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The heavy iron gates of the Pathak ancestral mansion in Surat swung open, allowing a silver SUV to crunch onto the gravel driveway. The humid Gujarat morning air was already thick, but the imposing, sprawling heritage house offered a cool, shaded sanctuary.
Aarav Pathak was standing on the porch, wearing a simple white t-shirt and grey track pants, holding a mug of black coffee. He leaned against a pillar, a knowing smirk on his face as the doors of the SUV flew open before the car had even completely stopped.
"Oh, thank the Lord! Air conditioning!"
Abhishek Sharma practically tumbled out of the backseat. He dropped a massive, heavily stickered duffel bag onto the gravel, stretched his arms to the sky, and inhaled dramatically. "Surat ki garmi, bhai sahab! My beautiful Punjabi skin is melting! Set the AC to 16 degrees, quickly!"
Right behind him, stepping out with significantly more grace, was Shubman Gill. He looked pristine, wearing a sharp, beige linen shirt, his sunglasses resting perfectly on his nose. He grabbed his own sleek suitcase and rolled his eyes at his teammate.
"He's been complaining since we boarded the flight," Gill sighed, walking up to Aarav and pulling him into a firm, brotherly hug. "Good to see you, Skipper. Nice house. Very... subtle."
"It's Dad's old place. Needs a paint job," Aarav chuckled, hugging him back.
"AARAV BHAIIIII!" Abhishek abandoned his bag entirely and sprinted up the steps, tackling Aarav into a bear hug that nearly sent the coffee flying. "My Captain! My brother! Did you miss me? Tell me you missed me!"
"I missed the silence, Abhi," Aarav laughed, shoving him off playfully. "Pick up your bag, you animal. We don't have bellboys here."
"Ahem."
A voice cleared from the massive wooden double doors behind Aarav.
Priya Pathak stepped out, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. The billionaire matriarch wasn't dressed for a boardroom today; she wore a simple cotton salwar kameez, looking exactly like any other Indian mother expecting guests.
Abhishek's eyes lit up. He completely bypassed Aarav, jogging up the steps and bending down to touch her feet with exaggerated reverence.
"Priya Aunty! Namaste! You look younger than the last time I saw you. Seriously, what is the secret?" Abhishek beamed, turning on his trademark charm.
Priya melted instantly. "Abhi, beta! Jeete raho! Look at you, you've lost weight! Didn't anyone feed you anything during IPL? Come inside, come inside. I've made Aloo Parathas and special dhokla for you."
She cupped his cheek lovingly, completely ignoring her actual son.
"Mom, he eats a dozen eggs for breakfast," Aarav deadpanned. "He is not starving."
"You keep quiet," Priya scolded Aarav lightly. "He is my second son. You only eat your boring boiled oats. Abhi knows how to appreciate good food." She smiled warmly at Gill, who had also touched her feet. "Welcome, Shubman beta. Sara is inside, helping Shradha set the table."
"Wait, Sara is already here?" Gill's posture immediately straightened, a slight, involuntary blush creeping up his neck. He ran a hand through his hair, checking his reflection in the tinted glass of the front door.
Abhishek snorted loudly. "Look at him. Chhamiya (Diva). The moment he hears his fiancée's name, he starts preening like a peacock."
"Shut up, Abhi," Gill muttered, adjusting his collar as he walked inside.
It wasn't a secret anymore, at least not within this inner circle. A few months ago, in a quiet, incredibly private ceremony in Mumbai, the Tendulkar, Pathak and Gill families had officially performed the 'Roka' or 'Sakhar Puda'. It was a promise, a locking of destinies. They weren't rushing into marriage both wanted to focus on their respective careers for the next three or four years—but they were officially, undeniably taken.
And Abhishek? Abhishek was the glorious, unrepentant third wheel. Or rather, the fifth wheel, considering Aarav and Shradha's dynamic.
They walked into the massive, sunlit dining room.
Shradha was placing a bowl of fresh mint chutney on the table. She looked incredibly homely, wearing a simple yellow kurti, her hair tied in a loose braid. Beside her, Sara was pouring fresh orange juice, looking chic as always.
"Bhabhi Ji! Both of you! Pranaam!" Abhishek announced loudly, dropping his bag near the entrance and marching to the table.
Shradha laughed, walking over to give him a warm hug. "Hi, Abhi. You're as loud as ever."
"I have to be loud, Shradha Bhabhi, otherwise nobody pays attention to me in this house of lovebirds," Abhishek sighed tragically, taking a seat at the center of the table. "And Sara Bhabhi! Handle your boy! This guy," he pointed a thumb at Gill, who was currently blushing as Sara handed him a glass of juice, "is officially tied down. No more single boys' trips for him."
"As if he ever went on them," Sara shot back with a teasing wink, taking the seat next to Shubman.
