting of defeat, the frustration of a rain-ruined match. But as he watched Virat Kohli hold the trophy aloft, his face a mask of triumphant joy, Pat experienced a different emotion altogether: an overwhelming, startling pride.

He had lost the series, but Pat felt as if he had glimpsed something much more precious.

Their eyes finally met across the distance. Virat, from his pedestal of victory. Pat, in his quiet moment of defeat.

Slowly, deliberately, Pat gave a single, firm nod. It wasn’t a gesture of concession but an acknowledgement. 

You were better. You’ve earned this. I see you. Congratulations.

Virat’s triumphant smile faded into something more sincere and personal. He nodded in reply.

They hadn’t spoken since New Year’s night, but Virat sensed that now that the BGT was over, it was time for that to change. They still had too many unanswered questions hanging over them.

Later, during the press conference, Virat was glowing. He answered questions about the team, their history, and the feeling of creating that.

Then came a question Virat had been waiting for. One he had been hoping for, rather.

“Virat, much has been said about your personal contest with Pat Cummins in this series. He dismissed you several times, but you scored a century against them and proved his claim wrong. How do you reflect on that rivalry now that the series has concluded?”

Virat leaned into the microphone, his earlier canned responses fading away. He looked directly at the reporter, his expression becoming earnest.

“You know, it’s easy to talk about rivalries. But cricket is about respect,” he began, his voice losing its performative edge. The word felt different on his tongue now, heavier, infused with the memory of a handshake in the rain and the ghost of a brushed chest. Respect for the bowler who looked more devastated than triumphant after taking my wicket. Respect for the man who noticed I never wore elbow guards.

“To be tested by the best brings out the best in you. Pat Cummins is... an incredible bowler. A once-in-a-generation talent.” Virat fought the urge to chuckle to himself. The talent that made me block his number. The talent that made me watch him from across the field in Adelaide, my breath hitching at the sight of his run-up. The talent that made me wear his gift, the one he had tested on his own skin.

“Every time I faced him, it was a battle I had to earn. He never gives you an inch as a batsman.” Not with the ball, not with his words under the mistletoe, and not even with a carefully chosen Christmas gift that was both a taunt and an apology. He makes you work for everything.

“So to have a series like that against a competitor of his quality…” A competitor who sends texts that unnerve you at midnight. A competitor whose best friend posts pictures that cause your stomach to churn with something you refuse to name. “… It makes this victory even more satisfying.”

He paused, letting the truth of that to settle in the room. This trophy wasn’t just won against a team of eleven; it was won against him. And that made the victory more significant.

“So, yeah... Respect.”

On the Australian team bus, watching the clip on his phone for the third time, Pat felt the air leave his lungs. While the rest of the world saw a generous captain, Pat heard an answer: he heard the echo of his own text in every word.

He didn’t overthink it this time. He didn’t hesitate. He opened the WhatsApp chat, the one where he was now unblocked, and typed:

“Next time, buy me a coffee in person, you coward.”

He put his phone away and gazed out the window at the shrinking stadium, a smile slowly forming on his lips. He didn’t wait for a reply.

They survived the great war, and something else was beginning to unfold.

The ball was now in Kohli’s court.

Chapter Text

The Mumbai sun was a harsh, welcome slap of heat after the Australian summer. The victory parades were a blur of confetti and roaring crowds, a constant, joyful noise that should have filled every corner of his mind. Yet, in the quiet moments – stuck in traffic, between media interviews, lying awake at night – Virat’s world had shrunk to the size of his phone screen.

What was once blocked on WhatsApp had now become a permanent fixture at the top of his list: His chat with Pat Cummins.

It had begun the day after the team returned to India. He’d leave Pat’s “coward” message untouched for a full 48 hours, a petty display of power that brought him an unreasonable amount of satisfaction. His reply had been carefully thought out: “I’m not a coward… I’m strategic. You’ll get your coffee in person when you earn it.” 

Pat’s response to Virat was instant: “Earn it? I took your wicket. Twice.”

To which Virat replied in a text, “And I still scored that century you wanted to stop me from. And I lifted the trophy, too. My point stands.”

“You know... I already miss playing against you. And your team, obviously. When are we playing next?”

Virat chuckled at that reply and secretly hoped that “And your team, obviously” was a poor cover-up from Pat. “IPL? Maybe I’ll change my mind and treat you to your coffee then. In person.”

And so, it commenced. A gentle, persistent hum of connection that spanned oceans and time zones.

It was both nothing and everything to Virat at once.

A few days after that first text chat, Pat had sent him a photo early in the morning: a bat’s handle flaying away from the rest of it. A few seconds later, the context followed. “Starcy’s doing. Marnus almost broke down seeing the disrespect of the bat.”

He’s thinking of me. They’re in a training session for the team, and he thought of me. Virat had to hide the blush creeping up his neck by pulling up the collars of his shirt.

“Tell Marnie I stand with him in solidarity against the bullies that you Aussie fast bowlers are. My condolences to his bat.”

He saw the three dots appear and disappear in a flurry. “Marnie???????”

