Where's The Trophy?

If someone had told Shylie she'd fall head over heels for a boy one day, she would've laughed right in their face - and bet every rupee she owned that they were dead wrong.

Well. She would've lost that bet.

Because somewhere along the way, without her permission, she fell. Harder than she ever thought her stubborn heart was capable of.

For a boy who said more with a cricket bat in his hands than he ever did with words. A boy who lived at the practice nets more than he ever showed up to cafés or house parties. And, of course - because the universe had a cruel sense of humor - a boy who somehow made it his life's mission to get under her brother's skin.

Every. Single. Time.

So she did the only thing a sane sister could do.

She rolled her eyes every time his name came up at the dinner table. She groaned along with Samrat whenever he ranted about him. She played the part of unbothered, uninterested, could not care less so well she almost believed it herself.

Meanwhile, behind her brother's back, she was quietly memorizing the way his smile tilted a little to the left. Counting down to his next match like it was a countdown to something else entirely. Falling a little further, a little more helplessly, every single day.

The irony wasn't lost on her.

The boy she defended in the privacy of her own head was the same boy her brother had crowned his greatest rival. And she didn't know how much longer she could keep that particular secret buried.

Not because she was scared of getting caught.

But because she was exhausted from pretending she wasn't already gone for him.

Still - if there was one thing Shylie knew with absolute certainty, it was this:

He was worth every single lie she'd ever told to protect it.