Page 102 of Game on, Love

Favourite Sport?

O: Cricket

R: Formula One

“Still?” Oliver questioned just as the buzzer went off and Frankie—our instructor, called the time.

“Okay, now it’s time to get messy,” Her voice buzzed through the speakers.

“You want me to lie and say it’s cricket?” I asked as he turned on the wheel between us.

“Should I hold on to any hope that it might change one day?”

“Never say never,” I shrugged, watching and following his movements as he dipped his fingers in the bowl of water.

“Place your hands first so I can guide you,” He said softly. “Now, just remember it doesn’t matter if it falls or breaks. It’s about the moment right now, and the actual result will come later, okay?”

I nodded, letting his hands cover mine as he guided them together over the clay in perfectly practised circles. I gulped, suddenly realising how intimate it felt.

As our hands settled into the flow with each other, sliding over the wet surface. There was an easy rhythm between us. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself enjoy the feeling of being there with him, creating something physical and mental with him. I didn’t feel the need to rush through it or have the itch for it to be perfect, and as our fingers glided over the clumsy edge, I let him guide the way to shape it.

“You’re really good at this,” I said quietly, almost afraid of breaking the moment, but as his gaze softened and he gave me a genuine smile, I realised how connecting it was for both of us.

We spent the rest of the evening shaping our imperfectly perfect vase, answering more questions like a memory we wanted to relive, our first celebrity crush, a movie we wanted to play a role in, the kind of superpower we wanted to wake up with on a random Saturday and more, but as we walked back home, I couldn’t help but focus on his thoughtfulness. Out of a hundred different things that were happening tonight, I was sure he’d managed to find one that was entirely about just the two of us and yet still something new and fun.

LOCKING THE DOOR BEHINDus, Oliver leaned against it, his head hitting the door as he watched me. The heat in his eyes was evident, and it was nothing like the one I saw at the studio. After one gave me a real but controlled kiss, but as his eyes tracked my moments, I was unable to find that hint of control.

“I’ve been waiting all night to do this,” He muttered, his voice low and rough, as he cupped the back of my neck and pulled me in.

It was unhurried, but it was immediate—like something deeper in us had been waiting for this. It was soft and familiar, but this time, I could taste the need, too. His lips moved againstmine in hunger, and instinctively, my hands ran through his hair, pulling him closer, and it was all he needed from me. The kiss depended, both of us trying to savour the moment before his hands were on my waist, and he was lifting me in the air and carrying me up the stairs.

31

Oliver

THE MOMENT MY FOOTtouched the field; it was like everything else faded away—the crowd, the buzz of life that lingered around after stepping away from the team and the last bits of pressure to do enough. Today, though, the stadium was silent. There was no audience, just a couple of selectors in the stands, a few officials, including agents and journalists and a handful of players who were part of the main squad.

It had turned out to be a sunny day, the kind that made you want to play forever, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved that it had. There was nothing wrong with playing in a covered field, but feeling the warm sun on my face as I stood on the same pitch I learnt how to play and fell in love with the sport I was about to test for made me feel like it was a full-circle moment.

I was four when my dad bought me my first bat—nineteen years ago tomorrow, on a clear day like this—he’d brought me to this very stadium as he taught me how to play. Adjusting my gloves, I tapped the bat against my shoe before walking towards the crease.

Cricket was in my blood. But it wasn’t just DNA; it wasn’t just about legacy.

It was the feel of the bat in my grip, the rush as I took my place against the wickets, and the moment the strategy, the tension settled just before the bowler ran in.

It was home.

The tricky thing about calling something that isn’t a place, home, is that you feel a sense of belonging, but what do you do when life and circumstances inevitably impose their will? When something you called your sanctuary, your purpose and your lifeno longer gave you a sense of peace but only reminded you of what you lost?

For the last year, I had tried to move on from that feeling. The one that told me that the shared rituals, the unspoken moments we shared, and the language I spoke with my Dad when we both stepped on the pitch were now all part of a distinct memory.

He was my first coach, my first critic, my loudest supporter and my hero.

I always thought that the game had been mine because of him, and the privilege to learn from him was what made it home.

But as I crouched low at the crease, taking in the setup. I finally felt the click in me.

Seeing him lose his home had made me feel like I’d lost mine, but it wasn’t until last night that I realised that it hadn’t truly been home until now.