"This is discrimination," Abhishek picked up a paratha, gesturing with it. "I look to my left, Aarav and Shradha are staring into each other's eyes. I look to my right, Shubman and Sara are passing juice like a 90s Bollywood movie. Who do I talk to? The walls?"
"You can talk to me," a deep, slightly frustrated voice grumbled from the doorway.
Arjun Tendulkar walked in, rubbing his eyes. At 24, he was a year older than Aarav, and Abhishek, but right now, he looked like a grumpy teenager waking up for school. He was wearing an oversized Mumbai Indians training shirt and shorts.
"Arjun! My fellow single brother!" Abhishek stood up, pulling the tall left-armer into a hug. "Finally! A man who understands my pain. Come, sit. Let these couples live in their delusional bubbles. We will eat parathas."
Arjun chuckled, taking a seat next to Abhishek. "Good to see you, Abhi. Hey, Shubman."
"Morning, Arjun," Gill nodded. "How's the shoulder?"
"Sore," Arjun muttered, pouring himself a coffee. "Been bowling non-stop. Mumbai Indians camp is brutal, but... well, you know."
The table went slightly quiet. Everyone knew. Arjun had been on the MI roster for a couple of seasons, carrying the immense, crushing weight of his father's name. But he hadn't broken through. He was stuck on the bench, performing reasonably well in local matches, but unable to translate it to the big stage. The frustration was visibly eating at him.
Aarav, sitting quietly next to Shradha, caught Arjun's eye across the table. He didn't offer a pitying smile.
"Eat light, Arjun," Aarav said casually, taking a sip of his black coffee. "We are hitting the indoor nets in forty-five minutes. I want to see you bowl."
Arjun blinked, surprised. "Now? I am on my vacation. Just bowled like test bowler few days ago."
"Good. Then your arm is loose," Aarav stated, the 'Captain' tone slipping out effortlessly. "Get ready."
The Pathak mansion in Surat didn't just have a backyard; it had a fully functional, indoor cricket facility built into a converted warehouse at the edge of the property. It had Turf, professional bowling machines, and elite lighting.
An hour later, the five of them were inside. The girls, Shradha and Sara, had brought down a cooler full of water bottles and energy drinks, sitting on the viewing benches behind the nets.
Arjun was stretching his shoulders, a slight frown of concentration on his face. He wanted to prove himself. Being surrounded by Aarav (the Indian Captain in waiting) and Gill (the next big superstar) was intimidating, even if they were his sister's partners.
"Okay, Arjun," Aarav stood behind the stumps, holding a notebook. "Full tilt. No warm-ups. I want forty consecutive deliveries. Match intensity. Shubman and Abhi will bat twenty balls each."
"You aren't batting?" Arjun asked, looking at Aarav.
"I'm watching," Aarav replied simply. "Go."
Abhishek padded up first. He took his stance, aggressive and open.
Arjun ran in. The run-up was smooth, a lot of effort put into the jump. His left arm came over, snapping at the wrist. Thwack. The ball hit the Turf and zipped past Abhishek's outside edge.
Aarav looked at the pocket radar gun he had set up on a tripod. 132.4 kmph.
"Good area, Arjun," Aarav called out. "Again."
For the next fifty minutes, the indoor facility echoed with the violent, rhythmic sounds of cricket.
Arjun was putting his absolute heart and soul into every delivery. He grunted with effort on the release. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his grey t-shirt completely. He bowled outswingers, he tried the yorker, he banged it in short.
But the numbers on the radar gun told a stubborn story. 133 kmph. 134 kmph. 131 kmph. 135 kmph. He hit a peak of 137.2 kmph on one particularly angry bouncer that Abhishek easily hooked into the side netting.
Shubman Gill was an absolute artist against him. Because the pace was lingering in the mid-130s, Gill had all the time in the world. He played late, driving Arjun through the imaginary covers with frustrating ease. Abhishek, less elegant but equally effective, stepped out and slogged him mercilessly.
By the 40th delivery, Arjun was bent over, his hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath. He looked exhausted and profoundly defeated. He had thrown everything he had, but it wasn't threatening.
"Okay. Stop," Aarav called out, snapping the notebook shut. "Session over. Drinks."
The boys walked out of the netting area, pulling off their helmets and gloves. The heat inside the facility, was stifling due to their exertion.
Shradha immediately stood up from the bench. She grabbed an icy bottle of water, cracked the seal, and walked straight past Aarav to her brother.
"Here, drink slowly," Shradha said, handing the bottle to Arjun. She pulled a small towel from her shoulder and gently rubbed his sweat-drenched head and neck. "You bowled for an hour straight without a break. Are you okay? Does your back hurt?"
"I'm fine, Shradha," Arjun panted, taking a long swig of the water, though he leaned into his sister's touch gratefully.
