27. Noah
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘KEEP ON RISING’ BY GOLD brOTHER
“You need just three more runs to get your first century in eighteen months, Noah.” Kildare Jensen, my partner on the run chase against the Knights, mutters to me while on a drink break. “One boundary and it’s done.”
I jog in place holding my bat with both hands. Trying to keep the blood flowing, my focus from shifting. Jensen drinks steadily because he’s a cool-headed bloke but I refuse. I don’t want to do a single thing to upset my momentum.
Call it superstition but these things matter when you’re playing for your life.
It’s the fourth official ‘match’ of the camp. This is a Twenty-20 match, where each side gets a hundred and twenty balls or twenty overs to win. It’s the shortest format of the game and, consequently, the most exciting. Gone are the days when fans turned up for a test match - five exciting days of red ball cricket – camped out on the ground and basically lived for the game.
Nowadays, attention spans have shrunk to maybe five hours of high stakes cricket.
We played another test for the second match. It was an even draw because the Knights put on a last wicket stand for fifty runs. I blame Ares for not picking up wickets even if he had a roaring migraine from standing on the ground for the whole damn day.
But, if I score a hundred freaking runs in twenty-six balls, it’ll officially make it the fastest hundred in cricket history. Except, it’s not an international match and won’t count.
But I would know. Everyone in the field and the scattered audience would know. The three cricket legends watching us with impassive eyes would know.
And they matter the most.
Almost unwittingly, my eyes seek out Queenie and her bright yellow jersey in Row B6. She’s sitting with Mischa and two blokes. They’re talking fast and furiously among themselves. Sweat drips on my forehead when I squint against the sun to try and make out who’s sitting with whom.
Jealousy doesn’t prompt me, of course. She can sit with whomever she wants. We aren’t really ‘dating’ even if I’ve seen how she looks in the aftermath of intense pleasure. And, just a few days ago, she shared her deepest secrets and fears with me.
“Three runs,” I murmur to myself, to bring myself back to the game.
As I always do now, I flash back to the night Queenie invited me to her room and clobbered me with the revelation of her roommate’s trauma.
Now, I completely understand her prickliness, the armor she’s drawn over her real self. Her bite and sarcasm. Seeing someone close go through something life-changing is life-changing for you too.
I know because when I saw mum fade day by day, I faded too. The boy I was, young and confident and faithless, disappeared. Until I became this Noah.
I now know to be careful. To always take care of the details. To make good choices. To try and make her proud, because she dreamed of seeing me play for Australia one day.
We’d watch matches together and she’d instruct me on technique and highlights in her wispy voice. We would watch matches when her hair began to fall in clumps. We’d watch reruns in the middle of the night, when the vomiting and the cramps from chemo gave her insomnia. When she became too frail to even sit up on the bed to watch TV.
Cricket bonded mum and me, and I’ll always be grateful for it.
Now, I need to make my mark on the sport. For her. For myself. For the lost, scared boy who had to watch the person he loved most in the world slowly lose herself.
I walk back to the pitch and take guard. There’s still two minutes on the break. Jensen, good sport that he is, also takes up position on the non-batter’s end.
I have exactly thirty seconds to clear my mind.
But instead, it fills with Queenie. And the wet track of her tears when she’d leaned over the fucking wall of pillows and offered me her hand the night I started sleeping in her bed.
I was frozen in place. I didn’t even know if I could touch her, because of the seriousness of her confession. And, shallow man I am, I was arrested by how completely Queenie she looked in the moment.
Her bee-black eyes were glossy with tears, the cloud of hair I’m crazy about piled on top of her head. She was fresh and wholesome, like a summer fruit. Forbidden fruit.
It contributed to my paralysis.
Yes, I’d been initially annoyed with her for instantly assuming the worst of me. It faded as I got to know her better. And now, knowing the reason behind it, I admire her all the more. Even if sleeping in the same bed as her is giving me the worst case of blue balls in the history of men everywhere.
Call me a masochist because I can’t bring myself to order a replacement couch. Not just yet.
She wasn’t cowed down by me the night we struck our bargain, and I pulled my Rich Asshole move on her. She does not let me or Veronica trample over her pride and self-esteem. She is remarkable in so many ways.
And she’s here , cheering for me. As my fake girlfriend. She lets me steal touches and kisses until I’m hard just from the memory of it.
So yeah, I want to break the record for fastest century for myself. For everyone.
Including my fake girlfriend who is more real to me than any girl has ever been.
The bell rings, to signify break is over. The fielders get back in position. And Teddy Durham, their captain, talks to the bowler – Martin Van Joost. Van Joost gives me an assessing look as he tosses the ball from hand to hand, like a slinky.
He begins his run up to the pitch. It looks a million miles away but is sixteen yards. But each step thuds with intention and strength and power. I focus on his face and not the ball.
The trick to being an excellent batter is the same as gambling. You play the player, not the hand.
I sense the second he changes his action, converting a simple fast ball into a yorker. It’s just the slightest tilt of his face toward the wind, the way his shoulder moves into position because he needs more power to throw the ball now.
