The Cover Drive Through my Consiousness

I was, let us be perfectly frank, a player more on instinct than on nets. I eye the ball and watch it until the end, even if I’m missing it. There are moments in cricket that stay with a man longer than memories are supposed to, and it doesn’t necessarily mean victory, centuries, wickets, or catches. Moments that stretch themselves thin over my consciousness like moonlight over a quiet pitch.

Her entry into my life was one such moment. She walked into my life like an elegant cover drive gliding through the fielders in the realms of my mind—effortless, inevitable, and far too beautiful for someone like me to deserve.

Her laugh ricocheted inside me like a sweetly timed pull shot when I first saw her. I must say, she is illegal for public display. Well, initially I met her gaze only a very few times, but whenever I met it, my heartbeat turned into an over-bowled by a terrified rookie. I hated the way her presence made me nervous, and I adored it more than victory.

If I am being utterly honest right now, the pitch had never seen grace until she walked across it. Edgbaston feels shamed by her beauty, and Lord’s and Dharamshala are overshadowed by her—at least for me. She is a batting all-rounder on the same team. We never talked much, but whenever we talked, she always made my heart race to the leg side like a perfectly timed flick shot.

Page 2: Instinct and Realities

When she’s with me, I am shy like a wet cat. I have imagined a hundred versions of our first conversation; none survived the truth of her standing three feet away. Realities do hit harder than a perfectly timed yorker.

Well, the moment came when we had to have our first conversation because it was about team building, player roles, and order—nothing personal. It would have been better if it had something personal. When she took my name, it felt divine. When we talked, it cannot be expressed by words. I tried to look calm, but that exposed how worse I am at pretending.

Her name is Aishani. She remarked that my batting stance is "pretentious." I said that her smile is illegal for public display. Her green eyes—that are the whole world for me—her silky hair smooth like Sachin’s straight drive, and her laugh catching me off-guard.

As I told you, I am a player of instinct, but whenever I’m batting in the nets and saw her—or worse, when I faced her—I always get a proof that my instincts are just merely anything.

Next day, matchday, where the conditions were perfectly fine: a light breeze, sunny weather, and no sign of rain. Perfect conditions for a "test match." I swear, just when the bowler released the ball, she tucked her hair behind her ear—and I swear it made my footwork forget its existence.

Page 3: The Outswinger and the Centurion

I was lucky not to get a nick on the bat, as it was an outrageous outswinger angling sharply away from my bat. Perhaps it is Test cricket, so patience is the key element here alongside concentration. So, I decided not to look at the pavilion because there she was.

To make matters worse, she is the newly appointed captain. The best part is that I can talk to her; the worst part is that I will lose my calm more frequently than a batsman doing a forward defensive in Test cricket. After some misses, ducks, and defenses, I finally got my first runs—a solid backfoot punch. The scoreboard was 78/2, and she literally sent me to the middle order. The best part? She winked at me when I hit a four.

After some more time, I reached my 50 and then I looked at the pavilion and raised my bat high up to celebrate. She clapped, and that was enough for my system to malfunction. After two crisp drives, four sixes, and some singles later, I was dismissed at the score of 92. The ball came neat and turned sharply in, taking the bails.

But then she walked in, and I must say I wasn’t looking anywhere else except her. Her wrists were writing poetry. Whenever she is stealing singles, she is stealing my heart too; and whenever she is charging down the ground, she is punishing the sky. She was out at a score of 128, and I must say one of the crisp drives through covers made me lose my mind. When she celebrated her century and pointed to me, I felt I was just carried on to another dimension.

Page 4: Another Dimension

We were all down for 371, and now we were bowling. Our bowlers were not letting the opposition batters find an escape sequence, and we kept them under relentless pressure.

Then she came to bowl, and her variation confused me more than the opposition batters. And though I pride myself on playing by instinct, her presence constantly proved that instinct is merely the last refuge of the utterly unprepared. On her fourth ball, the batter mistimed it and it was racing to the leg side. I ran and took a spectacular diving catch.

She said, "That’s a catch of a kind, my boy." I coughed nervously and the crowd, of course, was merely a collection of people pretending to know the difference between a forward defense and a nervous cough. The way she said it—light teasing and half-whispered—lodged itself in my brain longer than the applause.

