Sandcastles | A Virat Kohli Fanfiction

11 • the semis

Virat's POV

Yet another day passed, having us engrossed in the pleasures of our little world and of the exuberant petrichor followed by the first rainfall of the year.

As the time of our parting came closer, I sensed an unusual fear of separation.
The past three days had been so full of wonder and peace that getting over them was definitely uneasy. The longing of catching up with her again took over me even before we had said goodbyes.

On reaching back to my team hotel, I found out that two of my t-shirts were missing. I wouldn't have noticed that if it wasn't for posting paid promotions on Instagram. I suspect I forgot them at the cottage or they got misplaced in Kavya's bunch of clothes but nevermind.

I had an invigorating power-nap till 4 and spent the rest of the evening hitting the gym where AB and Rahul joined me later. A mishap which I could never have thought of was about to dawn on me.

A 5kg steel weight collapsed on my (quite fortunately) left hand. I let out a shrill cry because, at that instance, the pain felt almost unbearable. My fingers had darkened with the swelling and my skin tore up, bleeding.

AB summoned our fitness coach and physio who did the essential first-aid.
Here comes the woah moment - I got seven stitches between my index finger and thumb of my left hand; and that tailoring looked like plaited brown hair of a woman.

That night AB slept in my room to take care of me (and also to constantly taunt me for my carelessness).

I didn't want to risk my body but couldn't even step out of the team at such a vital point of the tournament - a goddamned semifinal!

So the next day, I consumed every possible recovery booster on the advice of Basu sir and kept swinging the bat all day wherever I went (though it hurt each time) to get my hand accustomed to those stitches.

I made sure it won't affect my fielding efficiency or hint the opponent as any sort of weakness.

Amidst all of this, Kavya kept walking in and out of the hallway of my intricated thoughts.
The moment I was left alone - that is, got rid of human presence around me - I would let my heart take over me and not stop thinking about her.

On the match day, too, I surfed through my phone's gallery devouring bliss out of each picture we clicked at Coorg. And to define the amount of elevation my esteems felt would be an injustice to entirety of that trip.

It rained on the evening of the match. If I thought like an injured player, the rain should have relieved me. But I couldn't think like that ever. The captain in me worried about the consequences in case the match was abandoned.
Thankfully, it was not.

It rained a lot. Just like it did on our second day at Coorg, this time a bit singular. The match was now reduced to 15 overs each inning - and we were to bat first.

I opened with Gayle; I couldn't fully trust some other to open if not me because ab sawaal trophy ka hain boss.

The stands roared in red and black with tiny shades of white here and there. I mean it when I say : Chinnaswamy never disappoints you.

We steadily bagged boundaries and bumped fists after every sixer we shot. The crowd never stopped chanting our name, and we outclassed the drizzle with our fierce batting gale storm.
As I reached the triple-digit mark by the 13th over, I yelled in the anticipated triumph. The stitches must be hurting throughout - but I had forgotten they were really there.

I held up my left hand and showed the world that injuries mean nothing if you believe that you're healing. Tapping my hand with the other, seven times in air, I smiled at the moving drone overhead hoping that the smile reached the eyes I longed to see.

Our team won that night.
My best self won my thoughts that night. Each of the two now awaited for the grand finale.