5
Oliver
THE SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the café windows. The smell of fresh coffee hung in the air, but it only made me more restless.
I prided myself in keeping a cool head, and it wasn’t often I got this wound up. But lately, that part of me had been buried under everything else that had been going on. Across from me, Sean, my agent, who was typing something on his phone as if I wasn’t sitting right in front of him with a relaxed expression, did nothing to ease my frustration.
“Seriously, Sean?” I muttered, “You drag me here, and you’re on your phone? Couldn’t you have texted me this instead, then?”
He shot me a look, one eyebrow raised like I was the one being unreasonable. “I didn’t want to do this over the phone. Figured if you ghosted me one more time, I might actually start believing in the supernatural. And besides—” he gestured towards the counter. “they make a mean flat white here. Thought you’d approve.”
I stayed quiet because, frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for small talk or coffee. I hadn’t slept a wink in the past week. I spent half the time thinking about what Dad had said and his situation and the other half was spent thinking about a certain someone.
“You’re pissed,” Sean leaned forward, his expression controlled. “I get it.”
“Do you?” I shot back, unable to keep the bite out of my voice. “Because going behind my back to talk to my dad isn’t exactly on the list of things I appreciate.”
“I didn’t go behind your back, Ollie. I made a call because you’ve been dragging your feet since this season started. If you don’t get your head right, mate, you’ll miss your chance entirely. I wasn’t going to let that happen just because you were too ignorant that you were about to sacrifice something you worked so damn hard for."
My jaw clenched, and I stared down at the empty table, knowing he had a point but not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“You had no right to put this on him, and he doesn’t need that stress.” His expressions softened a little, but I shook my head. “It was my decision.”
Sean sighed, “Look, I get it. But he’s a big reason you are where you are, and honestly? When he asked me, I had run out of excuses. Yes, you are carrying the legacy forward—but even if you can’t remember it, he has always been the first one to root for you.”
He was right again.
I never once felt the pressure of the family legacy. I knew I was talented enough to know I would go on to make my own mark in the history books. I wasn’t overconfident, just self-aware. Yeah, some would and did argue it was merely a gift handed out to me through my bloodline, but I worked hard, trained hard and played harder.
I spent whatever time I could reviewing gameplays, my old ones and other matches. Picking up things I had done wrong, and things I could develop for my own game.
That was until last year.
“So, you took matters into your own hands?” The edge in my voice was gone, but the frustration still rolled off me.
Sean shifted in his chair, choosing his words carefully. “It wasn’t just about getting him involved, Ollie. It was about giving you the breathing space.”
“What?”
“Don’t get me wrong here because I get It. But you’ve been off your game ever since the Ashes squad last year. That experience should have been a stepping stone, but then came the injury, and then… everything else." He paused. "But you’ve got to be honest with yourself, mate. That injury wasn’t enough to keep you out as long as it did."
“I am fine.” I gritted out, knowing exactly what he was getting at.
I had been part of the Performance Programme last year, called up to gain experience with the Ashes squad, but I hadn’t been in the playing XI. It was all part of my development, or so they said. Then the injury happened, and I missed everything that came afterwards. Series after series slipped by as I spent time with my dad, sidelined both by injury and circumstance.
“Are you, though? You—”
“I am in the best shape I’ve ever been, and yes, my recovery time was a while, and the start of the championship was rocky, but it’s a team sport, Sean. But it doesn’t matter because we won, and I’m at the start of my career, not someone outside looking in, trying to get a footing back in the sport. I made a call that felt right to me, and I don’t regret any of it.”
He nodded, though his eyes stayed serious. “I know, but you are not just another player in the mix, Ollie. And sure, you’re ready physically. But It’s not about just your body. It’s your head. Your focus.”
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration simmering. “What do you think I’ve been doing, Sean? Sitting around twiddling my thumbs?”
“You’ve been avoiding,” He interrupted, blunt as always. “And don’t act like you haven’t. You’ve convinced yourself that taking a step forward in your career means taking a step away from your dad, and the guilt has been getting to you. That’s why I wanted you to hear from him. I knew you’d be pissed, but you’re still on the selectors’ radar, and they want to do a trial run.” Everything inside me stilled. “Sure, should I have spoken to you first? Yes, but this could be your last shot, and if your head isn’t in the right place for this one, it won’t matter how fit you are or who you are.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
"You’ve got a little over a month, Ollie," Sean continued, his tone more measured now. "Take your break and get back into training. Get your head right and show the selectors what you can do. They haven’t written you off yet. But this is it. If you blow this, there’s no guarantee they’ll keep waiting for you."
I clenched my jaw, staring down at the table. He was right. There was no more room for excuses.
Sean pushed his cup aside and looked at me earnestly. "I’ve been with you since the start, mate. You know I’ve always got your back. But this? This is your shot. Your dad pulled some strings, and I know you hate that, but… if you don’t make the most of this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your career."
"I know," I muttered. "I know this is it."
Sean nodded, relief flickering across his face. "Good. So, what’s the plan?"
I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. "Train. Focus. And… fix whatever’s going on in my head."
He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Right then. I’ll leave you to your brooding. I would suggest you make the most of it today and then get your game face on. I want to see you back in that England kit where you belong.”
I gave a reluctant nod, my chest feeling a little lighter now that the tension was starting to fade.
