Canvas of Love

Rivalry

The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the ground where the Indian Cricket Team gathered for their morning practice. 

The mood, typically light and filled with playful banter, was noticeably different today. Conversations were quieter, exchanges briefer as if everyone sensed the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

Shubman Gill stood on one end of the field, his face set in stone, not betraying a single emotion. He hadn't cracked a smile since stepping onto the ground, not even when Abhishek had tried cracking a joke about the previous night's coffee spill fiasco. 

His usual casual demeanor had been replaced with one of rigid focus, his icy exterior stark against the warm energy of the team.

Ishan Kishan, on the other hand, was gearing up at the other end of the field. His jaw was clenched tight, his brows furrowed in concentration as he pulled his gloves on, preparing to step into the nets. 

The tension between him and Shubman was almost palpable, lingering like a thick cloud over the team. Something had shifted between them—no one could quite pinpoint what, but everyone could feel it.

It hadn't been like this last night. Last night, Shubman had seemed fine, even smiling at his phone during dinner. 

But this morning, the coldness was back in full force, and it didn't go unnoticed.

"Man, what's up with him?" Abhishek muttered under his breath, nudging Mayank as they watched Shubman stride out to the field without so much as a glance in their direction.

"No clue, bro. He was all normal yesterday, wasn't he? Now look at him—stone-cold again." Mayank replied, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Maybe he didn't get enough sleep." Tilak joked, but even he could sense the seriousness in the air.

Shubman remained distant, aloof, like an untouchable figure as he took his position at the crease for practice. 

He swung his bat with precision, every shot timed perfectly, every movement calculated. But there was no joy in it—just a mechanical execution of skill, detached and professional.

On the opposite side of the field, Ishan was practicing his wicketkeeping drills with Rishabh Pant. Despite the energetic pace of the session, Ishan's movements were sharper, and more aggressive than usual.

 His catches were flawless, but each one was followed by a thud of frustration as he threw the ball back harder than necessary. His mind was clearly elsewhere—focusing too much on a certain someone.

Abhishek, noticing the increased intensity, couldn't help but comment. "Dude, you're on fire today, Ishan. What's up? Got something to prove?"

"Nothing. Just practicing." Ishan snapped back, his voice curt, eyes narrowing.

"Whoa, whoa, chill, man. No need to bite my head off." Abhishek chuckled awkwardly, backing off. But he knew better. Ishan's short temper was never just about practice.

Meanwhile, as Shubman continued with his batting, the bickering began to brew. It started small, like a spark waiting to catch flame. 

Ishan was walking back toward the nets after finishing his drills when Shubman passed him, eyes forward, not sparing a single glance in Ishan's direction.

"Watch it, Gill." Ishan muttered as they brushed past each other. His tone was laced with irritation.

Shubman stopped in his tracks, turning slightly but still not fully looking at Ishan. "I wasn't even in your way, Kishan."

"Oh, sure. Like you're not always in the way." Ishan shot back, his words sharper than intended.

Shubman turned then, his cold eyes locking onto Ishan's with a flash of something unreadable—was it anger? Or something else?