After some overs, she handed the ball to me and said, "Bowl like you’re meant to be watched." Those words moved me so much that emotions were racing all over my mind. I bowled and the magic happened. At the last ball, I locked my wrist and bowled a perfect yorker, sending the middle stump flying. Then she hugged me and said, "That’s my boy," and now possibilities are rising higher than tsunami tides in my mind. Her breath brushing my shoulder for a second was enough to short-circuit me, and her fingers tapping my back once made me forget the entire stadium.

Page 5: Building an Understanding

In the middle of the noise and the match pressure, I wasn’t fighting the opposition anymore. I was fighting myself—trying not to fall for her too hard, too fast, too stupidly.

She walked in at number four, pads dusted with chalk, tapping her bat twice before taking guard beside me. The stadium noise dipped for a second, or maybe it was just my heartbeat drowning it out. We didn’t say anything at first—just exchanged a look that felt like a silent handshake, a promise to shoulder the innings together.

Her first boundary was a cover drive so elegant it made even the slips stand a little straighter. She looked at me, grinning, and murmured, "Your turn." And somehow the pressure that had been sitting inside my chest softened. One by one, run by run, something settled between us—not loud, not dramatic, but just steady. We started calling "yes" and "no" in perfect sync, rotating strikes like we had been batting together for years.

When she walked one step between overs and flicked a bit of dust off my sleeve, smiling like it was the most normal thing in the world, the moment locked itself somewhere deep inside me. We weren’t just building a partnership; we were building an understanding.

The match ended late, the floodlights throwing long shadows across the emptying ground. Our teammates drifted around packing kits, laughing, and arguing about missed chances.

Page 6: The Third Innings

The next few overs went by and we kept them under duresse, and they were all down for 230. We had a strong lead of 141 runs and it was time for the 3rd innings. They were trying their best to consolidate as, but we responded strongly, fighting back as much as we can even when our scoreline was 27/2.

I came on at 4th down and the swing variations were challenging. Still, I somehow, with the help of singles, doubles, and 4 boundaries, I went up to my 50. When she pointed at me and said, "Don't lose the rhythm now," the scoreboard mattered, sure, but she was the real equation I couldn't solve.

But when I changed sides, my mate was run-out and then she walked in, calmer than ever. The pitch felt like a stage, the fielders like shadows, and she standing at the striker's end felt like the one truth I needed to bat towards.

That over changed something in me, something so small I doubt anyone else noticed. She brushed past me while switching ends, and in that half-second she whispered, "Don’t lose the tempo at any cost now." It wasn’t advice; it felt like prophecy. And I swear the ball felt lighter. The field looked sharper. Even the sun stopped burning and started glowing. But it was her voice—soft, steady, almost playful—that kept bouncing inside my chest like a half-volley begging to be sent through covers. And I realized, in...

Page 7: The Final Connection

...always been meant to fit there. "I like you," I said, quietly but truthfully. "More than I ever planned to."

Her smile grew soft and glowing, the kind that wraps around your soul like sunlight. "Good," she said, squeezing my hand. "Because I’ve been falling for you... one innings at a time."

And standing there under the floodlights, her hand in mine, the echo of the match still hanging in the air... the dream that had only lived inside my consciousness finally stepped into reality.

Page 8: After the Match

But she and I stayed behind at the pitch, both pretending to "check the crease marks," both knowing we were really waiting for each other. There was no crowd, no pressure—just the soft hum of the evening settling.

She stood a few feet away, tracking the handle of her bat with her thumb the way she always did when she was thinking too hard. I wanted to speak, but the words kept sticking somewhere between my throat and my courage.

She finally looked up, her eyes softer than I'd ever seen. "Today felt different," she said quietly. And it wasn't the words—it was the way she said them. Like she was talking about us.

Just as we reached the staircase, she stopped suddenly, like something inside her refused to let the moment pass. She turned toward me, her hair slightly messy from the helmet, cheeks dusted with chalk, eyes glowing in a way that made the world feel quieter.

"Today," she began, then paused, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "You made cricket feel different. Lighter. Happier. I don't know how you do that." My heart didn't skip—it changed rhythm entirely.

I swallowed, trying to steady myself. "I feel the same," I said softly. "Every time you're at the other end... everything just fits. Like the match made sense. Like I do."

"I was hoping," that you’d finally say something." I didn't know what courage tasted like until that moment. I gently took her hand—slowly. Her fingers curled into mine like they had...

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