Virat didn’t mean to, but he considered the possibility that calling other Australians by nicknames... might be making the man jealous. He made a mental note to do more of it in the future.

That was the day he finally changed the contact name from “Prick Cummins” to “Pat Cummins”.

As February arrived, press conferences and scheduled ad shoots all concluded, and Virat finally caught up with his brother’s family. He was just teaching Aryaveer how to play the classic Kohli cover drive when Pat’s comment on his nephew from the Crafts Room echoed in his mind.

Without thinking, he grabbed his phone and started recording the child. Then, without hesitation, he sent the video of a wobbly but determined Aryaveer to Pat: “Future of Indian cricket. Already holds the bat better than you.”

“Wow. Low blow, Virat.”

“He’s adorable, though. Tell him his cover drive is better than his uncle’s xx”

The rhythm was simple and natural. But for Virat, it was a slow process of discovery. He’d catch himself smiling at his phone like a fool during a team meeting. He’d reread their conversations, analysing every emoji, every turn of phrase. He’d watch a clip of Pat bowling on the CA Social media pages and feel a sense of proud ownership that was completely silly. He wanted to grab a megaphone and shout to the world: Look at him. He’s magnificent.

The thought was often followed by a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the Indian sun.

He was falling for the relentless, infuriating, secretly soft-hearted prick. And it was terrifying.

Pat looked at the single red heart emoji on his screen. It was from his sister, for Valentine’s Day. But his stupid, traitorous heart had leapt for a split second, a foolish hope that it was from a different contact altogether.

He was completely gone. It was pathetic.

His phone was a vortex, pulling him in a dozen times each day. The WhatsApp chat with Virat Kohli had become his most-visited thing. It was a constant, exciting distraction.

Virat had sent a photo of himself holding a vibrantly colourful plate of street food: “Pani puri. You’d weep. Your Australian palate couldn’t handle it.”

Pat’s mouth had watered, but not because of the dish. “That looks like a dish my godchildren would create by mixing all the leftovers… I’d try it. If you promise to hold my hand.”

He’d typed it as a joke, a touch of flirty bravado driven by the heart emoji occupying his thoughts. He’d immediately regretted it, his thumb hovering over the delete button. But he’d sent it. And then he nearly threw his phone across the room when Virat’s reply arrived.

“Looking for an excuse to hold my hand, Cummins?”

Pat had groaned and slumped back onto his couch. He was a professional athlete, an international cricketer, and he was blushing over a text message.

Hoff and Starcy would never let him forget it if they knew.

The notification arrived late one evening after a vigorous gym session. Virat, towelling off his hair, picked up his phone. It was from Pat.

A picture of Pat pouting, while Josh is struggling to keep his eyes open. “Kill me. Beep test. Who invented this torture? We almost died today.”

A reckless, impulsive side of Virat took control. He smirked, tilted his phone, and ensured the lighting was perfect before snapping the picture.

He wasn’t even thinking, just feeling. He typed a quick message and hit send before he could lose his nerve: “Stop complaining. This was my cool down.”

The image was a mirror selfie. He was shirtless, sweat glistening on his skin, and muscles sharply defined under the harsh gym lights.

It was a blatant provocation.

The three dots appeared, then vanished, and appeared again for a full minute. Virat’s smirk widened – he’d flustered Pat.

Finally, a reply arrived. Not words, just emojis: “😳🔥”

Virat chuckled softly to himself, a quiet, satisfied sound. Got him.

Then, another message: “That’s not fair. You can’t just… send that.”

“Why? Thought we were friends. Friends share workout updates.”

“We are NOT that kind of friends.”

“What kind of friends are we, then?”

The three dots pulsed for quite a while. No response ever came to that question.

The Indian team was joking around in the nets, keeping the mood light. Rishabh Pant, being himself, snatched Virat’s phone from the sidelines where he’d been checking a message from Pat.

“Arrey, who has our Captain so glued to his phone, huh?” Pant teased, dancing out of reach as Virat lunged for it. “Is it that Bollywood actress you were rumoured to be with?”

During the scuffle, a photo was snapped. Pant, with his cheeky grin, had his arm firmly around a half-annoyed, half-amused Virat, pulling him into a headlock. Pant’s face was close to Virat’s, who was laughing despite himself.

Pant, recognising his chance for chaos, grinned wickedly as he saw the contact name. He quickly typed a message and hit send before Virat could wrestle the phone back.

“Rishabh, yaar, usko de de (give it to him)!” Rohit yelled, laughing.

When Virat finally received his phone again, he looked at the screen.

Pant had sent the photo to Pat. The caption read: “Hello, my favourite Australian 🇦🇺🇮🇳❤️😉 – RP17”

Virat’s eyes widened. “You idiot!” he shouted, but he was laughing as well. A small, mischievous part of him was curious to see the reaction.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long.

“… Excuse me?”

The tone was instant and icy. Lacking the usual provocative fire they had been playing with over the past two months.

“Blame Pant. He’s a menace.”

“I can see that. He seems… very relaxed, with you.”

Virat’s grin broadened. Oh. This is intriguing.

“What can I say? He appreciates a good captain.”

There was a lengthy pause. Those three teasing dots appeared and disappeared several times.