A few feet away, Sara walked over to Shubman, holding out a blue Gatorade bottle. "You barely broke a sweat," Sara teased gently, handing it to him.
"I hardly had to run," Shubman smirked, taking the bottle, his eyes lingering on her. "Thanks."
And then, there was Abhishek.
Abhishek stood in the middle of the turf, helmet under his arm, parched, staring at the two couples. Shradha was fussing over her brother and also giving water to Aarav and laughing on something he said, and Sara was gazing at her fiancé.
Abhishek let out a loud, tragic groan, dropping to his knees on the Turf in a display of pure Bollywood agony.
"Koi mera nahi hai is duniya mein!" (I have no one in this world!) Abhishek yelled at the ceiling, clutching his chest. "Maa! Kahan ho tum?! Look at your son! Dying of thirst in the deserts of Surat while these Love Birds are running a free water dispensary!"
Arjun choked on his water, bursting into laughter. Shradha covered her face, giggling uncontrollably at the sheer drama of the man.
Aarav, leaning against the wall near the cooler, rolled his eyes. He grabbed a chilled bottle of water and chucked it hard across the room.
"Catch, nautanki (drama queen)," Aarav shouted.
Abhishek snapped a hand up, catching the bottle flawlessly. He looked at the bottle, then looked at Aarav with wide, cartoonishly watery eyes. He scrambled to his feet, ran over to Aarav, and literally threw his arms around Aarav's waist, burying his face in Aarav's chest.
"My Knight in Shining Armor!" Abhishek wailed, hugging his best friend. "Only you care about me, Aarav! You are my true soulmate! I will never leave you!"
"Get off me, you sweaty idiot," Aarav laughed, trying to pry Abhishek's arms off. "Shradha, please help me. He is ruining my t-shirt."
Shradha laughed from the bench. "You two make a lovely couple."
After a ten-minute break filled with banter and Abhishek complaining about the heat, Aarav clapped his hands.
"Alright, back to work," Aarav announced.
Arjun groaned, picking up the cricket ball from the turf. "Aarav, my shoulder is dead. I can't bowl another spell."
"Put the ball down, Arjun," Aarav said calmly, pointing to the corner. "Go get your pads. You are batting."
Arjun blinked, freezing in his tracks. "Batting? Bro, I'm a bowler. I bat at number 8 or 9, with little batting. Although I can bat, but still hy am I padding up?"
"Because I said so," Aarav replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Shubman, Abhi. You guys are bowling. Spin and medium pace, use throw down is you want. I'm turning the bowling machine on for the rest."
Arjun looked confused, but he knew better than to argue with Aarav when he had that specific, analytical look in his eyes. He grumbled, strapped on his pads, grabbed his bat, and walked into the net.
For the next 30 minutes, Aarav put Arjun through a highly specific batting drill. He programmed the bowling machine to bowl 140 kmph length balls just outside the off-stump. Then, he had Abhishek bowl left-arm spin, instructing Arjun to step out.
At first, Arjun was rusty. He edged a few, missed a few. But by the 15th minute, something clicked.
Arjun is a big, powerful guy. When he connected, the ball didn't just travel; it stayed hit. The bowling machine fired a 140 kmph delivery on the pads. Arjun didn't step across; he planted his front foot, opened his hips, and unleashed a ferocious, flowing flick shot. The timing was breathtaking. It was a shot that echoed with ghosts of the past.
Crack. The ball smashed into the top net.
Shubman, who was bowling off-spin, stopped and whistled. "Shot, yaar. That sounded sweet."
Aarav stood behind the net, his eyes tracking every single biomechanical movement of Arjun's body. The backlift, the downswing, the transfer of weight. He nodded slowly, writing furious notes on his pad.
"Okay, stop," Aarav finally called out.
Arjun walked out of the net, taking off his helmet. He looked surprised. He had actually enjoyed that. He wasn't panting like he was when he bowled; he looked energized.
They all gathered around the benches. Aarav pulled up a whiteboard that was sitting in the corner. He grabbed a marker.
"Arjun," Aarav said, looking directly at the older boy. "I'm going to be brutally honest with you. No sugar-coating."
Arjun braced himself. "Go ahead."
"You are stuck," Aarav said flatly. "You are stuck in the Mumbai Indians squad, you are stuck in domestic cricket, and you are stuck at 135 kmph. You know why?"
"Because I'm not good enough?" Arjun offered bitterly, staring at the floor.
"Because you are trying to be the wrong player," Aarav corrected him sharply. "You, my friend, are not a bowling all-rounder."
Arjun looked up, frowning. "What? Every coach I've had since I was 12 has told me to focus on my left-arm pace. Left-arm seamers are rare. They told me batting is secondary."
"Your coaches are idiots," Abhishek chimed in, leaning against the wall. "No offense to the Mumbai circuit, as I am also from there, but I they saw a left arm pacer and forgot about your batting."
