On the 15th of November, the atmosphere at the stadium was electric. The semi-finals of the World Cup against New Zealand had begun, and the excitement was palpable. 

India had won the toss and decided to bat first, with the team, particularly Shubman, looking confident despite the earlier injury scare. 

The noise from the crowd, the colour of the flags, the drums—everything was a blur to Naima, who was laser-focused on the task ahead.

Rohit and Shubman had opened the innings, and while they got off to a steady start, the tension was building. 

Shubman, after hitting a few solid shots, suddenly stopped, clutching his hamstring. The entire stadium went silent as the medical team rushed onto the field. 

Naima's heart raced, but she forced herself to stay calm. He had to be okay—he had to be okay.

"Fucking hell," Shubman muttered under his breath, grimacing as he was helped off the field.

"Shubman, don't worry, we'll get this. Just rest up," Naima shouted as he was escorted off the pitch, but there was an edge of panic in her voice. 

She tried to mask it with her usual sharp focus, but the nagging worry didn't disappear. It wasn't just the team's loss if he couldn't continue—it was hers as well.

Rohit, playing solidly, was dismissed for 47 runs, and the crowd grew louder. Naima's eyes flicked toward Shubman's place on the bench. 

He was pacing nervously, biting his lip, his brow furrowed. She swallowed hard but refocused as she joined Virat in the middle, ready for whatever the match threw her way.

The match progressed quickly, and Virat was playing with his usual elegance. He was in control, guiding India towards a large total. With each stroke, his confidence grew, and it was obvious that he was playing with a purpose.

The ball came flying toward him, and with a flick of his wrist, Virat sent it sailing to the boundary. The crowd erupted, and there was no mistaking the emotion in his eyes. His bat raised high, a salute to the moment.

"Fifty! FIFTY!!" screamed the commentator as the stadium erupted in joy. Virat stood tall in the middle of the pitch, removing his helmet and giving a flying kiss towards the stands, directly at his wife, Anushka Sharma, who was cheering from the sidelines.

"Yeah! That's right! For you, babe!" Virat shouted, his voice full of emotion, as he raised his arms towards her. The crowd roared louder at the gesture, but Naima couldn't help but chuckle at how emotional Virat had become.

As Virat fell for 117, Naima took centre stage. The pressure to follow up after such a legendary knock was immense, but Naima was unflinching. 

She had been in this situation before. With her head clear and her focus razor-sharp, she executed every shot with precision, dispatching the ball with a blend of aggression and elegance.

The runs piled on, and before long, she was on the cusp of making history. Naima had always been known for her impeccable technique and cool demeanour under pressure, but today, she was about to achieve something no one had ever done before.

"Come on, Naima, let's make this one count," her mind whispered, just as she nudged another ball to the boundary, securing her century.

The crowd went wild, and Naima's teammates stood up in unison, clapping for her incredible achievement. 

She had just become the youngest cricketer in the world to score 25 ODI centuries. As she raised her bat in acknowledgement, her eyes found Shubman's on the bench. He was already on his feet, his hands clapping furiously.

As the game continued, the weight of the moment crashed down on her. She had just reached a milestone she had dreamed about for years. And there, as if on cue, Shubman walked to the boundary line to give her a standing ovation.

Naima had to fight back the tears, but she couldn't help it. She turned, walking toward the dugout, but before she could even reach the boundary, Shubman was there, pulling her into a tight, unrelenting hug.

"That's my girl," he whispered into her ear, his voice thick with emotion. "I knew you had it in you."

Naima buried her face in his chest for a second, taking a moment to collect herself. She didn't care who saw—she needed this. She needed him.

"I couldn't have done it without you," she muttered, pulling away just enough to look up at him.

"Of course, you could've. You're Naima fucking Prushka," he teased, his voice low but filled with pride.

She grinned, feeling the adrenaline from the game surge through her veins. "Don't get cocky, Gill. You'll be the next one out here."

Despite his hamstring injury, Shubman was determined to get back into the game. The medical staff had cleared him to return after a brief rest. 

As he jogged back to the crease, his eyes locked onto Naima's once more.

"That's my girl," he mouthed to her from the boundary, causing her to laugh.

But the moment of calmness didn't last long. The game was chaotic, fast-paced, and demanding. Naima had been scoring freely, and now it was Shubman's turn to show what he was made of.

Shubman strode to the middle, limping slightly but determined. With his bat in hand, he was ready to take on the bowlers again. The audience was chanting his name, and the energy was unlike any other.

He didn't waste any time. As he faced the bowlers, he started to hit clean, solid shots. The sound of the bat connecting with the ball was satisfying, and with every run, his confidence grew.

"Fuck yeah! This is how you do it!" Shubman muttered, his body moving in sync with the rhythm of the game.

As the ball raced toward the boundary, Naima cheered him on from her position in the stands. He was playing like a man possessed, and India needed those runs.

He batted carefully, making 80 runs before getting out, but it was clear that he had helped push the total into an unassailable position.

By the end of the innings, India had set a monstrous target, with 382/4 on the board. The fans went wild, chanting, screaming, and celebrated their team's stunning performance. The semi-finals were well within reach, and the whole team was buzzing with excitement.