“Right. Well. Tell him I said hello. And that he should keep his hands to himself.”

Virat let out a bark of laughter, prompting puzzled looks from his team.

“Why? Wouldn’t want to make you jealous, Cummins.” Virat knew he was pushing it now.

“Don’t be absurd. I simply don’t want you getting distracted. You’ll need to stay focused when I fly out for the IPL and play you in Bangalore.”

It was the weakest, most transparent excuse Virat had ever heard.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to be… distracted ;)”

“I have to go. Training.”

The conversation ended there. Virat pocketed his phone, a triumphantly smug smile plastered across his face. The great Australian bowler had just grown jealous. Of Rishabh Pant.

The knowledge was a warm, thrilling secret within his chest.

Pat was still recovering from their recent exchange of photos, especially the gym picture – it had been saved, of course, in a folder named simply after the Indian.

He desperately needed to regain some footing and called Mitch Marsh to meet him at the beach, with the sun shining brightly and the waves looking decent. Mitch, being Mitch, threw an arm around him for a selfie, both of them in wetsuits, hair wet and grinning like idiots.

Just then, Pat had an idea. A dreadful, clever, retaliatory idea. He eventually posted the photo to his Instagram story, but first, he sent it directly to Virat.

“My cool down session. Much more civilised than your dungeon gym.” The photo was all sun, saltwater, and easy camaraderie. Mitch’s arm was slung tightly around Pat’s neck, their faces close together, beaming.

“You two look very cosy."

The tone was flat and ominous, but Pat felt a thrill of triumph. Two could play at this game.

“What can I say? He’s the love of my life ;) You know this.”

He was joking. Clearly joking.

But the reply was not a joke.

“What is your deal with him, anyway?”

Pat had to blink – the shift in tone was jarring. Suddenly, their conversation resembled an interrogation.

“Who, Mitch? He’s my best mate. You know that.”

“I know what the Internet says. I see the photos. ‘Entering 2019 with my love’…”

So, that was it. The old jealousy, the ghost of that Instagram post, remained. Pat’s heart did a strange flip; part guilt, part giddy satisfaction.

“Are you… jealous, Kohli?”

The challenge was issued, and Pat waited with bated breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I simply can't understand it. It’s confusing.”

“There’s nothing to understand. He’s like a brother. A very irritating, very close brother. That post was a joke. He’s seeing someone else, for heaven’s sake.”

There was a long pause, and Pat could sense the tension through the screen.

“Good for him.”

Then, a second message, shifting the subject with the subtlety of a mace. “So. IPL. I fly into Bangalore on the 15^th. KKR’s first match is against us on the 19^th.”

Pat’s head was spinning from the whiplash. Right. Cricket. Safe, familiar ground.

“I know the fixture list. I’m aware I’m coming to your city.”

“So. Flat white?”

Pat had to push back. He had to. “Is that your way of asking to see me, Virat?”

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.

This was the moment. The question lingering over them for two months.

“It’s my way of saying I still owe you a flat white, and I intend to settle my debt.”

It wasn’t a yes; it wasn’t a no. It was a perilous, exhilarating maybe.

It was the permission to hope.

Pat didn’t reply to the message. Instead, he rang. The phone rang once, twice, before Virat answered.

“Hey.” Pat’s voice was gentler than he intended.

A beat of silence followed. “Hey,” Virat’s voice was a low rumble, and it cut straight through him.

“So,” Pat said, the sound of the ocean still in his ears. “Bangalore.”

“Bangalore,” Virat confirmed. Pat could hear the faintest hint of a smile in his voice.

“Remember to bring your wallet.”

“Wouldn’t dare forget.”

They fell into a silence that wasn’t awkward, but charged. A thousand unspoken things hanging between them, now given voice and breath.

“I should go,” Pat said eventually, not wanting to hang up at all. “Surf’s still up. Bison’s waiting.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want to hold you up during your cool down,” Virat said, and Pat could finally detect the teasing in his tone.

“Alright, King.”

“You know you love it, Prick.”

Pat’s breath caught. Another dangerous maybe. “See you in March, Virat.”

He finished the call and gazed out at the ocean, Mitch’s laughter drifting away on the wind. The world felt brighter, sharper, and filled with terrifying potential.

It wasn’t a date. It was simply coffee. Just a flat white.

But somehow, it also seemed like everything.

Chapter Text

Pat: Touchdown in Bangalore. This city is noisy, hot, and smells of rain and diesel.

Virat read the message in the quiet darkness of his room, the screen’s glow the only light. A gentle, involuntary smile touched his lips. The city’s chaotic symphony was now part of him, after a decade of representing RCB, and knowing Pat was breathing its air, hearing its noise, felt profoundly intimate. It was as if a piece of his world had shifted to make space for him.

Virat: You become used to the chaos. It becomes part of you. Wait until you’re caught in traffic for two hours. You’ll long for the silence of the outback.

Pat: Nah. I’m starting to think I don’t mind a bit of noise :)

There was a brief pause, with the three dots lingering.

Pat: See you tomorrow. Training session.