"Abhi is right," Aarav said, tapping the whiteboard. "Look at your bowling today. You put 110% effort into every ball. You grunt, you leap, you strain your back. And what do you generate? 135 kmph. Why? Because your biomechanics are flawed. Your front leg collapses at the point of release. Your non-bowling arm drops too early. You are losing all the kinetic energy from your run-up before the ball even leaves your hand. That's why you can't hit 140 or 145."
Arjun looked stunned. He rubbed his shoulder subconsciously.
"Now," Aarav flipped the whiteboard over. "Look at your batting."
Aarav drew a simple stick figure showing an arc. "When you bat, you don't muscle the ball. Your bat swing is incredibly clean. You have a natural, high backlift. When you hit that 140 kmph ball from the machine, you didn't slog it. You timed it. You have natural hand-eye coordination that you are completely wasting at Number 8."
"What are you saying, Aarav?" Sara asked quietly, seeing her brother look so vulnerable.
"I am saying," Aarav walked up to Arjun and looked him in the eye. "You are a Batting All-Rounder. You are a proper middle-order batsman who can give a captain three or four tight overs of left-arm seam. You are a Shardul Thakur, a Hardik Pandya in the making. But you are training like you are Zaheer Khan. It's backwards."
Arjun swallowed hard. "But... the name. Everyone expects me to be..."
"Screw the name," Aarav said fiercely. "I don't care if your last name is Tendulkar or Ambani or even Pathak. When the ball leaves the hand, it doesn't read the name on the back of your jersey. You have been carrying the weight of being Sachin's son, trying to carve a different niche by being a pure bowler so people don't compare your batting to his. It's a defense mechanism, Arjun."
Shradha looked at Aarav, her eyes wide with awe. He had psychoanalyzed her brother perfectly in the span of an hour.
Arjun looked down, his hands trembling slightly. "You really think I can bat in the middle order?"
"I know you can," Aarav said. "But you need a complete overhaul. And you can't do it sitting on the bench in Mumbai."
Aarav turned to Abhishek. "Abhi."
"Yeah, Pathak?"
"Call Yuvi Paaji," Aarav instructed. "Ask him if he has space in his Chandigarh training camp for the next six months. Tell him I'm sending him a fresh piece of chicken."
Abhishek's eyes lit up. Yuvraj Singh's grueling, old-school batting camps were legendary for transforming players. "On it. Yuvi Paaji will love a tall left-hander to shout at."
Aarav turned back to Arjun. "You are going to Chandigarh," Aarav stated, laying out the blueprint. "You are going to strip your game down to zero. You will bat four hours a day under Yuvraj Singh. You will learn to hit spinners over long-on, and you will learn to construct an innings."
Aarav picked up the marker and wrote a large number on the board. 2025.
"Here is the deal, Arjun," Aarav said, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute tone that made him the most terrifying captain in the IPL. "The Mega Auction is in 2025. I am the captain or the owner of the Gujarat Titans. If you go to Chandigarh, if you fix your front leg to push your bowling pace to around 140 kmph, and if you prove to me in the Syed Mushtaq Ali Trophy next year that you can bat at Number 5 and hit boundaries..."
Aarav tossed the marker onto the table.
"Gujarat will pick you in the auction in 2025. I will bring you to the Gujarat Titans. Not because you are Shradha's brother. Not because of your dad. But because I need a left-handed batting all-rounder to win me a championship. Do we have a deal?"
Arjun stared at the board. The frustration, the years of bench-warming, the shadow of his father, it all seemed to fracture in the face of this lifeline. Aarav wasn't offering him charity; he was offering him a brutal, honest roadmap to salvation.
Arjun stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked Aarav dead in the eye and extended his hand.
"I'll pack for Chandigarh tonight," Arjun said, his voice completely steady for the first time in years. "You get the paddle ready for 2025."
Aarav gripped his hand firmly, pulling him into a brief, aggressive bro-hug. "That's what I want to hear. Welcome to the grind."
The room exhaled. Shradha walked over, wrapping her arms around her brother's waist, burying her face in his sweaty shirt, tears of relief in her eyes. Sara hugged him from the other side.
"Okay, enough crying," Abhishek clapped his hands loudly, ruining the emotional moment entirely. "The intervention is over. I am hungry again. Priya Aunty promised me lunch. If you guys want to stay here and cry, fine, but I am going to eat."
Gill laughed, shoving Abhishek towards the door. "You literally just ate five parathas two hour ago, you are bottomless pit."
"I have a fast metabolism, Shubman! Don't body-shame me!"
As the chaos resumed and the boys bickered their way out of the indoor facility, Aarav stayed behind for a second, picking up the stray cricket balls.
Shradha lingered near the door. She walked back to him, slipping her arms around his waist. "Thank you," she whispered, looking up at him with overwhelming love. "He needed someone to tell him the truth. No one else had the courage to."
