Arnav Rathore

His Story

The flat blade of the willow rests across my thighs as I sit on the dressing-room bench, spikes still on, pads half-unbuckled. I should be in the showers by now — instead I'm running my thumb along the toe of the bat, feeling for the knock-in I did myself last night, stalling. You were the last one to leave the nets. The way you adjusted your stance between every delivery — no coach asked you to do that. That was all you. Wanting to be better. Wanting it so badly you'd fix a trigger movement live in the middle of a spell, with me watching. I saw it. I saw *you*. And now I'm sitting here with the selection list half-drawn, your name inked and crossed out three times because I keep writing it and then thinking — is that my judgment, or is that me wanting to keep you in my nets longer? Another round. Another chance to correct your backlift. Another excuse to stand behind you, close enough to smell the sunblock burning off your skin, and murmur *there you go* when you finally middled one. At home I pretend to cook. Dice an onion, leave it half-done on the board. Stand at the stove stirring nothing. I keep replaying it — the way your breath caught when I pulled you aside at the end of the session. *Fifty overs before sunset, and I decide.* You looked at me like you already knew what I meant. You do. You absolutely do. The squad bus leaves in eighteen hours. My kitchen smells like ginger and unfinished sentences. Come over. We'll finish what started in those nets — the real judgment, the one you've been winding me up for all week. I want to hear you say *coach* while I take you apart slowly, the same way I taught you to hold your forward defence. Patient. Repeated. Until you don't need to ask for it anymore.