The simple sentence lingered in the digital space between them, heavy with all they hadn’t spoken. I’ve been counting the hours. I’m terrified. I’ve never wanted to see anyone more.

Virat: I’ll be the one dressed in red and black. Try to keep up.

Pat: Smartarse. See you then. Good night x

Virat stared at the little “x” for a full minute before placing his phone on his chest, the cool glass a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through him. The air in the room felt different – thicker, charged with the promise of tomorrow. It was no longer just a date on a calendar they talked about; it was their final destination.

Across the city, in a five-star hotel, Pat gazed at the same exchange from his hotel balcony, the city’s lights sprawling beneath him like a fallen galaxy. He’d meant to sound casual, but the message felt like a confession. See you tomorrow. It was a vow; it was a plea.

His stomach was a tight knot of anticipation, with a buzzing, nervous energy pulsing beneath his skin.

How was he supposed to share a field with him and pretend his whole world wasn’t about to tilt on its axis?

The Chinnaswamy buzzed with more than just Bengaluru’s humidity. It was an open training session. Cameras swarmed, social media teams darted between players, and the excitement of a new IPL season was infectious.

Virat was in his element, laughing with AB de Villiers, effortlessly conducting a quick interview for the RCB Social Media Admins. But his focus was scattered. Like a magnet, his gaze kept drifting across the field to where the KKR players were relaxing.

And there he was.

Pat Cummins, dressed in purple and gold, laughed at something Andre Russell had said. Yet he looked as if he belonged right there, at the centre of Virat’s kingdom. The sight was a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He was more vivid in person than in any memory or pixelated image – the sun catching the subtle gold in his hair, the relaxed, laughing grace of his movements as he stretched.

He was real, and he was present here.

A sudden, overwhelming need for an anchor made Virat crouch down, his fingers fumbling ineffectively with his bat's grip. The rough twine felt real against the surreal whirl of his emotions. Just breathe. He’s only a man.

But he was more than just a man. He was Pat. And his gravity was undeniable.

Then, a shadow fell over him, blocking the sun. Virat’s breath hitched. He didn’t need to look up to know. Every nerve ending screamed his presence.

The noise of the crowd around them seemed to fade into a dull roar. The cameras, however, sharpened their focus, aiming to maintain the momentum of their intricate rivalry over the BGT.

Virat slowly looked up, squinting against the sun. Pat stood over him, a hesitant, almost shy smile playing on his lips. He looked beautifully, wonderfully nervous.

“Hey,” Pat said, his voice a little louder than needed, intended for the microphones nearby.

“Hey,” Virat replied, his voice softer, meant only for Pat.

The silence that followed was deafening, a universe of unspoken words swelling in the space between them. Pat, always the brave one, shattered it with a joke so earnestly terrible it made Virat’s chest ache. “The coach was saying,” he began, extending one hand towards Virat while the other gestured vaguely behind at the pitch, “I was making that wicket look flat.”

It was so dorky, so very Pat. A laugh burst out of Virat’s lips, genuine and unforced, the sound startling even to himself. The tension didn’t break; it shifted into something warmer, something infinitely more dangerous. He naturally grasped the offered hand, holding on to it firmly to sit up straighter, his balance relying on Pat for a single, heart-stopping second. “You’re too good, Pat,” he said, shaking his head, his smile feeling like it could light up the entire stadium.

And then it happened. The world vanished entirely. Pat’s expression softened into something more private, rawer, and tender. He took a half-step closer, his voice lowering to a hushed, intimate tone meant only for Virat’s ears — a whispered confession the microphones would eagerly seize.

“You good?” Pat asked, his blue eyes searching Virat’s, full of a concern that felt years deep.

In those two words, Virat understood everything: the memory of a bruised elbow and a quiet request to an umpire, the sting of a hundred headlines, the ghost of a Christmas note, and two months of texts that had forged a new world for them. It was the most caring thing anyone had ever asked of him.

Virat, still on his knees, felt a surge of something terrifyingly vulnerable. He held Pat’s gaze, his own wide and unblinking, and gave a single, subtle nod. “Yeah,” he breathed out, the word a promise.

Pat’s eyes lingered a moment longer, mapping his face as if memorising it. Then he nodded back, a silent okay passing between them. He squeezed Virat’s palm one final time. The touch was electric, a point of searing connection that conveyed everything their words could not. Then he turned and walked away.

The moment he was gone, the world flooded back in. Virat could hear the whirring of cameras, the distant thwack of a ball on a lone batter’s bat. He stayed crouched, pretending to adjust his spikes, his heart thumping against his ribs.

He didn’t notice the KKR social media manager’s eyes widening as she watched the footage, nor the RCB media representative swiftly making a call. He only felt the ghost of Pat’s hand in his, and the echo of his voice circling endlessly in his mind. He was utterly, completely undone.

You good?

Hours later, the RCB training session was just a memory. The crowd had dispersed; the pitch was bathed in the soft, golden light of late afternoon. The chaos had faded, leaving behind a sacred, quiet hush. But Virat remained. He was rooted to the spot, held by the lingering pull of that gravity.

