Shubman picked up Aryaman and his kit, offering a quick farewell to his teammates before heading to the car. Though he had just left the field, frustration still simmered inside him, refusing to fade. As he settled into the driver's seat, he caught a glimpse of Aryaman in the rearview mirror—his little face scrunched in a pout, arms crossed in quiet protest.

Shubman sighed. He didn't have to ask to know the reason. Aryaman's eyes lingered on the stadium they were leaving behind, no doubt missing his favourite red ball, now forgotten on the field.

As he stared at the 11-month-old pouting in the back seat, Shubman drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, lost in thought. Sighing, he turned the wheel, steering the car toward the toy shop.

Watching the change in direction, Papa Gill furrowed his brows in confusion. "Where are we up to?" he asked.

Shubman glanced at his father and then back at the road, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "A little detour," he said, keeping his voice light.

From the back seat, Aryaman kicked his tiny feet against the car seat, still sulking. Shubman knew the red ball was all he had on his mind.

As they pulled into the parking lot of the toy shop, Papa Gill let out a knowing sigh. "Ah," he murmured, shaking his head. "You can't bear to see him upset, can you?"

Shubman chuckled, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Guess he takes after me," he admitted before stepping out.

Opening the back door, he scooped Aryaman into his arms. "Come on, champ," he said, tapping the toddler's nose. "Let's go find you a new red ball."

At that, Aryaman's pout wavered. His big eyes sparkled with curiosity, and just like that, the sulk began to fade.

The three stepped into the toy shop, the bell above the door chiming softly. Aryaman, snug in Shubman's arms, gasped in delight, his big eyes darting from one colourful shelf to another. His tiny fingers flexed, reaching toward the flashing toy cars, jingling rattles, and plush animals that seemed to call out to him.

Papa Gill chuckled, watching his grandson's excitement. "Looks like he's got his eyes on everything but the ball now," he mused.

Shubman shook his head with a knowing smile. "Not for long." He adjusted Aryaman slightly and turned toward the section filled with sports toys. Nestled among the bins of rubber and plastic balls was exactly what they had come for—a soft red ball, perfect for little hands.

The moment Aryaman spotted them, his entire body stilled. Then, as if confirming what he was seeing, he let out a thrilled squeal, his chubby fingers stretching toward the bin.

Shubman picked one up and held it out. Aryaman grabbed it eagerly, hugging the softball to his chest as though it were the greatest treasure in the world.

Papa Gill sighed in amusement. "All this fuss over a red ball," he muttered.

Shubman grinned, watching his son nuzzle against the ball happily. "Some things are just non-negotiable," he said with a chuckle.

Once they had the ball, Shubman wandered through the aisles, his eyes flicking to the toys Aryaman had excitedly reached for earlier. With a small smile, he picked up a few of them—stuffed animals, a soft rattle, and a colourful teething ring—adding them to their purchase.

Aryaman let out a delighted babble, his tiny hands patting Shubman's chest as if in approval.

Papa Gill watched the scene unfold, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He saw glimpses of his younger self in Shubman—the same willingness to go the extra mile, the same quiet joy in spoiling his son. With a soft chuckle, he shook his head. "Like father, like son," he murmured to himself, as they made their way to the checkout.

Shubman pulled out his wallet, ready to swipe his card, when he noticed the cashier staring at him, mouth slightly open in shock. The young man's eyes widened as he processed the sight before him—the cricketing star standing right there in his small toy shop.

A nervous excitement flickered across the cashier's face, his hands fumbling slightly as he bagged the items. But what puzzled him even more was the baby nestled in Shubman's arms. His mind raced for an explanation. Is that his son? Nephew? He considered asking but quickly decided against it. Whatever the story was, it wasn't his place to pry.

Snapping back to the moment, he gave Shubman a wide grin. "Big fan, sir," he blurted out, his voice tinged with excitement.

Shubman chuckled, swiping his card smoothly. "Thanks, mate."

The cashier handed over the bags, still trying to process the unexpected encounter. As Shubman adjusted Aryaman in his arms and turned to leave, the young man couldn't help but think—of all the places to run into a cricketing legend, he never imagined it would be at his tiny toy shop.

Lost in his thoughts, the cashier suddenly realized he had missed his chance. His heart skipped a beat as he quickly blurted out, "A picture, sir!"

Shubman paused, his grip tightening slightly around Aryaman. He hesitated—posing for a picture was second nature to him, but with his son in his arms, it felt different. He wasn't sure if he wanted Aryaman in the public eye just yet.

