The Rhythms Of Her Dreams✨️

26. The Shattered Expectations✨️

Shubman stepped out to bat, the weight of expectations pressing down on him like an anchor. The crowd roared as he took his stance, but deep down, he felt the pressure crackling beneath his skin. He knew he had to perform today—there was no other choice. The last few matches hadn’t gone his way, and his place in the upcoming T20 World Cup squad was under scrutiny.

The bowler sprinted forward, releasing a sharp delivery. Shubman took a step forward, hoping to drive it down the ground, but the ball moved ever so slightly—just enough to take the edge of his bat. A sharp sound of leather kissing willow echoed in the stadium.

The next second, the slip fielder leaped, and before Shubman could even process what had happened, the ball was in his hands.

Silence.

Then, a deafening cheer.

Not for him. For the opposition.

"Ahh, that's disappointing! Another failure from Shubman Gill," one of the commentators sighed. "He’s been struggling to find his rhythm, and this won’t help his case for the World Cup squad."

“Not the form he would have wanted heading into such a crucial phase of his career.”

Shubman clenched his jaw, gripping his bat tighter before lowering his head. The sting of disappointment cut deeper than the voices around him.

As he walked back toward the dressing room, the stadium's energy felt like a cruel taunt. Fans who once cheered for him now sat silent, some even shaking their heads in disappointment.

He didn’t dare to look at them.

Inside the dressing room, he slammed his bat down near his seat and pulled off his gloves with force. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He wanted to scream, to punch something, but instead, he sat there, unmoving.

The television screen in front of him displayed the match in real-time. His teammate, who had walked in after him, was smashing boundaries effortlessly, making everything look so easy.

Shubman couldn't watch. He looked away, staring at the ground, his fingers gripping his knee so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

That night, he couldn’t eat. He barely touched the food placed in front of him, his mind replaying the dismissal over and over.

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By the time he returned to his hotel room, his phone was ringing.

Kaira.

He let it ring.

Then it rang again.

And again.

With a sigh, he finally picked it up.

"Shubman!" Kaira's voice was filled with excitement and warmth. But right now, it irritated him.

He didn’t respond.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?” she asked, concern creeping into her voice.

Still, silence from his end.

“Shubman, what happened? Why are you so quiet? Is everything okay?”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. “Kaira, not now.” His voice was flat, cold, detached.

Kaira paused. “Not now? What do you mean, not now? What happened?”

He closed his eyes, already exhausted. Why couldn’t she understand?

"Shubman, talk to me!" she insisted.

That was it. His frustration boiled over.

“Kaira, for God’s sake, stop! Just stop!” he snapped, his voice sharper than intended.

A long silence followed.

Then, a soft click.

She had hung up.

Shubman immediately regretted it. But he was too tired, too angry, too broken to do anything about it.

He threw his phone onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe she already knew what had happened in the match. Maybe she understood. Maybe she didn’t.

Either way, he didn’t have the energy to explain.

----------

The next morning, Shubman was up before dawn.

He needed to fix this.

Fix his form. Fix his mindset. Fix everything.

He arrived at the practice nets before anyone else, the first rays of sunlight stretching across the stadium. No distractions. No emotions. Just cricket.

The first few hours were brutal. He batted non-stop, sweat dripping down his face, muscles screaming for rest. But he didn’t stop. He pushed himself harder. Again. And again.

The coaches noticed. His teammates noticed.

“Take a break, man,” one of them suggested, handing him a bottle of water.

Shubman didn’t respond. He just walked back to the nets.

When he wasn’t batting, he was fielding. When he wasn’t fielding, he was running sprints.

By the time practice ended, his shirt was drenched, his legs felt like lead, and every muscle in his body was screaming.

But at least he wasn’t thinking.

Not about his dismissal.

Not about Kaira.

Not about the fear creeping in that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t good enough anymore.

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That evening, he returned to his hotel room, exhausted but somewhat satisfied. At least he had worked hard today.

He switched on the TV. Breaking News flashed on the screen.

The T20 World Cup squad had been announced.

He sat on the bed, leaning forward, his heart pounding. This was it. This was everything.

One by one, the names were revealed. Rohit Sharma. Virat Kohli. Hardik Pandya.

Then the middle order.

His eyes scanned the list.

And then—

His name wasn’t there.

His name wasn’t there.

His breath hitched. His stomach twisted. His fingers tightened into a fist.

They hadn’t picked him.

The phone on the bedside table buzzed with messages. He didn’t check them.

His vision blurred with frustration, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Then, something inside him snapped.

He grabbed the glass of water on the table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into pieces, the sound piercing through the room.

Then he kicked the chair. Punched the mattress. His breathing was ragged, uncontrolled. Anger, humiliation, frustration—all of it burned inside him.

After a while, he stopped, chest heaving.

He ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

This wasn’t him. He needed to cool down.

Without thinking, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the freezing water.

His body tensed as the icy droplets hit his skin, but he welcomed the shock. It numbed everything—his anger, his pain, his disappointment.

He closed his eyes.

Let the water wash it all away.

For now.
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