While waiting, he watched the clip. Of course he did. It was already everywhere, going viral. #PatRat was trending nationally. The comments were a mix of confusion, hilarity, and fervent shipping.

@AvaChan08: I DON’T RECOGNISE THESE MEN. WHERE IS THE MURDEROUS RAGE FROM DECEMBER? WHERE IS THE HATRED? THIS IS JUST PURE, UNFILTERED TENDERNESS. PATTY ASKED HIM IF HE WAS GOOD??!!!! AFTER ALL THE GLARES AND INSULTS?! I’M DECEASED.

@childofthenight2035: the way virat looked up at him from his knees… the way pat towered over him like he wanted to either topple him or kiss him or both… the delicate handholding… their shared history… i have no notes. this is cinema.

@cookiencream22: Okay, I can't even joke about this any longer. That was... strangely intimate? What is HAPPENING? I ship it. I ship it so much.

Virat scrolled through it all, a strange sensation in his chest – half anxiety, half euphoric vindication. The whole world could see it. They’d sensed the change. They had recognised the truth he was only just beginning to allow himself to feel.

So no, he couldn’t have just left. Not yet. The thought of getting in a car and driving away from this place, from the ghost of Pat’s presence, was unthinkable.

He heard the distant sound of the KKR bus starting up. His pulse quickened. This is it.

He pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning against and strode purposefully towards the visitors’ dressing room entrance.

He saw Pat emerge, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, listening to something Shubman Gill was saying. He appeared tired, but there was a new softness to his features. Then he looked up.

His eyes met Virat’s.

Pat stopped. Everything came to a halt. Shubman, with the perception of youth, glanced between them, mumbled a quick “Catch you later, Patty,” and hurried ahead.

They were alone in the diminishing tunnel, the setting sun casting orange streaks on the concrete floor.

“You’re still here,” Pat said. His voice was soft, imbued with a wonder that reflected the feeling in Virat’s own soul.

“I owe you a flat white,” Virat said, his words softer than he’d intended. “And I’m a man of my word. I always settle my dues.”

A slow, breathtaking smile spread across Pat’s face, transforming it. “Is that what I am?” he asked, his voice a low hum that vibrated in Virat’s bones. “A due to be settled?”

“Call it what you want,” Virat said, taking a step forward, closing the gap. The bravado was a thin cover for the hopeful yearning pounding in his veins. “The offer’s still open. My car’s at the back. No cameras. No one else.”

Pat looked at him, his gaze a tangible caress. He saw the public icon, the fierce rival, and the man who had waited for him in an empty stadium. The silence stretched, filled with the hopeful, terrifying potential of everything that was to come.

Finally, Pat shifted his duffel bag onto his shoulder, his smile never fading. “Alright, King,” he said softly, the title now sounding like a sacred endearment. “Lead the way.”

No, it wasn’t a date. Yes, it was just coffee. But it was also a first step into a new, dazzling unknown, drawn by a gravity they no longer wished to resist.

And as they walked side by side out of the stadium into the Bangalore twilight, the setting sun colouring the sky in shades of gold and pink, it felt very much like a beginning made just for them.

Chapter Text

The car was a silent, moving cocoon, shielding them from the outside world. The Bangalore evening raced past the tinted windows: a blur of neon signs and busy streets. Yet inside, the air was heavy and sweet with unspoken feelings.

Virat drove, his grip tight on the wheel, his entire world narrowed to the man sitting beside him. Pat sat silently, a presence that seemed to fill the whole car. But he wasn’t just sitting there; he was leaving his mark on the leather seats, on the very atmosphere, and on Virat’s heart, too. The space between them vibrated with a tension that was no longer about rivalry, but about the terrifying, exquisite need to close the gap.

A quick, shy smile from Pat, so fleeting that Virat might have imagined it if not for the way it seared itself behind his eyelids. A corresponding ache in Virat’s chest, a reverberant yearning to see it again.

Another glance, this time from Virat, tracing the elegant line of Pat’s throat in the passing streetlights. Pat felt the gaze like a physical touch, a flush creeping up his neck in its wake. He turned, offering another small, hopeful smile. This one held, a silent conversation passing between them in the dim light.

I can’t believe this is real.

Neither can I.

You’re really here.

Virat had chosen the place with the meticulous precision of someone planning a first date. It was a secluded café nestled in a quiet lane, its back patio a secret garden beneath a canopy of twinkling fairy lights and fragrant jasmine. The owner, an old friend of Virat’s, had ensured their complete privacy.

As they settled at a wrought-iron table, Pat looked around the empty, romantic space and let out a soft, wonder-filled breath.

“You booked out the whole garden?” he asked, his voice full of awe.

“I… might have called in a favour,” Virat admitted, his voice softer than intended. The effort was extravagant, but he didn’t care. For Pat, it felt not just reasonable but necessary.

Pat shook his head, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. It was the kind of smile Virat wanted to live inside of. “If you’ve done all this for a coffee,” he said, his tone laced with tender amusement, “I can only imagine the production if you ever took someone out for dinner. Jesus, you’d probably rent out the moon, mate.”

The words hung in the fragrant air between them, like a joke that was really a hopeful question.