"He has the talent, Love," Aarav smiled softly, kissing her forehead. "He just needed a mirror. And maybe a little push."
"You are a good man, Aarav Pathak," she murmured, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him properly.
"I'm a fantastic man," Aarav corrected her with a signature smirk, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they walked out towards the mansion. "Now, let's go make sure Abhishek hasn't eaten my share of the food."
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The monsoon had arrived early in Mumbai, washing the sprawling metropolis in a sheet of relentless, rhythmic grey rain. Inside the VIP departure lounge of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport, the atmosphere was a mix of quiet pride and heavy reluctance.
Aarav Pathak stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, watching the ground crew load luggage onto a British Airways Boeing 777. Beside him stood Shradha, wearing a thick beige trench coat over her comfortable travel clothes, her medical backpack slung over one shoulder.
"I don't want to go back to hospital cafeteria food," Shradha pouted, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I got too used to my personal Michelin-star chef making me Puran Poli at midnight."
Aarav wrapped a strong arm around her waist, pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It's the final stretch, Dr. Tendulkar. Just a few more months of clinical rotations, and then you are officially done. You can move back to Mumbai, and I'll cook for you every single day."
"Promise?" she looked up, her dark eyes shimmering with a mix of fatigue and immense love.
"I promise," Aarav smiled, his thumb gently tracing her jawline. "Besides, we won't be apart for long. Two weeks, tops."
Shradha's smile widened. "The Oval."
"The Oval," Aarav nodded, a competitive glint momentarily replacing the softness in his eyes. "The team flies to London next week. The moment practice is done, I am kidnapping you from your ward."
The boarding announcement for the London flight echoed through the lounge. Shradha let out a long sigh, turning to wrap both her arms around his neck. She hugged him tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne.
"Good luck with the prep," she whispered into his neck. "No injuries, please. And tell Virat and Rohit Bhaiya I said hi."
"Will do," Aarav held her flush against him, savoring the final seconds. He leaned down and captured her lips in a soft, lingering kiss.
"I love you," Aarav murmured against her forehead.
"I love you too. See you in London," she smiled, pulling away reluctantly and grabbing her boarding pass.
Aarav watched her walk through the priority boarding gate until she completely disappeared from sight. He stood there for another minute, the silence of the lounge pressing in on him. The domestic, romantic interlude was over.
The white-ball season, dominated by the spectacle of the IPL, had officially hit the pause button. The ultimate prize in the shorter format—the 2023 ODI World Cup—was looming on the horizon, slated to be hosted right here in India later in the year. The entire country was already vibrating with anticipation for it, and too personal for Aarav.
But before the ODI circus could begin, the pinnacle of the purist's game demanded their attention. The World Test Championship Final.
Aarav turned away from the window, pulling his dark sunglasses down over his eyes. The 'Boyfriend' logged off. The Vice-Captain of the Defending World Champions was online.
To understand the sheer magnitude of the upcoming WTC Final, one had to understand the tectonic shift that had occurred in global sports broadcasting over the last months.
VEO, the OTT platform birthed by Astra Corporation, had not just entered the market; it had devoured it.
By employing a revolutionary "Free-to-Air globally, supported by premium targeted AI advertisements" model, VEO had secured the exclusive global streaming rights for all ICC events, including the World Test Championship and the upcoming ODI World Cup.
The strategy was a masterstroke of monopolistic brilliance. Teenagers in Los Angeles, college students in London, and office workers in Tokyo didn't have to pay exorbitant cable subscription fees to watch cricket anymore. They just downloaded the VEO app for free.
Coupled with hyper-aggressive, influencer-led marketing campaigns in the West, cricket was no longer a niche Commonwealth sport. It was a global phenomenon.
And at the dead center of this phenomenon was Aarav Pathak.
To the Western audience, who had been fed highlights of his impossible no-look sixes, his 155 kmph inswinging yorkers, and his icy, arrogant demeanor on the field, Aarav wasn't just a cricketer. He was an anime protagonist brought to life. He was the Michael Jordan, the Cristiano Ronaldo of this newly accessible sport.
As the date for the WTC Final approached, the VEO homepages across the globe didn't just feature the trophy; they featured a cinematic, high-definition poster of Aarav staring down the camera, holding a red Dukes ball, with a caption that sent shivers down the spines of the opposition:
"THE FINAL BOSS AWAITS."
It wasn't just marketing hype. The global media's obsession with Aarav was rooted in a statistical anomaly that defied the very laws of probability in professional sports.
As sports analysts and journalists across England, Australia, and India previewed the WTC Final, one terrifying fact dominated every single headline, podcast, and debate show.
Aarav Pathak had never lost a Final.
Since his professional debut, he had stepped onto the field in five major tournament finals. He had won all five. And miraculously, terrifyingly, he had been named Player of the Match in every single one of them.
