FIVE YEARS LATER

Pashmina sat at IS Bindra Stadium, her fingers wrapped so tightly around Shubman's hand that it felt like she might snap his bones.

Shubman let out a pained groan, shooting her a look. "You know, I'd really love for my hand to keep working. Maybe ease up a little?"

Pashmina let out a small whine, muttering a quick "sorry" as she began to loosen her hold. But before she could pull away, Shubman caught her hand again, his grip firm and reassuring.

"I get it—you're nervous about his debut," he said gently. "But tensing up won't change anything. Just sit back and enjoy the moment."

Pashmina pouted, her brows knitting together as she turned to Shubman. "How can I? It's his first match—I want it to go well."

Shubman chuckled, lifting their joined hands to press a quick kiss to her fingers. "It will," he assured her.

Pashmina sighed, her grip unconsciously tightening again. "But I want everything to be perfect for him."

Shubman smiled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles in slow, soothing circles. "Even I only scored 15 runs on my debut," he reminded her. "And look how things turned out."

She huffed, still unconvinced.

"So even if he doesn't perform today, we already know what a talent he is," Shubman added. "One match doesn't define him."

Pashmina was about to respond when a familiar voice piped up from Shubman's other side.

"Tch, yes, Mumma, we all know Paaji is way more talented than him," 12-year-old Innayat declared confidently, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. "He's totally gonna get a fifer today. Just watch." She wiggled her eyebrows at Shubman, smugness radiating off her.

Shubman narrowed his eyes at his daughter, unimpressed. "You know that was rude, right?"

Innayat shrugged, utterly unbothered. "I'm just saying facts, Papa."

Shubman pinched her cheeks, making Innayat yelp and swat at his hands. "Ow! Papa!" she whined, trying to wriggle away.

He smirked, ruffling her hair. "That's what you get for being a little menace."

Innayat huffed, fixing her hair with an exaggerated glare. "Ugh, I'm just speaking the truth. You always say honesty is important!"

Shubman smirked, pulling Innayat into a playful headlock, swaying her from side to side. "You just love irritating me, don't you?" he teased. "But I know the truth. Behind my back, you can't stop watching my innings and boasting about them to your friends."

Innayat squirmed, trying to free herself, but Shubman's grip was firm. She huffed, attempting to mask the undeniable admiration in her eyes. "What makes you think that?" she asked, feigning innocence.

Shubman smirked. "Because, my dear troublemaker, I have sources."

"Lies. All lies," she shot back, still wriggling in his grasp.

"Oh really?" he drawled, swaying her a little more just to make her whine. "So you don't rewatch my innings on YouTube? You don't argue with your friends when they say someone else was a better batter? And you definitely don't have that one clip of my century saved on your phone?"

Innayat stiffened for a fraction of a second—a second too long.

Pashmina stifled a laugh as Shubman grinned in triumph.

"I— That's—" Innayat groaned, kicking her feet. "Ugh! You're impossible."

Shubman only chuckled, swaying her even more. "And you, my little firecracker, are completely exposed."

Innayat huffed, crossing her arms as best as she could while trapped in his hold. "Fine. Maybe I occasionally watch your matches. But only to see where you could've played better."

Shubman let out a loud, amused laugh, tightening his grip around her just enough to make her squirm again. "Hmph! Stubborn as ever," he teased. "Can't even admit you're my biggest fan."

Innayat turned her nose up with a dramatic scoff. "In your dreams, old man."

"Oh? So who's your favorite then?" Shubman challenged, raising a brow. "Don't tell me you're going to say Aryaman just to spite me."

Innayat smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Hmmm... now that you mention it—"

Shubman gasped, feigning heartbreak as he clutched his chest. "Betrayal! My own daughter, switching sides!"

Pashmina, shaking her head, finally stepped in. "Alright, enough, you two." She shot them both a warning look. "Behave. We're on camera—I do not want you two becoming meme material on everyone's timeline."

Innayat gasped dramatically. "You think we'd go viral?"

Shubman smirked. "Obviously. Who wouldn't love a legendary cricketer getting bullied by his own daughter?"

