Page 8

Seven. His lady of the night

Elias

I t’s been a week since my incredible night with Vera and every time my phone buzzes, I lunge for it hoping it’s her. It’s Dhruv. My parents. My teammates. Even my coach. Never Vera.

It was foolish, leaving my phone number behind and expecting her to use it. I know the score; we shared one night and it wasn’t meant to be anything more. I don’t know how to turn off this desire to hear from her though. I’m not a master of one night stands, but I know the expectations. The problem is, none of them were her . In the days since I left her apartment, she’s consumed my every thought and I can feel myself come unhinged when her silence continues.

Despite what social media or the internet says, just because I’m an athlete doesn’t mean I’m partying all the time or paparazzi tracks my movements. And yet, pictures of us that night are circulating everywhere. The only saving grace is Vera’s face isn’t visible. They caught everything else though. Especially the times I groped her ass or when I pressed my face into her neck. It certainly didn’t help seeing those pictures while I was missing her, because all I could think about was the taste of her skin and how good it felt to be buried inside her. Two things I’m possibly never going to experience again.

Like Dhruv predicted, everyone was furious with me. The Renegades management did not appreciate that I wasn’t resting and recuperating, so they forced me back on the road with the team as a way to ‘curb my antics’. I’m not complaining because now I have access to Dr. Theo, our physician and he can make sure after all my shenanigans, I didn’t fuck up my shoulder even more.

Okay, I might have underplayed my role with the Chennai Renegades. I’m one of two top-scoring batters, an achievement I’ve worked towards my entire life. Put me in front of the wickets and on any given day, I will hit the ball into the stands. My strike rate is very high for a damn good reason. I’m the guy the team—Renegades or India—brings out when they need to catch up in points and win the match. Makes me sound cocky, I know. But I’ve delivered on this expectation every single time. Until one too many aggressive batting practices and a fielding injury took me out of the game. My rotator cuff doesn’t care for my star status.

The gossip blogs do, though. They’ve never cared about me before, but now I’m all they’re talking about. Not to mention the ‘serious’ sports pundits too. I’d be impressed by their creative headlines if I wasn’t so pissed with this development— One year away in recovery and the Renegades’ golden boy is making fans question his dedication to the sport; Renegades’ Joseph gives ‘resting’ a whole new meaning; Elias Joseph might not be the boy you can take home to mom, after all .

This reached my parents too, which was unpleasant because it disrupted their holiday. I have a spreadsheet with their travel plans, but I don’t refer to it regularly enough to know where they are. As long as they’re safe and having fun, I’m not too worried.

“Is this going to turn into a scandal?”

“No. I promise, everything is okay.”

“They’re saying horrible things about my son on the internet. It’s not okay !”

I wince at my mother’s volume and silently thank my father as he wraps an arm around her. She settles, glaring at me through the screen. I didn’t want to FaceTime them, but when I wasn’t replying to texts fast enough, Mom took matters into her own hands.

“Do I need to come home?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got everything under control.”

By their expressions, it’s obvious they don’t believe me. While I wasn’t the first of the Joseph siblings to become a professional athlete, I’m the one that’s garnered far more attention. As much as field hockey is often considered our national sport, cricket is always in the spotlight much to my older brother’s chagrin. But none of us have ever gotten into any trouble before, so I can see why my parents are worried.

“Who is she?”

I recognise the glint in Mom’s eye and shake my head. Even though she never forced me or my siblings, Patrick and Nina, into arranged marriages, she wants us to find our happily ever afters. I have nothing against marriage, it’s sometimes hard to know if people want me for my personality or my name. Not Vera, though. I nudge the thought away and choose to keep any information about my mystery woman a secret.

“You’re in Mumbai now?”

I nod, grateful to Dad for saving me from further interrogation. “There’s a match here tonight and we fly home tomorrow. I’m confined to the medical room as punishment.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s okay. Hurts now and then, but Dr. Theo’s helping a lot.”

I could have lied, but my parents only want the best for me.

“Please be safe, mone,” my mother says, worry etched into her face.