IPL 2020: As an 19-year-old rookie, he dragged Royal Challengers Bangalore to the trophy, breaking their historic curse with a blinding all-round performance.
WTC Final 2021: Against New Zealand in Southampton, he played the greatest Test match of the modern era. He scored a gritty 100 in the first innings, took 7 wickets across the match, and smashed a double-century (200+) in the second innings to single-handedly win India their first WTC Trophy.
T20 World Cup 2022: At the MCG, he hit boundaries off bowlers to win the final against Pakistan, cementing his legacy in white-ball cricket.
IPL 2022: Captaining the debutant Gujarat Titans to glory.
IPL 2023: Defending the crown for GT with century in the finals.
He was a glitch in the matrix. He was the ultimate clutch player.
When the Australian team—who had qualified to face India in the 2023 WTC Final—held their press conferences in London, the questions weren't about Virat Kohli's cover drive or the consistent threat of Indian Bowling. Every second question was about the 'Pathak Problem'.
"How do you stop a man who statistically does not know how to lose a final?"
Pat Cummins, the Australian captain, had simply smiled a tight, grim smile. "We don't play statistics, mate. We play the ball. He's human. We just have to remind him of that."
On June 2nd, 2023, the Indian Cricket Team's customized luxury bus pulled up outside the historic gates of The Oval in Kennington, South London.
The weather was remarkably clear—a bright, crisp English summer day. Hundreds of fans, a mix of the Bharat Army and curious locals who had discovered the team via VEO, lined the barricades. Flashbulbs erupted like a thunderstorm as the doors of the bus hissed open.
Kohli stepped off the bus first. He didn't look like a man arriving for a cricket match; he looked like an Emperor arriving to inspect his dominion. Wearing the sharp, bespoke navy blue BCCI travel blazer, dark sunglasses, and a perfectly trimmed beard, Kohli exuded a terrifying, aggressive aura. He had led this team to the inaugural WTC title in 2021, and he had absolutely no intention of giving the mace back.
Behind him walked Rohit Sharma, looking far more relaxed, waving lazily to the crowd, chatting with Shardul Thakur.
And then, stepping off the bus to a roar that echoed down the Kennington streets, came the Vice-Captain.
Aarav Pathak stepped out. His blazer was unbuttoned, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath, the collar slightly popped. He wore his clear-framed Astra smart glasses. He didn't wave wildly; he just offered a slow, deliberate nod to the screaming fans, a smirk playing on his lips.
He loved England. The Dukes ball, the grassy pitches, the hostile crowds—it was an environment tailor-made for his brand of arrogant, dominant cricket.
As the team walked into the pavilion, the English paparazzi scrambled for shots. "Aarav! Aarav! Are you going to repeat 2021?!" a reporter from The Telegraph shouted over the barricade.
Aarav didn't break stride, but he glanced at the reporter over his shoulder. "Why repeat?" Aarav replied smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly. "I prefer setting new records."
Later that afternoon, the ICC had organized a massive, globally streamed pre-match press conference in the Long Room at The Oval.
Seated at the long table adorned with tournament sponsors were Virat Kohli and Aarav Pathak. It was a deliberate, intimidating visual by the Indian management. The King and the Prince, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the world's media.
The room was packed to capacity. The English journalists, known for their sharp, probing questions, were ready to pry.
Nasser Hussain, acting as a special correspondent for VEO and Sky Sports, had the first question.
"Virat, Aarav, welcome back to London," Nasser began, his voice echoing in the grand room. "Virat, you are walking in as the defending champions. You won the mace in 2021 against New Zealand. But Australia is a different beast. They have bruised egos from the Border-Gavaskar series loss in India. Do you feel the target on your back?"
Virat Kohli leaned into the microphone. His eyes were cold, calculating. "Nasser, when you are the Number One Test team in the world, the target is permanently tattooed on your back," Kohli stated, his voice dripping with authority. "We don't feel pressure from it; we thrive on it. Australia is a fantastic side. Cummins, Smith, Labuschagne, they are world-class. But let's be very clear. We are not here to defend a title. We are here to conquer them again. The mindset hasn't changed. We play to win, session by session, hour by hour."
An English journalist from The Guardian raised his hand next, his eyes locked onto Aarav.
"Aarav, a question for you," the reporter said, adjusting his glasses. "The British press has been running your stats all week. In the 2021 WTC Final at Southampton, you scored a century in the first innings, took 7 wickets across the match, and then smashed a double-century in the second innings to win the game. It is widely considered the greatest individual performance in Test history."
The reporter paused, a challenging smirk on his face.
"Given those superhuman numbers, and the fact that you have literally never lost a final in your professional career... does the pressure of your own mythos get to you? Are you worried that the law of averages will eventually catch up to you against an attack like Starc, Cummins, and Boland?"