Pashmina groaned, rubbing her temples. "This is exactly what I'm talking about."

Innayat grinned, clearly enjoying herself. "Well, since we're already at it, might as well give them a proper show."

Before Shubman could react, she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him like a koala, swaying exaggeratedly. "Oh, dearest father, my favorite cricketer, my ultimate inspiration—"

Shubman snorted. "Now you're just trying to butter me up."

Innayat smirked. "Is it working?"

"Not even a little."

Pashmina sighed, shaking her head as she glanced at the giant screen showing a brief clip of their antics. "Great. Now the whole stadium thinks we're a sitcom family."

Shubman grinned. "They're not wrong."

Innayat wiggled her eyebrows. "At least we're entertaining."

Before Pashmina could scold them again, the stadium erupted into cheers as the team walked onto the field.

And just like that, all their playful banter faded.

Pashmina's grip on Shubman's hand tightened again, this time not from teasing, but from anticipation.

Because out there, in the middle of the roaring crowd, was their son—stepping onto the pitch for the first time.

20-year-old Aryaman Shubman Singh Gill turned around, letting the roar of the crowd wash over him. But it wasn't the thousands of strangers that steadied him—it was the sight in the VIP section of the stadium, where his entire world sat watching.

His mother and father, side by side, his mother still gripping his father's hand like she had through every nerve-wracking moment of their lives. His annoying—but undeniably adorable—sister, Innayat practically vibrated with excitement, barely resisting the urge to yell something embarrassing.

His bua and uncles, the ones who had been second parents to him. His grandparents—three of them, each a pillar of strength in their own way. His best friend and cousin, Jaymeet, who was yet to make his own debut but had always been his fiercest competitor and loudest cheerleader.

His first cousins from dad's side and Vamika sat beside them, their grin as wide as ever, while Akaay, listed as a reserve for today's match, watched from the dugout.

And then his gaze landed on his mamu and mami—the camera had just captured them on the big screen, and the way the crowd erupted in cheers told him everything about their legacy.

This was it. His moment.

Taking one last look at the people who mattered the most, Aryaman turned back towards the field, his heart steady, his purpose clear. Today, he wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for them.

As Aryaman adjusted his cap and took his position on the field, the familiar hum of the roaring crowd settled into the background, becoming nothing more than white noise. The Australian openers walked to the crease, confidence in their strides, but Aryaman had been waiting for this moment far too long to let nerves take over.

The captain tossed him the ball. His fingers curled around it, feeling the familiar seam beneath his touch. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and started his run-up.

This was it. His first spell in national colors.

And he was ready to leave his mark.

Aryaman surged forward, his body moving with the fluidity of years spent perfecting his craft. His bangs bounced with every stride, falling over his forehead before sweeping back up, only to drop again—a hypnotic rhythm that had the girls in the stadium utterly mesmerized.

Swoons and excited whispers rippled through the stands, echoing a familiar past—just like when his father had once stood at the crease, bat in hand, stealing hearts as effortlessly as he struck boundaries. But Aryaman had no time for that. His focus was razor-sharp, his purpose unwavering.

With one final step, he launched the ball, eyes locked on the batter. Let them fawn. He had a job to do.

The ball left Aryaman's hand like a bullet, slicing through the air with precision. The Australian batter barely had time to react before it pitched sharply, skidding off the surface.

A blur of movement—then a desperate attempt to defend.

Edge.

The ball kissed the bat's edge and rocketed behind. For a split second, time seemed to slow. Then—

Snap!

Wicketkeeper's gloves clamped around it. A clean catch.

The stadium exploded. A roar of thousands reverberated through the air, a sound so electrifying it sent a thrill down Aryaman's spine.

He barely had time to process before his teammates swarmed him, clapping his back, ruffling his hair. But his eyes instinctively darted toward the VIP section.

His father was on his feet, grinning. His mother had her hands clasped together, eyes glassy. Innayat was whistling like a hooligan. Vamika was already smirking at Jaymeet, as if to say, I told you he'd start with a bang.

Aryaman exhaled, heart hammering.