Seeing the eager, almost pleading look on the cashier's face, Shubman sighed. He didn't want to disappoint the young fan. Turning to Papa Gill, he gently passed Aryaman over. The baby, now in his grandfather's arms, blinked curiously, clutching his soft red ball tightly.

With his hands now free, Shubman gave a nod. "Alright, let's make it quick."

The cashier beamed, grabbing his phone in a rush. He stood beside Shubman, grinning ear to ear as he snapped the picture—one he knew he'd cherish forever.

As Shubman was about to leave, he turned back to the cashier and made a quick request. "Just don't post it anywhere—a request, please."

The young man's excitement dimmed for a brief moment, but he quickly nodded, understanding the unspoken meaning behind the words. "Of course, sir. Just for me," he assured, slipping his phone into his pocket.

Shubman gave him a small, appreciative smile before taking Aryaman back into his arms. With a final nod, he walked out of the shop, Papa Gill following behind.

As the door closed behind them, the cashier let out a deep breath, grinning to himself. He had just met a cricketing legend—and even though he couldn't share it with the world, he knew this moment would stay with him forever.

As his father walked beside him, carrying the bag of toys, he glanced at Shubman, who was completely engrossed in Aryaman's soft babbles. The baby clutched his red ball tightly, occasionally waving it around as if trying to make a point in his nonsensical conversation.

Papa Gill chuckled, shaking his head. "I see a certain little boy refused to leave a cricket bat behind at a shop once... in Aryaman," he remarked, his voice laced with amusement.

Shubman looked up, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He didn't need to ask—he knew exactly what his father was talking about. His own childhood flashed before him, a memory of a much younger Papa Gill trying to reason with a stubborn little Shubman who had refused to leave a sports store without a bat gripped tightly in his tiny hands.

With a laugh, Shubman adjusted Aryaman in his arms. "Looks like history repeats itself," he admitted, gently ruffling Aryaman's soft hair.

Papa Gill smirked. "And just like back then, a father couldn't say no."

As they settled into the car, Papa Gill's warm smile slowly faded, replaced by a more serious expression. His mind had drifted back to the chaos at the stadium, and he could no longer ignore it.

Turning toward Shubman, he kept his voice calm but firm. "Also, the stunt you pulled at the stadium was not needed."

Shubman, who had just fastened his seatbelt, paused for a brief moment. His jaw tightened, and his hands gripped the steering wheel a little harder than necessary. He exhaled through his nose, already anticipating the lecture.

"I didn't pull a stunt," he muttered, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Papa Gill's gaze hardened as he fisted his hands, his voice laced with restrained frustration. "You think almost making a man faint with that anger and grip of yours is not a stunt, Shubman?"

Shubman's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. He knew exactly what his father was referring to. The heated moment at the stadium, the tension that had boiled over—it hadn't been pretty. But at the time, it had felt justified.

"He had it coming," Shubman muttered, his voice low but firm.

Papa Gill let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "Maybe he did. But you? You had a choice. And you let anger make it for you."

Shubman glanced into the rearview mirror, his expression softening as he saw Aryaman's eyelids growing heavy, his tiny fists still clutching the soft red ball. He let out a slow breath, making sure to keep his voice low.

"Well, he shouldn't have commented on Aryaman."

Papa Gill's jaw tightened, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. "I get it, Shubman. I do. But losing control like that? Letting someone's words push you into acting that way?" 

Shubman opened his mouth to defend himself, but before he could get a word out, Papa Gill's voice cut through the car, sharp and unwavering.

"Don't you dare justify it, Shubman?"

Shubman's jaw snapped shut, his fingers curling around the steering wheel.

Papa Gill exhaled his voice firm but not unkind. "You need to act responsibly. The comments? They're going to come—again and again. It's part of the status you hold, part of the game you play. But how do you react? That's on you."

Shubman clenched his teeth, his shoulders tense. His father wasn't wrong, and that only made the words sting more.

"And more than a cricketer, you are a father now," Papa Gill continued, his tone softer but no less serious. "Aryaman is watching you, even when you think he's not. One day, he'll learn from the way you handle things. Do you want him to think anger is the answer?"

Shubman swallowed hard, his eyes flickering again to the sleeping baby in the mirror. Aryaman's tiny chest rose and fell steadily, his little fingers still curled around the ball. He looked so peaceful—untouched by the weight of the world that Shubman himself had carried for so long.