The room went pin-drop silent. It was a loaded question, designed to poke at the legendary arrogance of the 22-year-old.
Virat Kohli shifted slightly in his seat, ready to jump in and shield his Vice-Captain. But Aarav gently put a hand on Kohli's forearm under the table, signaling he had this.
Aarav leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He took his time, looking directly into the camera lens that was broadcasting his face to millions of VEO viewers globally.
"The law of averages," Aarav repeated softly, letting out a low, incredibly arrogant chuckle. "It's a fascinating mathematical concept. It applies to coin tosses. It applies to the weather."
His dark eyes snapped back to the English reporter, pinning him to his seat.
"It does not apply to me," Aarav stated, his voice dropping into a register of chilling, absolute certainty. "I don't rely on luck, and I don't play the averages. I rely on my preparation, my bowlers, and my captain. You mentioned 2021. That was a great match. But I don't live in 2021. I live in the present."
Aarav leaned back, interlacing his fingers.
"If Cummins and Starc think they can use the law of averages to get me out, they are more than welcome to try. But I promise you this, when I walk out to bat at The Oval, I won't be thinking about my undefeated streak. I will be thinking about how to hit the red Dukes ball into the stands. The pressure isn't on me to keep the streak alive. The pressure is on them to try and break it."
The silence in the press room was deafening. Even Nasser Hussain raised an eyebrow in sheer appreciation of the absolute, unadulterated swagger.
Virat Kohli didn't say a word. He just leaned back in his chair, a massive, fiercely proud grin spreading across his face. He loved it. The kid didn't just have the talent; he had the elite, bulletproof mentality of a true champion.
The following two days were a blur of grueling practice sessions. The Oval pitch looked green, carrying a significant amount of live grass. It was going to swing, it was going to seam, and it was going to bounce.
In the nets, Aarav was a man possessed. He bowled for an hour straight to Rohit and Kohli, getting the Dukes ball to hoop viciously around corners, clocking speeds that made the net strings vibrate violently. When he batted, he was a study in profound concentration, leaving the good balls and violently pulling anything short from Siraj and Shami.
On the evening of June 5th, two days before the match, the Indian team finished their final major training block. The players were exhausted, loading their kit bags onto the bus.
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Outside the reinforced glass windows of the conference room, a typical London drizzle was slicking the streets. It was 9:30 PM. In exactly thirteen hours, the Indian cricket team would step onto the hallowed turf of The Oval to defend their World Test Championship mace against a vengeful Australian side.
Inside the room, the atmosphere was dense with focus. There was no music, no casual banter. This was the War Room.
Standing by a large whiteboard was Head Coach Rahul Dravid. Seated around the table were the three pillars of modern Indian cricket: Virat Kohli (Test Captain), Aarav Pathak (Vice-Captain), and Rohit Sharma (ODI/T20I Captain and opening batter).
"The pitch at The Oval has a significant covering of live grass," Dravid began, tapping a marker against the board. "The overcast conditions are expected to persist for the first two days. It is not a typical, dry Oval pitch that breaks up for the spinners later. It is going to seam, and it is going to swing."
Kohli leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Which means Cummins, Starc, and Boland are going to be in business all day. But it also means our boys will have a field day. We attack fire with fire."
"The problem isn't just the pitch, Virat," Rohit sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's the holes in our squad. We are walking into a WTC Final without two of our biggest match-winners."
A heavy silence descended on the room. Jasprit Bumrah was missing, nursing a stress reaction in his back. But the more emotional absence was Rishabh Pant. The car crash in December had robbed India of their greatest overseas counter-attacking weapon. The 'Spidey' of the team was currently undergoing grueling rehabilitation in Mumbai.
"We can't replace Rishabh's audacity, and we can't replace Jassi's genius," Aarav said, breaking the silence. He was leaning back in his chair, spinning a red Dukes ball between his long fingers, "We restructure. We change the balance of the XI to cover the gaps."
Dravid turned to the whiteboard and wrote down the first four names.
Rohit Sharma
Shubman Gill
Aarav Pathak
Virat Kohli
"The top four pick themselves," Dravid stated. "Rohit and Shubman have been solid. Shubman has the form of his life right now. And Numbers 3 and 4..." Dravid looked at Aarav and Virat. "You two are the engine room. Aarav, you are the Number 1 ranked Player in the world. Your position at 3 is absolute. Virat at 4 provides stability."
"I like Shubman's mindset right now," Rohit added. "He's not over-awed by the occasion. If they pitch it up, he'll drive them. We won't let them dictate terms with the new ball."
"Number 5," Dravid wrote on the board. Ajinkya Rahane.
"Jinks is back," Kohli smiled, a look of immense respect on his face. "He has spent the last year grinding in domestic cricket, and he had a phenomenal IPL. But more importantly, he knows how to bat in England. He has a century at Lord's. When the ball is nipping around, his technique is priceless. We need that calming presence if we lose early wickets."