Virat looked at him, his dark eyes deep and serious in the gentle light. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Do you?” he asked, his words a soft, vulnerable caress. “Want to go for dinner? Together, I mean?”

Pat’s breath hitched audibly. The playful glint in his eyes softened into something tender and genuine. He held Virat’s gaze, allowing the question to linger, appreciating its significance. At last, he nodded, a single, decisive dip of his chin.

“Maybe one day, yeah,” he whispered, as if confessing a secret. “Would love it... more than anything.”

Virat’s heart swelled, a feeling so overwhelming it was almost painful. He etched the moment into memory: the fairy lights reflected in Pat’s blue eyes, the scent of jasmine, the quiet promise. “After the IPL,” he said, his voice hushed with hope. “Stay back. Just a little while… We can hang out… We can – we can just be.”

The “we can just be” might have been a love letter in four words. It offered them both a world beyond cricket and cameras.

“Yeah,” Pat breathed out, a genuine, radiant smile finally breaking through, so beautiful it made Virat’s chest ache. “Okay.”

The coffee arrived, a rich flat white for Pat and a strong espresso for Virat. They cradled their mugs, not just drinking but holding them as anchors against the dizzying current pulling them together.

The conversation began gently, but each word was imbued with a fresh, delicate significance.

“That Perth century,” Pat said, not with frustration, but with reverence. “I watch it sometimes… The way you moved on that pitch, it was art. It really infuriated me, but it was fascinating.”

Virat felt a warm flush of pleasure at the admission, “I replayed your spell to me Melbourne just as much,” he confessed. “The concentration on your face… The way you fought with me. I hated how much I respected it. Hated how it made me feel.”

They were no longer discussing cricket; instead, they were talking about how this all began.

Then, they journeyed into the present, and it felt as if they were creating a new world together.

“Hoff asked about you, by the way,” Pat said, with a fond smirk on his lips, “Said to tell you he misses your dramatic leaves outside off stump.”

A genuine laugh escaped Virat. “Tell the bush horse I miss his terrible attempts at sledging. It was so bad it was almost endearing.”

They sat there for a while, simply sipping their drinks in peaceful silence. “And what about Marsh? Still the love of your life?” Virat finally inquired, his tone softer this time, with no sharpness left in it.

Pat’s smile was unbearably gentle. “He’s my best friend. And my brother. A very loud, very affectionate brother who might try to give you ‘the talk’ if he knew I was here.” He didn’t expand on what he meant. The way he looked at Virat when he said ‘here’ was utterly telling.

“Well, you already know Rishabh found out I’ve been texting you. He’s been egging me on ever since," Virat offered, a quiet confession. “He has a bet going with Rahul over how long it will take for the newspapers to write yet another article about us. Rahul’s betting on a more romantic idea, while Rishu is your fan and therefore feels jealous of that, so he wants us to remain enemies for the media."

“Which we are no longer.”

Virat gazed into the deep ocean blues, letting himself become immersed in them. “Were we ever, to begin with?”

Pat laughed, “You certainly made us look like that at the start,” though there was no contempt in his words.

They carried on talking about everything and nothing. The mundane became magical because it was shared between them. The silence that settled between them was no longer awkward, but comforting, a shared space where they could simply look at each other.

Virat watched how Pat’s long fingers curled around his mug, longing to feel them laced with his own. Pat became lost in the dark intensity of Virat’s gaze and wished this evening would never end.

Their playful rivalry resurfaced as they stood to leave, now wrapped in a new, flirty layer.

“Just so you know,” Pat said, his voice a subtle tease as they returned to the car. “I’m still going to try and knock your head off on the 19^th. The coffee doesn’t buy you mercy.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, Cummins,” Virat replied, with a playful glint in his eye. He stepped closer, just a fraction. “I expect nothing less than your best.”

“You always have it,” Pat said, and the double meaning hung in the air, warm and undeniable.

The drive to Pat’s hotel felt too brief, and the silence between them now a warm, longing hum. As Virat stopped at the discreet entrance, Pat unbuckled his seatbelt with a sigh that appeared to say I don’t want this to end.

“Well,” Pat said, turning to face him, his expression soft in the dim light. “This was… the most chivalrous thing anyone’s ever done for me. Door-to-door service for a flat white.”

“You’re my guest,” Virat said, his voice a quiet, intimate murmur. He turned, his knee brushing against Pat’s in the tight space, sending a shiver through both of them. “I take care of what’s important to me.” He paused, his gaze dropping to Pat’s lips for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Like you took care of me. In Australia.”

The callback to the gift, to Pat’s questioning eyes asking after Virat’s back, of the profound care behind every action, dissolved the last of the emotional wall between them. It was the final, tender truth laid bare.

Pat looked down, a faint, beautiful blush visible on his cheeks. “Yeah, well,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Couldn’t have you broken, could I?”

The moment stretched, fragile and perfect. A handshake at this point was unthinkable. A wave, even more absurd.

Slowly, as if drifting through a dream, Pat opened his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words a gentle invitation.

Virat moved into them without hesitation.