He sighed, long and slow. "No," he admitted, voice quieter now.

Papa Gill gave a small nod, leaning back in his seat. "Then start acting like it."

Silence settled between them, heavy yet understanding. The only sound in the car was Aryaman's soft, rhythmic breathing.

Shubman kept his eyes on the road, the lesson sinking deeper than he wanted to admit.

As they entered the house, the air was still, the quiet stretching between them. The faint clinking of cups came from the living room, where Pashmina and Shahneel sat with their morning coffee.

Pashmina looked up with a bright smile, but it faltered the second she caught Shubman's expression. He was sulking—brows drawn together, lips pressed in a firm line, shoulders still tense from whatever had unfolded before they got home. Shahneel snorted into her coffee, already amused at whatever had gone down.

But then, Pashmina's eyes landed on the real scene-stealer—Aryaman, fast asleep in Shubman's arms, his tiny fingers clutching a brand-new red ball like a prized possession. Her lips twitched at the sight. Even in his dreams, their little chipmunk refused to let go.

"I see little chipmunk had too much practice this morning," Pashmina said, smiling as she took a slow sip of her coffee.

Shubman let out a tired sigh, adjusting Aryaman in his arms. "More like he made sure we wouldn't leave without this ball." He glanced down at the tiny fist still gripping the red ball tightly, shaking his head. "I swear, he's already more stubborn than me."

Shahneel smirked over her mug. "Well, that's not exactly hard."

Shubman shot her a look, but before he could retort, Pashmina reached out and gently ran her fingers through Aryaman's soft curls.

"Looks like you had quite the morning," she murmured, her voice warm, but her knowing gaze flickered to Papa Gill, who had just set the shopping bags down.

Papa Gill grunted, rubbing his forehead before muttering, "More than enough."

Shahneel leaned forward, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "Okay, what did I miss?"

Pashmina chuckled, already piecing things together. "Oh, you know, Shubman being Shubman"

Shahneel grinned. "Which means trouble."

Shubman groaned. "Can someone in this house just let me live?"

Pashmina patted his arm. "Go put Aryaman down first. Then we'll see."

Shubman huffed but didn't argue, adjusting Aryaman in his arms as he made his way toward the nursery. The little one stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips before he nestled closer, his tiny fingers twitching against Shubman's chest. The warmth of his son was grounding, but it didn't quite erase the weight pressing against his shoulders.

His father's words still rang in his head. You had a choice. And you let anger make it for you.

Shubman carefully lowered Aryaman into the crib, watching as the baby shifted, his hands instinctively reaching for something to hold. Shubman picked up the red ball and placed it beside him. Instantly, Aryaman's fingers curled around it, a sleepy pout forming before he settled again.

A small chuckle left Shubman's lips, but it was short-lived. With a deep breath, he turned and headed back to the living room.

The moment he stepped in, he knew something was wrong.

Pashmina and Shahneel weren't just lounging anymore. They were hunched over Shahneel's phone, their faces unreadable. Papa Gill sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes sharp with something unreadable.

Shubman's stomach clenched. "What now?"

Pashmina hesitated before turning the phone toward him. "You need to see this."

Shubman's eyes landed on the screen, and his blood turned ice cold.

A photo.

Taken at the stadium.

Not just any moment—the moment. His fingers curled around a man's collar, fury burning in his eyes. The tension in his jaw, the stance of his body—it painted a picture far worse than what had actually happened.

The headline beneath it made his stomach twist.

"Cricket Star Shubman Gill LOSES CONTROL—Violent Outburst at Stadium Raises Questions!"

Shubman's jaw locked, his fingers clenching at his sides. He knew how this worked. The media didn't care about context. They cared about clicks. And this? This was a goldmine.

But his pulse truly spiked when he scrolled down.

Another photo.

A grainy, zoomed-in shot of Aryaman in his arms.

And beneath it, a line that made his vision blur with anger—

"Who is the baby Shubman Gill was seen leaving with? Mystery child sparks speculation!"

The air in the room turned suffocating. His name was already trending. Comments were flooding in. Some people were guessing. Others were assuming the worst.

His father's voice cut through the silence. Calm. Steady. Unshaken.

"You wanted to keep him out of the spotlight." Papa Gill exhaled, his gaze locked onto Shubman's. "Looks like that's no longer an option."

Shubman felt something coil tight in his chest. His fingers twitched as he handed the phone back.

This wasn't just a bad headline.

It was an open door.

And now, the whole world was about to walk right through it.