The atmosphere was chaotic and electric, and yet there was a calm between Naima and Shubman—a connection that spoke louder than any words ever could.

As they walked off the field together, Naima gave him a sideways glance. "You did good, you know that?" she said softly, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

Shubman shot her a grin, giving her a playful nudge. "Only for you, baby."

And just like that, the tension of the semi-finals, the competition, the pressure—it all melted away. For a moment, it was just the two of them, together, celebrating the dream they had been working for their entire lives.

The semi-finals against New Zealand ended with a thunderous roar from the crowd, the stadium erupting in cheers as India secured a place in the finals of the World Cup. 

The final moments of the match were nothing short of spectacular, with Mohammed Shami delivering a career-best performance, taking seven wickets. His spell was ferocious, unrelenting, and entirely unstoppable.

New Zealand, chasing India's massive total of 382, never seemed to get their footing. Despite some resistance from their top-order batters, Shami's fiery pace and precision ripped through the middle and lower order.

Every delivery felt like a dagger as Shami swung the ball both ways, leaving the batsmen bewildered. The crowd screamed in unison with every wicket he took.

"Seven fucking wickets! Are you kidding me?!" Ishan yelled from the dugout, punching the air.

Rohit was beside himself, clapping furiously as the team rallied around the boundary line, hyping Shami up after every dismissal. 

Naima stood in awe, watching Shami decimate the opposition.

"That's not bowling; that's a damn massacre," she muttered to herself, her eyes wide as she saw yet another New Zealand batsman trudging back to the pavilion.

When Shami took the final wicket—a peach of a delivery that uprooted the stumps—the stadium exploded in celebration. 

India had bowled New Zealand out for 327, securing a 70-run victory. The players stormed the field, engulfing Shami in a massive group hug.

"Seven wickets in a fucking World Cup semi-final!" shouted KL Rahul, slapping Shami on the back. "Bro, you're a damn legend."

Virat, ever the charismatic leader, lifted Shami's arm high in victory. "This man right here!" he roared to the cheering crowd, his voice booming through the stadium. 

"This man just made history!"

The Indian dressing room was pure chaos after the match. The energy was unmatched, with players laughing, shouting, and spraying water at one another. 

The staff brought out a cake to celebrate the historic win and the team's progression to the finals.

"Cut the damn cake already, Shami!" yelled Rohit, waving a knife in his direction.

Shami, grinning from ear to ear, cut into the cake as the team sang, "We're in the finals!" Naima was standing beside Shubman, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"That was insane, wasn't it?" Shubman said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"In-fucking-sane," she agreed, leaning into him. "Shami just obliterated them. I mean, how do you even come back from that kind of carnage?"

Shami, overhearing, turned to Naima with a wink. "I take it you approve of my performance, Naima?"

She laughed. "Understatement of the year, Shami."

As the celebrations continued, Shubman gently tugged Naima away from the crowd. They found a quiet corner of the dressing room, away from the raucous laughter and noise.

"You were incredible out there today," Shubman said, his voice low and sincere. He still looked a little worn out from his earlier hamstring cramps, but his smile was radiant.

"Not as incredible as you," she teased, poking his chest. "Coming back from an injury and scoring 80 runs? That's legendary stuff, Gill."

"Stop hyping me up, baby," he said, pulling her closer. "You're the star of this team. Youngest to 25 ODI centuries? No one else comes close."

"Well, I try," she said with a playful smirk, her hands trailing up his chest.

Shubman leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "You're not just trying—you're fucking perfect, Naima."

Her cheeks flushed. "Shubman," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "you're making it hard to focus on the finals."

"Good," he replied with a grin, kissing her cheek softly. "Because once we win, I'm taking you out to celebrate properly."

After the celebrations, the team gathered for the post-match interview. Rohit and Virat addressed the media, praising Shami's performance and the entire team's efforts.

Naima, standing with Shubman, was approached by a camera crew for a quick word.

"This team is something else, isn't it?" the reporter asked.

Naima smiled. "Absolutely. Everyone gave their all today—this win is a team effort. And shoutout to Shami for being an absolute beast out there."

As the reporter turned the mic to Shubman, he smirked and said, "I'd like to thank my teammate Naima Prushka for being the heartbeat of this squad. She's unstoppable."

Naima elbowed him lightly, laughing. "Stop it, Gill."

As the night wore on and the excitement began to settle, the team gathered for a quiet moment in their hotel. They knew the road wasn't over yet—there was one more game to go.

Sitting beside each other in the team lounge, Naima and Shubman shared a glance.

"One more to go," Shubman said, his voice soft but determined.

"One more," Naima echoed, gripping his hand tightly. "And then we bring that trophy home."

With the finals looming, the team was more focused than ever. The dream was within reach, and they were ready to give it everything they had.

Welcome to the fifteenth chapter of "The Man"!

writing these chapters of the wc23 is so tough but the fact that I wrote this part literally a year after Inida went to the finals, Virat got his 50th 100, Shubman got his 80 and Shami his 7 wickets, it's been good

what are your thoughts about the next chapter? [ i know. it's gonna be extremely hard, I know ]

anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! make sure to comment on what you liked!

until then, yours truly

soup 🫶