First over. First wicket.

He turned back to his mark, rolling his shoulders, ready to go again.

This was just the beginning.

The sun dipped lower as Aryaman ran in for his third over, sweat clinging to his skin, determination burning in his veins. The Australians had started cautiously after his early breakthrough, but he wasn't done yet.

His second wicket came in the 10th over—a perfect in-swinger that trapped the batter plumb in front. The umpire's finger shot up even before the appeal had fully left Aryaman's lips.

By the time he got his third, the stadium was alight with hope. A short ball, well-directed, forcing the batter into an awkward pull—straight into the hands of deep square leg.

His fourth? A peach of a delivery that clipped the off-stump, sending the bails cartwheeling. The crowd erupted, chants of "Aryaman! Aryaman!" echoing around the stadium.

And then came the fifth. The final over of his spell. The moment every bowler dreams of.

A fast, skidding yorker, honed to perfection, crashing into the base of the middle stump. The batter didn't even look back before walking off. Aryaman clenched his fists, letting out a triumphant roar, his teammates piling onto him in celebration.

A five-wicket haul on debut. Just like Innayat had predicted. Just like he had always wanted.

But cricket was cruel.

Despite Aryaman's heroics, the Australian tailenders scraped together a defendable total. When India came in to bat, early wickets tumbled, and even the middle order couldn't steady the chase.

Hope flickered when the lower order fought back, but it wasn't enough. A mistimed shot, a catch at deep midwicket, and just like that—India fell short by 12 runs.

As the opposition celebrated, Aryaman stood in the middle of the field, his cap pulled low over his face. His fingers curled into fists. A fifer on debut—yet the only thing he felt was the crushing weight of defeat.

He exhaled sharply, adjusting his cap as he forced himself to move, to shake hands, to go through the motions. His teammates patted his back, the Australian players congratulated him, and he smiled—small, polite, not quite reaching his eyes.

From the stands, Pashmina and Shubman watched him closely, exchanging a knowing glance.

They didn't need words to predict what was coming next.

And sure enough, later that evening, as the family gathered for dinner, Aryaman sat at the table, eating in silence—methodical, focused, and just a little too much.

Pashmina sighed, nudging Shubman. "Say something."

Shubman only shook his head, watching their son push another spoonful of rice into his mouth. "Let him be," he murmured. "This is his way."

Because Shubman knew that for Aryaman, disappointment didn't come with tears or loud frustration. It came with silence, with overthinking, with pushing himself harder. And right now, it came with finishing three plates of food as if that would somehow swallow the loss.

As Aryaman reached for his fourth plate of food, Shubman promptly intercepted, placing a firm hand on his wrist. "Okay, that's enough. You're an athlete, for god's sake," he said, half exasperated, half amused.

Aryaman huffed but didn't argue, merely leaning back in his chair with a sigh. His fingers tapped restlessly against the table, his thoughts clearly still on the match.

Pashmina reached over to brush his hair back fondly. "You played brilliantly," she reminded him. "A fifer on debut isn't something everyone gets."

Innayat, sitting cross-legged on her chair, smirked. "Chill, Paaji. We've seen worse." She reached over and patted Aryaman's back with exaggerated sympathy. "At least you took a fifer. Some people here only managed 15 runs on their debut."

Shubman shot her a flat look while the rest of the table burst into laughter. "You do realize I'm still your father, right?" he said dryly.

Innayat grinned. "Oh, I'm very aware. That's why it's so fun."

Aryaman shook his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. But just as quickly, the weight of the loss settled back onto his shoulders.

Shubman noticed. With a sigh, he grabbed the serving spoon and plopped more curry onto his plate. "You think too much," he muttered. "One match doesn't define a career."

Pashmina nodded, nudging Aryaman's arm. "Exactly. Even the greatest players have had rough starts. It's what you do next that matters."

Aryaman exhaled sharply. "I just... I wanted to win."

Shubman's expression softened. "And you will. Many times over."

Innayat, ever the menace, pointed her spoon at him. "Yeah, and when you do, I'll be right there, taking all the credit as your biggest supporter."