The hug was not cautious; it was a homecoming. Virat’s arms slid around Pat’s back, pulling him close, feeling his incredible, solid strength, the way his body fit perfectly against his own. Pat’s arms wrapped around Virat, his chin resting over Virat’s shoulder, his nose brushing against his neck, breathing him in. It was a full, proper, soul-scorching embrace. They held on, not for a second too long, but just long enough – a silent communication of relief, of want, of a promise of more.

Virat could feel the steady, strong beat of Pat’s heart against his own frantic one. He never wanted to let go.

When they finally parted, it was slow and reluctant, their hands lingering on each other’s arms.

“Goodbye, Virat,” Pat whispered, his voice rough with emotion, his eyes conveying everything his words couldn’t.

“Goodbye, Pat,” Virat replied, his own voice equally unsteady.

Pat slipped out of the car, pausing to cast him one final, longing look before vanishing inside.

Virat drove home through the sleeping city, the ghost of Pat’s arms around him, the scent of his shampoo still on his shirt. The hug played again in his mind, a loop of perfect, aching sweetness. His heart felt too big for his chest.

In his hotel room, Pat leaned against the closed door, eyes closed, a slow, blissful smile spreading across his face. He could still feel the imprint of Virat’s body against him, the solid reality of him, the way he had melted into the embrace. He brought the collar of his shirt to his nose, inhaling the faint, lingering trace of Virat’s sandalwood cologne.

The space between the two men that night no longer seemed like a barrier to overcome. It felt more like a taut, humming thread, linking them across the city.

Who would have thought that Pat’s mother’s advice to be a gentleman and bring Virat a cup of coffee would drastically change their lives in just three months?

If tonight was any sign, Pat made a mental note to really spoil his mum this Mother’s Day.

Chapter Text

The Chinnaswamy Stadium was a sea of red and black roaring for blood on the opening night of the IPL. The air crackled with a different energy than the Test matches in Australia – it was sharper, louder, and more electric. But for Pat, pulling on the purple and gold of KKR, the only energy that mattered was the one crackling between him and the man in red across the field, laughing with his teammates as if he didn’t hold the axis of Pat’s universe in his hands.

Don’t look. Don’t you fucking look. Just bowl the ball. – Pat’s internal chant was a desperate, failing prayer. He was doing his best to focus on his warm-up, the routine of stretching and shadow bowling, when a familiar, mischievous presence appeared at his side.

“Nervous, Patto?” Glenn Maxwell chirped, slinging a heavily muscled arm around Pat’s shoulders. “Huge night. A very big player out there tonight, you know? Might have heard of him… Virat Kohli?” He said it with the exaggerated gravity of someone announcing the apocalypse.

I know. I can feel him.

Pat rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Hmm. Vaguely.”

“Just making sure,” Maxi grinned, his eyes twinkling with obvious glee. “Remember last season? You’d have given me a ten-minute lecture on his trigger movements and finished off by grumbling something about him being ‘just another batsman’. Now you’re just… smiling. Smiling like a loon. It’s disgusting. And adorable.” He poked Pat’s cheek. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?”

Pat’s first instinct was to deny it, to snap at him with a quick retort. But the words caught in his throat. He just shrugged, the smile becoming a little more guarded. Bad isn’t the word. It’s a terminal condition. I think about the way he says my name more than I think about my bowling these days.

Maxi’s grin widened into something truly wicked. “Well, well, well. Look at you. All grown up.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just think, mate. After the match, I’ll be in that dressing room with him. I’ll see what all the fuss is about. Get a proper look at all that ink you used to zoom in on for… research purposes.” He dragged out the last two words, savouring them.

The memory hit Pat like a poorly timed ball: a hotel room from years ago, him pestering a patient Maxi about Virat’s ink, zooming in on grainy social media photos. His face flushed with a remarkable scarlet tide of humiliation and desire. He gulped heavily, his throat suddenly dry.

And as if summoned by his shame, his treacherous eyes fixed on Virat. The RCB captain was on the far side of the field, bending over, stretching, and the thin fabric of his training shirt did nothing to hide the strong lines of his back, the shift of muscle that Pat had dreamed of tracing.

Don’t look. Don’t – Oh, God.

Pat’s mind, entirely without his permission, supplied the image Maxi had just placed there in high definition: skin, not fabric. Ink, not sponsor logos. The phantom sensation of his fingers tracing the patterns on his arms, on his shoulder, replaced the feel of the cricket ball in his hand.

“Fuck off, Maxwell,” Pat muttered, shoving his friend away. But the damage was done. The image was now burned onto the back of his eyelids, a tantalising, distracting ghost he’d be battling all night.

From across the field, Virat’s stretching routine had a specific focus: the KKR bowlers. His eyes, hidden behind the sanctuary of his sunglasses, kept tracking one particular figure in purple.

He’s here. Don’t make it obvious. You’re the captain. Act like it. But his focus was as fragile as a pane of glass, and Pat Cummins was as solid as a stone. He watched how easily Pat interacted with Maxi, the relaxed manner of his broad shoulders in the KKR jersey. He looks good in purple. He would look good in anything he damn well pleases.

