The whole team was buzzing with the post-match high, still half in disbelief at the crowd’s roars. And then, the stadium seemed to shift. Every head turned when YN Khan stepped down from the VIP stall—dressed in bold black, dripping star power and ease like it was stitched into her skin. Shivam nearly dropped the water bottle in his hand, jaw slack, eyes glued to her.

The boys muttered among themselves—

Shivam Dube (under his breath to Shreyas): “Bhai… asli pari lag rahi hai.”

Shreyas Iyer (smirking, elbowing him): “Control, bro. She hasn’t even looked our way yet.”

Laughter rippled through them, though their eyes couldn’t leave her. YN shook hands with reporters, signed jerseys, posed with fans, then made her way toward the Indian team. She congratulated Rohit, shared a few words with Shreyas, Shivam, and others. But when her gaze finally landed on Abhishek Sharma, time seemed to slow.

He stood taller than usual, broad shoulders straight, trying not to look too caught off guard. His usual easygoing charm slipped for just a second, replaced with something sharper—nervous but steady. When she reached him, he extended his hand, voice even but carrying a hint of hesitation.

Abhishek Sharma (meeting her eyes, a small smile playing at his lips): “Abhishek. Sharma. It’s… an honor finally meeting a Khan off the screen.”

He shook her hand, firm but not overbearing, his jaw tightening subtly as he tried not to betray just how smitten he looked.

Shivam (muttering behind him, half-joking, half-envious): “Arre, ab toh gaya yeh banda…”

Abhishek ignored the chuckle that followed from the rest of the boys, keeping his attention locked on her.