Aryaman scoffed. "Biggest supporter? More like biggest headache."

"Same thing," she said smugly.

Laughter rippled around the table, and for the first time that evening, Aryaman let himself smile. The loss still stung, but as he looked at his family—loud, teasing, unwavering—he knew one thing for sure.

Tomorrow, he'd train harder. Because this? This was just the beginning.

As the night deepened and the moon shone high in the sky, Pashmina woke to an empty bed. A faint crease formed between her brows as her hands instinctively reached for the warmth that was no longer there. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she scanned the dark room, searching for Shubman.

Then, a soft glow from the backyard flickered against the curtains, casting restless shadows on the walls. She pushed the blanket aside and stepped toward the balcony, drawn by the light.

There, on the wooden swing, Shubman sat with Aryaman curled up against his chest, the boy's head resting over his heart. Shubman's fingers moved absently through Aryaman's hair, his gaze lost in the quiet of the night.

Pashmina's breath hitched for a moment. It was a sight she had seen before, a memory etched in time—the night Shubman had first allowed Aryaman in, when guarded silences had given way to something softer, something real.

And now, years later, that love remained unchanged.

A gentle smile touched her lips as she turned away from the balcony. Careful not to disturb the quiet of the night, she tiptoed downstairs, her footsteps light against the wooden floor. The cool night air greeted her as she stepped outside, wrapping around her like an old embrace.

Shubman looked up as she approached, a knowing glint in his eyes, but he said nothing. Instead, he shifted slightly, making room for her. Without a word, Pashmina settled beside him, her head resting against his shoulder, her hand gently brushing Aryaman's back.

"What is this father-and-son duo talking about?" she asked softly, cuddling closer to them.

Shubman let out a quiet chuckle, his fingers still moving through Aryaman's hair. "Someone couldn't sleep," he murmured.

Aryaman let out a low chuckle, snuggling further against Shubman's chest. "Bitching about you," he muttered, eyes still half-closed.

Pashmina huffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, really?"

Shubman smirked, his fingers still lazily running through Aryaman's hair. "Mostly him. I was just an innocent listener."

Aryaman scoffed. "Liar. You started it."

Pashmina narrowed her eyes as she looked at Shubman, then turned to Aryaman. "What did he say?"

Aryaman smirked, tilting his head just enough to glance at her. "Oh, just the usual. Complaining about how you boss him around, how he never wins an argument, how—"

Shubman clicked his tongue. "That is not what I said."

Pashmina raised an eyebrow. "No? So what did you say?"

Shubman opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing down at Aryaman, who was grinning against his chest. "Traitor," he muttered under his breath.

Aryaman shrugged. "You knew what you were signing up for."

Shubman was about to retaliate when a dramatic gasp came from behind.

"Wow. My own family having a gala time without me," Innayat scoffed, arms crossed as she stood at the doorway, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Shubman turned his head slightly, eyeing her with mild exasperation. "But I didn't know I was signing up for this."

Innayat stomped over, her expression a perfect mix of offense and determination. Without hesitation, she plopped onto the swing—more like pushed her way in, elbowing Aryaman and nudging Shubman aside to make space for herself.

Aryaman let out a grunt, barely lifting his head. "Wow. Subtle."

Innayat shot him a smug look. "Survival instinct."

Shubman sighed, adjusting his position as he shot her a flat look. "You do realize there was already no space, right?"

Innayat shrugged, resting her head against his other shoulder. "Not my problem. Figure it out."

Pashmina chuckled, shaking her head. "You really have no shame."

"In this family? Please." Innayat scoffed, settling comfortably. "If I waited for an invitation, I'd be standing there all night."

Shubman huffed but didn't argue, his arm instinctively wrapping around her shoulder. Aryaman, still curled against him, mumbled, "At this rate, we need a bigger swing."

Pashmina chuckled. "A bigger swing? At this rate, we need a whole couch."

Innayat smirked. "Or a throne, since I clearly run this place."

Shubman scoffed. "You run your mouth, that's for sure."

Innayat gasped, placing a hand over her chest. "The disrespect! After everything I bring to this family?"