He thunders to the plate, the bowler’s mark, and almost hurls the ball at my face, coming almost to my position with his follow through.
I instinctively lift my leg and hold the bat halfway up in the air. The ball comes at me like a blitz, a bullet, the fastest thing to ever come at me. But I know its trajectory. Because I’m still watching Martin’s face, contorted with aggression.
“Fucking got you, Skipper,” he snarls quietly. Sledging me. Hoping I’d make a mistake.
I know when I have to breathe. When I have to pull my shoulders in and grip the bat tighter. The ball connects to the middle of my bat, and I swing it away. Away and away.
Right over the heads of the first and second slips, toward the fielder placed farthest to the boundary line.
But I’m a student of physics. An object that’s hit with a force equal to or greater than its own is only going to gather speed.
The ball loses gravity in the last few seconds and peters to the ground, still rolling with great speed toward the thick boundary line.
I start running just as Jensen crosses the halfway mark at the pitch.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I should have started running the second the ball left my bat. We’d be on two runs by now. FUCK!
I don’t watch the fielder dive sideways and try and catch my ball. I’m busy running for my life. For my century in twenty-six fucking balls. My heart is pounding so loud in my ears, I think it’s about to burst out of my eardrums. My vision blurs with sweat and panic.
I don’t remember if I have to take one run or two.
I just blindly start running back to the batter’s end.
But then Jensen grabs me and hugs me hard. “You did it, Noah! You did it !” He screams. I throw my bat down in shock.
I shake as I find the fielder chasing my ball.
He’s still sprawled on the boundary line, my ball resting gently two inches from his outstretched fingers, caressing the rope. There’s absolute disgust on the fielder’s face as he eyes it.
My beautiful, precious, precious ball.
I grab Jensen back. And lift all six feet of him in the air. Jensen shouts and whoops. And when I put him back down, he pulls me up too. I cup my helmet and feel hot tears streak down. I’m unashamed of them. These runs are career-defining. Monufuckingmental.
When he puts me down, the rest of the world tunes back in. All the fielders are clapping. Rohit Devgan, today’s umpire, is also applauding me. A faint smile on his face.
I nod at him and smile shakily. I remove my helmet because my head’s reeling. And I need air desperately. I pick up my bat again, my sword, my weapon.
I wipe the tears with my gloved hand and then, because I can’t help myself. I look over at Row B6.
Mischa’s jumping up and down and the two boys are whooping and cheering. But Queenie, my desi girl, my Hellcat, is just standing there. Hand over her heart, wearing the jersey with my name on it.
It’s the most natural thing in the world to lift my bat and show it to her. To dip my head in her direction.
Yeah, everyone knows who I am now. Including Queenie Madhavan.
Unfortunately, we still end up losing the match because Martin Van Joost ends up scalping six wickets, including mine, and wins the match for the Knights. I’m not in the greatest mood when Martin walks off the field without shaking my head. Instead, he almost smashes my nose with the match-winning ball he tosses from hand to hand.
“Some games are tough,” Coach Devgan begins, materializing in front of me. “You can give it your all and still the result is not favorable.”
“It’s the luck of the draw, sir.” I strip my gloves off and grip them in one hand.
Queenie’s godfather holds out his hand. “You were excellent today, Dumaine. Excellent. Letter-perfect. Congratulations on breaking the world-record.”
My heart buzzes, fills with liquid gold at his genuine compliment. “Thank you, sir.” I firm up my hand before shaking his. “It’s because of the extra work you and Coach Gilcrest have done with me. The pointers about studying the ground before each ball, really helped.”
“Are you interrogating the chap already, Devsy?” Padric asks easily, joining him on the field. “Let him have his world record moment, will you?” He slaps him on the back, all friendly-like. Devgan stiffens at the gesture.
“Coach Devgan wasn’t—” I begin in immediate defense.
“I’m going to save the interrogation for the party,” Coach Devgan answers mildly.
“Party?” I echo blankly.
“Oh, yes. The party,” Coach Gilcrest yells from the other end of the pitch. Where he’s talking to the Knights. “Seeing as we are in America and it is their Independence Day on the fourth of July and you lot haven’t done a half-bad job over the last month, we’re giving you a chance to unwind. Let your hair down.” He winks. It is not scary at all. “Celebrate your first month at Triskelion.”
“It’s black tie. A formal event with a sit-down dinner,” Coach Alastair adds. “So do not think you can be uncivilized, gentlemen.”
“Are we allowed plus ones, sir?” I ask eagerly.
Coach Devgan casts a beady eye on me. Assessing and absolutely scary. “Yours will be my goddaughter?” He is so hopeful my answer will be no.
“No one else, Coach,” I answer truthfully.
“Plus ones are allowed,” Coach Alastair answers. “The more the merrier, am I right, Gilly?”
“As long as you lot are okay with watered down beer and frozen hot dogs,” Coach Gilcrest mutters.
The players on the field roar and laugh. And I grin at Coach Devgan’s grim expression.
I get to show my pretty desi girl off on a real date. I can’t wait for it.