"He brings stability," Aarav agreed. "And he's a brilliant slip fielder, which we will desperately need with the amount of edges we plan to induce."
Dravid paused, holding the marker. "Now, Number 6. This is the big call. The wicket-keeper."
"It has to be KL," Aarav said instantly, not missing a beat.
Dravid frowned slightly. "KS Bharat is the specialist keeper, Aarav. In England, with the ball wobbling after passing the stumps, you need a specialist. A dropped catch off Shami or Umesh could cost us the Test match."
"I agree with Rahul bhai on the keeping aspect," Rohit chimed in. "Bharat is flawless behind the stumps."
"But he is a walking wicket against Cummins and Starc in these conditions," Kohli interjected, backing his Vice-Captain. "We are already missing Rishabh's runs at Number 6. If we play Bharat, our tail essentially starts at Number 6 against this Australian attack. That is suicidal in a WTC Final."
"Exactly," Aarav leaned forward, placing the dukes ball on the table. "If we are 120 for 4, I want KL Rahul walking out to bat, not KS Bharat. KL has multiple centuries in England. He knows how to leave the ball. He has the technique to blunt the second new ball. Yes, keeping wickets for 90 overs in a Test match will be grueling for him, but we need those 60-70 runs he can provide."
Rohit looked at Dravid. "Aarav is right. We need the batting depth. KL has been practicing his keeping drills intensely. He's fit. Let's back him."
Dravid sighed, crossing out Bharat's name in his notebook and writing KL Rahul at Number 6. "Fine. But KL takes extra catching practice tomorrow morning."
"Number 7," Dravid wrote. Ravindra Jadeja. "Jaddu is an automatic pick," Kohli said. "He's basically a top-order batter now, and he gives us the control from one end."
"What about Ashwin?" Rohit asked. "Leaving out the Number 1 Test spinner in the world feels wrong."
Aarav shook his head. "It feels wrong, but it's tactically correct for The Oval tomorrow. Ash Anna is a genius, but on a green, overcast pitch, playing two spinners is a luxury we can't afford. We need relentless pace. Jaddu holds one end, bats at 7, and is a gun fielder. Ash sits this one out."
"Agreed," Kohli nodded firmly. "It's a harsh call, but we play the conditions, not the reputation."
"So, Number 8," Dravid wrote Shardul Thakur. "Lord Shardul. He gives us the batting depth we crave, and he has that uncanny ability to break partnerships. He swings the Dukes ball beautifully."
"That leaves the final three spots," Dravid said, looking at the fast bowlers. "We have Mohammed Shami, Mohammed Siraj, Umesh Yadav, and Jaydev Unadkat available."
"Umesh Yadav plays," Kohli stated. "He bowls a heavy ball, hits the deck hard, and reverse swings the old ball. On Days 3 and 4, when the pitch flattens, Umesh's skiddy pace will be vital."
"Mohammed Shami is the leader of the pack without Jassi," Rohit added. "His seam presentation in England is unplayable."
"And Mohammed Siraj," Aarav finished. "Miyan brings the fire. He won't back down from a fight with Smith or Labuschagne. He will run in all day."
Dravid stepped back, looking at the final list on the whiteboard.
Rohit Sharma
Shubman Gill
Aarav Pathak (VC)
Virat Kohli (C)
Ajinkya Rahane
KL Rahul (WK)
Ravindra Jadeja
Shardul Thakur
Umesh Yadav
Mohammed Shami
Mohammed Siraj
"Look at that bowling attack," Aarav smiled, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Siraj, Shami, Umesh, Shardul. And me. That is five genuine seam options. We can rotate in five-over bursts. The Aussies won't get a single over of respite. We will hunt in packs."
"It's an aggressive, relentless pace battery," Kohli grinned, rubbing his hands together. "We literally have five guys who can clock 140+ and swing it."
"And if we need a breather for the fast bowlers," Aarav added playfully, "and Jaddu bhai gets tired... we can always give the ball to Shubman. Let him bowl some of his off-spin."
Rohit laughed loudly. "If Shubman is bowling in a WTC Final, it means either we have scored 700, or we are losing by an innings. Let's hope it's the former."
Dravid smiled, putting the cap back on the marker. The tension in the room had transformed into a razor-sharp, unified focus.
"This is the XI," Dravid announced quietly. "It has depth, it has experience, and it has absolute firepower. We have batting till Number 8, and an armory of fast bowlers."
Kohli stood up, his eyes burning with the intensity of a man ready for war. "If Aussie think they can bully us because Jassi and Rishabh aren't here. Let's walk out tomorrow and remind Pat Cummins whose era this really is."
Aarav stood up beside him, pocketing the Dukes ball. "They want a fight, Virat bhai. We'll give them a fight."
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