Aryaman snorted. "What, chaos?"

Innayat beamed. "Exactly. You're welcome."

Shubman shook his head, turning to Pashmina with a look of pure exasperation. "How did we even create this menace?"

Pashmina sighed dramatically. "Bad luck? Karma? A cosmic prank?"

Innayat grinned. "Or maybe, just maybe, I was meant to be the best thing that ever happened to you."

Aryaman snorted. "Debatable."

Innayat kicked his leg lightly. "Rude."

Shubman sighed, rubbing his temple. "You do realize normal families sit together and have peaceful conversations, right?"

Pashmina smirked. "And yet, here you are, surrounded by us."

Innayat leaned back smugly. "Face it, Pa. You love the chaos."

Shubman huffed. "I tolerate it."

Aryaman chuckled, eyes half-closed again. "That's just another way of saying you wouldn't have it any other way."

Shubman looked around at them—Aryaman still curled against him, Pashmina comfortably tucked by his side, and Innayat sprawled out like she owned the place. He exhaled, shaking his head, but there was no real annoyance in his voice when he muttered, "Unbelievable."

Pashmina sighed, tilting her head as if in deep thought. "Unbelievable? No, no... more like unrecognizable. My sweet little Innu—where did she go? What went wrong?"

Innayat scoffed, draping herself dramatically across the swing. "Nothing went wrong. I ascended. You should be proud."

Aryaman huffed a quiet laugh. "Proud? More like concerned."

Innayat nudged him with her foot. "You're just mad I turned out cooler than you."

Aryaman barely reacted, eyes still half-lidded. "Cooler? You shoved your way onto this swing like a stray cat."

Shubman groaned. "Both of you shut up before I personally remove you."

Innayat smirked. "Bold of you to assume you have that kind of power."

"I'm done with this," Shubman said, standing up, ready to leave.

Before he could even take a step, Innayat grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back with surprising force. "Nope, you're not going anywhere," she said, grinning up at him. "You love us too much to do that."

Shubman tried to pull away but was met with Innayat pressing a quick kiss on his cheek, her smirk growing wider.

Shubman froze for a moment, his eyes softening as he looked at her. The smile she wore was familiar, one that he still carried himself. It was the same crooked, playful grin—the one that had always been a part of him. He realized, with a slight pang of nostalgia, that she had inherited it.

Shubman let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Guess I still haven't lost my touch."

Innayat shrugged. "I'm just keeping it alive."

Shubman watched Innayat turn around, full of herself as usual, boasting about how she had everyone under control. She was speaking to Pashmina and Aryaman, but Shubman’s focus was on Pashmina. His heart swelled with something deeper than love—gratitude, maybe, or awe. The woman standing beside him was everything. She was his beginning and his end.

Pashmina’s laughter, light and carefree, filled the air as she listened to Innayat’s joke. Aryaman’s chuckle followed, but Shubman’s world seemed to pause for just a moment. He looked at his wife—the woman who had shared his life, his struggles, his dreams. The woman he never could have imagined living without. He let out a breath, one filled with satisfaction, the kind that comes only after a long journey that had led exactly where it was meant to.

And then, like a flash of memory, he thought back to the first day. The day he walked into that dark room at the end of the hallway in Kohli’s, driven by something he couldn’t explain. It was a simple choice, a moment of curiosity, but it changed everything. He hadn’t known her then, hadn’t even thought twice. But the girl he never knew before became the one he wanted to know everything about. The one he wanted beside him, every day, for the rest of his life.

Shubman’s eyes softened as he looked at Pashmina, his mind pulling up that moment when he made the decision without even realizing it. That day, that one day, was the beginning of everything he had now. And now, standing here with her, with their family, he realized that it had been the best choice he had ever made.

He could never have imagined this life without her—the laughter, the love, the way everything just made sense because she was there. And in this quiet moment, with everything falling into place around him, Shubman knew, deep down, that there was nothing more he could ever ask for. She was his home, his heart, his everything. And he had found her by chance, by curiosity, by fate.

He had everything. She was everything.