“I will, Mom. You should enjoy your trip. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”

After a quick round of byes, the call ends and I collapse onto my hotel bed. Disappointing my parents is my least favourite thing and while they’ll never actually say the words, I know they’re upset by my actions. When my alarm buzzes, I drag myself to Dr. Theo’s room for another round of physiotherapy—aka torture.

The Renegades are playing the Mumbai Legends in the second match of this group stage. They met us on home soil a few weeks ago and destroyed us. And my teammates aren’t in a forgiving mood—you don’t show us up in our own stadium and expect to get away with it.

I’d love to be on the pitch against the Legends, playing up the rivalry we’ve built over the years. We’re the only two teams in the league with the highest number of wins—six a piece—and every match is a battle to see who will get the seventh title. Instead, I’m sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable chair in the medical room with the large flat screen television on low volume. My attention is divided between the match and social media, mostly on the latter, as I scroll through Vera’s Instagram account.

A few days after our night together, I decided to look her up. Her profile doesn’t have a lot of information outside of her name and a quote by Maya Angelou, so she continues to be a mystery. Her pictures are also scarce—a few of her as a kid with her family, a group picture with some friends—but her tagged section is flooded with photographs. Weddings, birthday parties, holding babies, wearing tiny dresses, draped in gorgeous sarees; she’s stunning in every shot. Everything points to her being a party girl and weirdly, I like that. She’s not the kind to post about her every move, though, and that’s refreshing.

There’s a picture I stare at longer than the others, one I take a screenshot of and save. She’s wearing a dark red sweatshirt that makes her brown skin glow, with her hair up in a messy bun and while she’s smiling, her eyes are not. There’s something so vulnerable about her expression. The tip of her nose is pink and some of her eyeliner is smudged, making me wonder exactly what happened to make her sad. And yet, it’s the most beautiful picture I’ve ever seen.

The room vibrates with a loud cheer from the stadium and I put my phone away to focus on the match. Nothing good will come from stalking Vera online, especially since it was meant to be one night and one night only.

Despite all the things working against the team—stellar bowling by Mumbai, rowdy spectators calling us every bad word in their vocabulary, missing easy shots—we beat the Legends by six runs. The win is bittersweet because we got them back by taking away home ground advantage and six runs was a very purposeful move. It’s like saying ‘you thought you were better, watch us now’.

So to celebrate the Renegades management has cordoned off a portion of the rooftop of our hotel and opened the bar for everyone attending. I show up because I want to support my boys, but also so I’m not sitting alone in my hotel room. There’s only so much punishment a person can take before it starts to wear on them. And after being locked away with the medical team through the whole match, I’m taking this as a tiny reward.

“So…who was she?”

I look up from my phone, still open to Vera’s Instagram, and smile as my closest friend saunters over. Sebastian ‘Bash’ Paul and I joined the Renegades around the same time, rose up the ranks together and stuck by each other through everything. Like me, he was born in Kerala, but raised by his Anglo-Indian? 1 grandparents in Mumbai.

“Who was who?” I pocket my phone and tap my glass against his.

He offers me a wry smile and leans against the high table. “Was she worth it?”

The PR team told me to deny everything about that night. They meant don’t talk to the press, but this is Bash, he’s one of the few people I trust.

“Totally worth it.”

“Oh fuck, you went home with her.”

I nod, scanning the people around us. “Best night of my life.”

“How much trouble are you in?”

“Spending the rest of the season on the road with you is my punishment.”

He laughs, punching me in the arm and winces. “Fuck, sorry, bro.”

I wave him off and rotate my shoulder gently. “It’s only bad when Doc insists on twisting my arm until it fucking breaks again.”

We share a laugh, because all of us know how vicious Dr. Theo can be when it comes to our PT. He’s a damn good doctor, but the man likes to torture us before taking it easy on us.

“You gonna see her again?” he asks and I shrug.

“Doubt it. Left my number, but she never called.”

“Maybe she’s busy.”

“Or she doesn’t want to see me again.”

“Who doesn’t want to see you again?” a deep voice asks and I look past Bash to see Samar Krishnan joining our table.

