Shadows Of The Stumps

Chapter - 141 - Battles We Don't Talk About

Bangalore, Chinnaswamy Stadium – April 2025

Arjun’s message had been short, cryptic, and demanding—as always.

“You got to take intel about target A from Bangalore tomorrow. Meet the person at the stadium. Tickets booked. No questions.”

No questions. Meera had scoffed at the words before shoving the phone into her bag, because she had so many questions. But orders were orders, and discipline wasn't optional.

That’s how she found herself seated in the roaring heart of Chinnaswamy Stadium, IPL flags flapping around her, chants rising and falling like waves. Any other day, she would’ve whined. God, she would’ve whined. She would have sulked like a teenager forced into family dinners, muttering under her breath about how she hated watching the IPL live. She’d grumble how she always stayed away from matches where Virat and Rahul were on opposite teams. It was unnatural. It was emotional whiplash.

But this wasn’t a match. This was a mission.

Duty.

No room for soft corners, or split loyalties—not even if the pitch held two men who meant the world to her.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

Virat, the heart of Delhi, was playing for Bangalore.
Rahul, once Bangalore’s golden boy, was now donning Delhi’s jersey.

RCB vs DC.
2025.

And she was right in the middle of it all.
How the hell was she supposed to pick a side?

She let her head fall back against the seat for a second, grinning despite herself. Somewhere up in the sky, Ayan was probably shaking his head at her. He had loved RCB, screamed for them till his voice cracked, forced her to wear red and black every single season.

“Loyalty, Princess. RCB is not just a team, it’s an emotion.”

She rubbed her eyes, feeling the weight of
memories press down. No, she wasn’t here for nostalgia. She was here for the mission. Focus, cadet.

And yet… her eyes trailed back to the field. Rahul was now on strike.

The target was 164. Tough, but not impossible. Meera crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, hood pulled over to hide the distinctive glint in her eyes. Not like anyone was looking, anyway. Everyone was too focused on the man striding in, bat in hand, expression carved from steel.

And he wasn’t walking—he was hunting.

The next over went like fire through dry grass. Fours. Sixes. Boundaries like poetry in motion. Every shot was precise. Every flick of the wrist was vengeance. The crowd was erupting, but all she could do was stare.

Pride swelled in her chest like a tide—sharp, sudden, and fierce. Her heart burst with happiness watching him unleash his wrath with such controlled elegance.

Then her phone buzzed. A text.

DK: You didn’t tell us you were going to be here, you idiot.

She groaned inwardly, biting back a laugh. Of course Dinesh Karthik would spot her, like a hawk. She typed back quickly with a single cheeky emoji, her version of oops. She hadn’t told Rahul either. Or Virat. Or anyone, really.

Because this wasn’t for pleasure. This was work.
She sighed, glancing down at Ayan’s old black sports watch on her wrist.

Then she saw him.

The contact.

He wasn’t much to look at—mid-40s, grey cap, leaning a little too stiffly—but her gut knew.