The polished stadium hallway echoed with laughter as Abhishek Sharma, tall and broad-shouldered, walked alongside Rohit Sharma, Shreyas Iyer, and Shivam Dube. They were riding the high of the win, joking among themselves, until suddenly their chatter slowed.

Just ahead, near the elevators, stood a girl. Her frame was unmistakably short and curvy, the fabric of an Abhishek Sharma jersey hugging her hourglass figure. When she turned, the sight left them momentarily stunned — the round cheeks, glossy waist-length black hair, and the kind of body that pulled every eye without effort.

Shivam Dube (whispering, elbowing Shreyas): “Bhai… yeh jersey dekh… aur yeh figure… asli dream fan lag rahi hai.”

Shreyas Iyer (grinning, trying to keep his cool): “Fan nahi… fan club lagti hai. Abhishek, teri kismet dekh.”

Rohit Sharma (chuckling, arms crossed as he slowed his pace): “Abhishek, tu captain hota ya nahi, aaj toh lagta hai tujhe toss jeet gaya hai.”

Abhishek’s steps faltered, his usual confident stride carrying a sudden edge of nervous energy. His eyes lingered a moment too long, the lover-boy heart under the “fuck boy” exterior slipping through. Still, he straightened his shoulders and forced a calm tone, masking his racing thoughts.

Abhishek Sharma (clearing his throat, speaking low but firm as the others grinned): “Excuse me…Didn’t think my name on a jersey could look better on anyone else… until now .”

Behind him, the boys broke into hushed laughter.

Shivam (half-whisper, unable to resist teasing): “Bas, gaya yeh banda. Clean bowled.”

Shreyas (smirking, under his breath): “Bhai ka pehla ball hi sixer lag gaya.”

Abhishek ignored them, keeping his steady gaze on her, his charm quiet but magnetic, his confidence hiding just enough nerves to betray how mesmerized he truly was.