Another close friend, Samar is one of the best bowlers I know. You know he’s on his A-game when we can’t hit the good shots during practice sessions. He’s a dedicated player and one of the veterans on the Renegades. I always get a kick out of telling him he inspired me to play the sport, mostly because it’s a good reminder of how much older he is. Despite all that, Samar has been the most incredible mentor and I respect his opinion on pretty much everything.

“His lady of the night,” Bash offers with a stupid smile.

I playfully lunge at him and he laughs, the asshole. “It was one night. I’m not expecting anything from her.”

“But you left your number.”

“In case she needed it,” I say and Samar narrows his eyes. I can tell he doesn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth. “That’s the truth.”

My friends nod indulgently, but definitely know I expected more from Vera than radio silence. As Bash and Samar discuss the plays of the evening, I finish my drink and excuse myself to get a refill. When I reach the bar, goosebumps skitter across my skin at the sound of a familiar laugh.

It can’t be. There’s no way I manifested her onto this rooftop .

I breathe deeply, the sea breeze ruffling my hair as I nod at the bartender. Drink in hand, I turn and survey the rooftop. If she’s here, I’m going to lose my mind. I hear the laugh again and the corner of my mouth kicks up into a smile. The first time I heard it, I wanted to bottle it up. Maybe even swallow it and keep it locked away inside my chest. Every time she smiled, I pressed my mouth to hers, wanting to feel the curve of her lips against mine. Wanting to lick the shape of her smile and see if it tastes different from when her lips are turned down.

The sounds float away and I sip on my drink. Bash and Samar are in a serious conversation, foreheads crinkled as they stare at a phone. Some of my teammates are lounging on couches, drinking and conversing quietly. There’s a group of women standing to the side smoking and laughing. It’s a good evening for the team and I’m glad they’re all unwinding, especially since we’ve got five days before the next match.

The laugh drifts over again and is now accompanied by a flirtatious remark in an equally familiar husky voice and my heart races. She is here . There’s nobody else I know that sounds like Vera. The idea she’s on the same rooftop as me, miles away from our home city, miles away from where we first met and shared the most incredible night of my life seems ridiculous. I focus on her voice, head swivelling in the direction it’s coming from and my stomach drops.

Florian Sewell is the reason she’s laughing, the reason she’s flirting.

I can’t compete with Florian.

The Australian is an incredible bowler and part of the reason why we have so many female fans. Tall, blond and green eyed, he garners so much attention every time we step out. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s leaning against a table with six women hanging on his every word. With a step to the side, I finally see her. And…fuck me.

Not a single person on this rooftop could compete with Vera Thomas. Even though her smile and sparkly eyes are directed at Florian, something in my stomach twists knowing I got to see all of that before he did. She’s talking animatedly with her hands and I don’t care what she’s saying or how fascinated Florian might be. I will not stand here and let her leave with him.

She’s wearing a short silky cream dress and I remember how soft her thighs were, how supple her skin felt against mine. Her strong brown legs are tucked into Converse high tops that match her dress. Over it, she’s wearing a patterned robe of some kind. When it flutters in the breeze, exposing her shape and legs, I find myself leaning forward for more.

Her hair is still wild and dancing in the breeze, dark kohl frames her brown orbs and her lips are plump and pink. She seems happy and jealousy surges through me that I’m not the reason she looks at that way. I’m afraid if I look away, she’ll vanish. So I stare openly as I take small sips of drink, willing her to look my way.

Florian shifts and raises an arm to get someone’s attention and Vera sees me. She goes still, glass frozen in front of her mouth. Her chest heaves and she tilts her head, gaze raking me over. It takes her a minute of glaring at me, but she puts her hand on Florian’s arm and offers him a smile. One I know isn’t genuine because it doesn’t reach her eyes. She says something to her friends, hands her drink to one of them and walks away.

Smirking, I knock back the rest of my drink and leave my glass at the bar. I head in her direction, frowning when she’s nowhere in sight. But before I can go any further, a hand with red nails grabs the front of my shirt and tugs me inside the restrooms.