The memory of their farewell hug, the scent of Pat’s shampoo, flickered in his mind, so vivid that it caused the roaring stadium to fade for a second. This is a match. He’s the enemy. For the next four hours, he remains the enemy.

The match was exhilarating. When Pat finally came into bowl in the second innings, the noise reached a fever pitch. This was the duel everyone had paid to see.

Virat took guard, the world narrowing to the twenty-two yards and the man running in at him, the man who looked at him like he was both the prize and the prey.

He’s outstanding.

The thought was unbidden, unwelcome, yet utterly true. Pat in his run-up displayed a combination of controlled power and grace.

When Pat ran in, every muscle tightened. Just bowl. Bowl quickly. Get him out. Don’t look into his eyes. His first ball was a thunderous bouncer, fast and vicious, zipping past Virat’s ducking head before he could get his bat anywhere near it.

The crowd gasped. Pat slowed to a walk, a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across his face. He caught Virat’s eye. And then, right there, with a million cameras on them, with the audacity that made him Pat Cummins, he winked.

Virat’s eyes widened in utter shock before a competitive fire flared within them. He did not just – You bastard. Two can play at this game.

The next ball was full and on the pads. Virat’s wrists flicked like a striking snake, and the ball raced to the boundary before any fielder could move. As the crowd erupted, Virat maintained his pose, then turned, his eyes locking straight onto Pat’s. A slow, arrogant, heart-stopping, stunning smile spread across his face.

He didn’t just wink back. He blew a subtle, mocking kiss off his fingertips.

Pat’s lungs emptied of air. 

He’s going to be the death of me.

It was the most infuriating, exhilarating, and titillating thing he had ever seen. The public duel acted as a façade for their secret, heartbeat-raising game.

The match ebbed and flowed, a classic IPL nail-biter. It had finally come down to the last over, with RCB needing nine runs to win and Virat and AB de Villiers at the crease.

They achieved it with two balls to spare. The winning run was scored, and the stadium exploded into complete chaos.

Virat and AB turned to face each other, a storm of shared adrenaline and relief. It was their old dance, a familiar, lively celebration. AB lifted Virat, spinning him around, their laughter raw and joyful. It was physical, intimate, and born of years of brotherhood.

From the KKR fielding circle, Pat observed the celebratory roar of the crowd fading into a dull hum. The joy on Virat’s face was radiant, a sight Pat usually longed to evoke. But now, seeing it directed at AB – seeing AB’s arms locked around Virat’s waist, Virat’s hands gripping AB’s shoulders with an easy, practiced intimacy – it felt like a punch to the gut.

His gaze was fixed on Virat’s fingers, curled into the fabric of AB’s shirt, and Pat felt his stomach tighten.

It’s nothing. Just a celebration. It means nothing. But the rational voice in his head was drowned out by a far more primal one: Mine. A voice snarled deep within his mind, shocking him with its ferocity. He should be in my arms. I should be the one making him laugh like that.

Finally, the usual post-match handshakes took place. Pat moved along the line on autopilot. When he reached AB, Pat’s nod was so abrupt it was almost rude, his jaw a rigid line of granite. His entire being was focused on what came next.

Virat.

Their hands touched. Virat’s smile remained bright from the victory. “Tough luck,” he said, the usual competitor’s consolation.

You have no idea, Pat thought. But he didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, his fingers tightened like a vice. He didn’t just shake hands; he seized Virat’s hand, yanking him sharply out of the line. His voice was a low, gravelly growl, stripped of any pretence.

“Anything I need to know about you and AB?” The raw, possessive question slipped out before he could stop it.

Virat’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with dawning, smug understanding. A thrill of pure power coursed through him. He’s jealous. He’s utterly feral with it.

He leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing Pat’s ear, his voice a husky, intimate whisper. “You want to know what it was?” he murmured, his thumb tracing a fleeting, secret circle on Pat’s palm. “It was a celebration with a friend.” He pulled back slightly to lock eyes with him, his gaze intense. “What we do… that won’t be for the cameras. That will be just for us.”

Before Pat could process the shock of that touch, that statement, Virat gave his hand a final squeeze and moved down the line, leaving Pat standing there, utterly unravelled, with the echo of ‘just for us’ ringing in his ears.

Later, in the quiet of the KKR dressing room, his phone buzzed.

Big Show Maxi: Oi. The cameras caught everything. The wink. The kiss. The death glare at AB. The handshake resembled a claim on your property.

Big Show Maxi: The vultures have landed. What’s your move now?

Pat looked at the message, the weight of public scrutiny pressing down on him. He recalled the wink, the whisper, and the fierce jealousy. He remembered the coffee garden and the promise of ‘after the IPL’.

He typed back, his fingers feeling heavy as he was about to lie to his friend.

Pat: There’s no move. It was just a game. Heat of the moment stuff.

Big Show Maxi: Sure, Patto. And I’m the Queen of England. That looked like a lot more than a game.

Pat: Forget it, Maxi. It doesn’t matter. He’s RCB. I’m KKR. It’s done after this.

He sent the message and put his phone down, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. KKR and RCB had one more match. One more chance in a few weeks’ time. And after that? The future was a terrifying, wide-open blank.