For the first time in months, it felt like I could see a way forward. The thought of pulling on the England jersey—being part of the team again—should have been enough to drive me, but now that Sean had gone around me and involved Dad in this, I no longer had an excuse to stay where I was.
Momentarily, I wondered if this was something deeper than the guilt that loomed in my chest every time Mum called. Maybe I had been using it to hide behind it… though what exactly ‘it’ was? I wasn’t quite sure either.
With a sigh, I got up. There was a lot I needed to figure out in the next few weeks, but one thing was clear: I needed to stop getting in my own way, and that meant no distractions.
Because, ready or not, my second chance was coming. And I couldn’t afford to blow it.
THE HOUSE WAS QUIET when I got back, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I needed to call for backup or not. The past 24 hours had been so chaotic that what used to be normal for us now felt almost like a stranger to me.
I walked into the living room and found her curled up on the couch with her laptop open and a black notebook resting beside her. She wore a hoodie far too big for her, probably another one of Vedant’s that she had borrowed, and a pair of yoga pants; one of her cats was draped lazily on her lap, while the other was at the other end of the room.
For a moment, I watched her—she scrunched up her nose, her eyebrows frowning as she involuntarily leaned forward towards the screen. Her full focus was on her work, and if I knew better, I would turn around and walk back up to my room without bothering her. But each time I was around her, I felt this pull inside me.
It was magnetic, and it was strange. The only other time I had felt this way was when I stepped on the pitch. With each step, a part of me felt relieved that I was listening to what was calling me. To experience that with a person was exhilarating in ways I had never imagined before.
I leaned against the door frame, crossing my arms. “What are you working on?”
Her eyes flickered to me briefly before dropping back to her laptop. “Just notes for work before I leave tomorrow.”
She flipped between pages, chewing on her bottom lip, and I couldn’t help but smile. She was in work mode, and clearly, she was used to tuning out people.
I considered leaving her to it, but then she finished whatever she was writing and looked back at me. Apparently, it was all that I needed to invite myself into her space.
I walked over and sat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping a respectful distance. “What do you do, exactly?”
Raina tugged on her lower lip, like she was unsure how much to share. “I’m a sports journalist.”
“No kidding?” I don’t think I could’ve hidden my surprise even if I had tried. She worked in sports, and her brothers hadn’t mention it once. She gave me a small nod, and a strange feeling ran through my chest. “Independent, or are you with a network?”
“A mix of the two. I work full-time at NexGen, but I have my own channels that I post on, and it’s my own work.”
I was impressed. NexGen was a huge network, and anyone who worked in sports journalism aimed to end up there. “How come I’ve never seen you at one of our matches then? NexGen holds the exclusive rights to our games and the first post-match interview.”
She hesitated for a beat, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I only cover Formula One and, occasionally, Wimbledon.”
I tilted my head, confused. “That’s… specific.”
She shrugged, her voice a little guarded. “What can I say? I like high-speed thrills and quick serves.”
“As opposed to… the graceful strokes and strategic plays in cricket?” I couldn’t help it. I was offended, and I didn’t try to hide it.
“Meh,” She lifted one shoulder as if unbothered. “Tennis covers the graceful strokes part, and Formula One covers strategy.”
I frowned, trying to read her expressions, which told me only one thing. She wasn’t trying to poke at me; she was being serious.
“You don’t like cricket?” I tried again. “How can you not like cricket?”
I was aware of how ridiculous I sounded; I just didn’t care.
She forced a laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t care about cricket.”
That was almost worse. “Why not?”
I knew she hadn’t intended it to be malicious, but her words felt like a jab at something I loved, something I deeply connected to. Something I thought she would, too, considering her brother and dad were also cricketers.
It was as if a light bulb with a broken wired system turned on in my head. Just a couple of seconds too late, but frankly, I was glad it did either way.
“You don’t have to answer that,” I said softly. But she already had a distant look in her eyes, the one that went as quickly as it came. And when she looked back at me, I realised she hadn’t intended for me to see it.
“What about you? What made you get into cricket?”
The question caught me off guard, and not just because it was such a simple one. But her tone was genuine like she truly didn’t know.
For a moment, it unsettled me. People always knew. Hell, I couldn’t even step into a pub without being recognised. But here she was, living under the same roof, completely unaware of the people I was connected to. Maybe it was the fact that her family ties were as jumbled as mine, and pieces of it were woven into the same clothes… but oddly enough, that ignorance excited me.
“Well,” I began, “My family’s been in cricket forever. My dad, his dad and his dad—my great-granddad—were all professional cricketers. My Mum comes from a sports family, too.”
“So, you followed the tradition?” Raina asked, though there wasn’t a hint of judgement in her voice.
“Not out of obligation, but pretty much. I grew up around cricket. It just felt… right. I love every second of it,” I added, though I wasn’t sure why there was a sudden ache in my chest at the admission.
She nodded but didn’t press further, her expression neutral like she was absorbing the information but not filing it away for anything significant.
I wasn’t used to that.
The freeing feeling of just being me. Just Oliver.
The one I often got when I was locked in, standing in front of the striker’s end and seeing the bowler running in.
The feeling was so peaceful, so addictive, and so unique .
I wasn’t sure what it was with her that made me feel this way. I only knew that I liked it.