Chapter 48 : Regret

As the ball pitched inches before the boundary line, the entire stadium fell into a stunned silence.

Advay stood motionless for a moment, his bat still raised, staring at the ball as it rolled over the boundary cushions. It was the closest he'd ever come to winning the IPL, to fulfilling his dream, and yet, it wasn't enough.

Then, without warning, Advay dropped to his knees. His helmet fell to the ground beside him as he placed his hands on his face, feeling the weight of the loss settle in.

Tears began to flow down his face, the emotion overwhelming him. His breath hitched as the realization washed over him—he had done everything he could.

This was the first time in his life that he had let his emotions take over. All the years of hard work, all the pressure he had carried for his team, all the sacrifices—it had all come down to this single moment. And it wasn't enough.

The camera, as if sensing the magnitude of the moment, zoomed in on Advay. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes wide in disbelief. The man who had taught himself never to show emotion, who had always kept his cool, was now breaking down on the biggest stage of them all.

The RCB fans in the stands—all of them, from children to adults—could feel his pain. And as the camera panned across the crowd, almost all of them were crying too. The RCB supporters, watching from their homes, were in tears as they saw their hero on his knees. They had felt the sting of this loss as if it were their own.

The silence in the stadium was palpable. The Mumbai players celebrated in the distance, but this was Advay's moment. His tears spoke of a dream just out of reach.

Ravi Shastri's voice broke the silence.

"Advay Rai. 129 runs off 62 balls. What a phenomenal innings. He gave everything, left nothing behind. But sometimes, even that isn't enough in cricket. He has played a cricketing masterclass, and though the result is not in his favor today, this innings will live long in the memory of every RCB fan who witnessed it."

129 runs. 62 balls. 9 fours, 7 sixes.

"Advay Rai, a hero for RCB, even in defeat," Sanjay Manjrekar added quietly. "No one could've asked for more from him tonight."

As Advay stood up, wiping his eyes, the crowd around him rose in a massive show of support, clapping, chanting his name. "ADVAY! ADVAY! ADVAY!"

As the crowd continued chanting his name, Advay Rai slowly got to his feet, his eyes still glistening with tears. His fingers gripped his helmet tightly as he turned toward the pavilion, taking slow, heavy steps back.

The cheers and applause around him didn't stop, but for him, everything felt distant, like white noise in the background. The weight of the moment pressed down on his chest, making it harder to breathe.

For the first time in his life, he had let emotion take over.

Advay Rai—the man known for his composure, his unshakable mindset, his ability to handle pressure better than anyone—was walking back to the pavilion in tears.

The camera followed his every step, capturing the rawest moment of his career.

Inside the RCB dugout, his teammates stood waiting. They had never seen him like this. They had seen him smirk in the face of pressure, tease his opponents, take on the biggest challenges with ease—but never this. Never broken.

The moment he stepped into the dugout, Virat Kohli was the first to pull him into a tight hug.

"You were unbelievable, brother," Virat whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

One by one, his teammates surrounded him—AB de Villiers, Moeen Ali, Parthiv Patel, Umesh Yadav—all of them pulling him into silent, understanding embraces.

They didn't need to say anything.

They knew.

They knew how much this meant to him. They knew how hard he had worked, how much he had carried the team, how much he had sacrificed.

And they knew that Advay Rai wasn't the type to let emotions get the better of him.

So for him to break down like this—for him to let the tears fall in front of the world—it meant only one thing.

This wasn't just another loss to him.

This was everything.

The RCB locker room was silent. No one spoke, no one moved. The air was heavy with disappointment, the sting of what could have been hanging over them like a dark cloud.

Advay sat in the corner, his head resting against the back of his locker, his fingers still gripping his towel. He had stopped crying, but the pain was still there—a hollow ache deep inside his chest.

He replayed that last ball over and over in his head. Just two more meters, and it would have been six. Just two more meters, and they would have been champions.

The door creaked open, and a staff member stepped inside hesitantly, glancing at Advay before speaking.

"Advay… someone's waiting for you outside."

He blinked, his exhaustion making it hard to process.

"Who?" His voice came out lower than usual, drained.

The staff member just shook his head. "Didn't say. Just asked for you."

For a moment, Advay didn't want to move. His body felt like lead, his mind still trapped in the final over.

But then, with a deep breath, he pushed himself up. His legs felt heavy, his heart still weighed down by the loss.

Without a word, he walked toward the door.

As soon as Advay stepped into the hallway, he barely had time to register anything before she was there.

Ananya.

She didn't wait. She didn't speak.

She just rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him—tight, firm, as if trying to hold him together before he fell apart again.

Advay stiffened for a second, caught completely off guard. But then, as she pressed closer, her warmth surrounding him, he felt something inside him crack—just a little.

His arms hung loosely by his sides at first, his body still rigid, his mind still trapped in the pain of the night. The memory of that last ball, the weight of the loss, the ache in his chest—it was all still there.

But she didn't let go.

She held him like she knew exactly what he was feeling. Like she could feel the weight on his shoulders too.

And then, in a voice so soft, yet so full of certainty, she finally spoke.

"You did everything you could."

The words hit him harder than any bouncer ever had.

His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching slightly as if trying to hold back the wave of emotions threatening to crash over him again.

She tightened her hold, her cheek resting against his chest. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath, the way his heart was still hammering inside his ribs.

"I'm so proud of you, Advay."

His throat felt dry, his hands still hovering uncertainly in the air before, finally, he let them drop.

One hand found its way to her back, the other to her shoulder. He wasn't squeezing her, wasn't pulling her closer—but he also wasn't letting go.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The noise of the stadium, the world outside, the weight of the loss—it all faded into the background.

For the first time since that final ball, he felt like he could breathe again.

But the ache didn't disappear. It was still there, deep inside him, clawing at his chest.

He had come so close.

So damn close.

His eyes squeezed shut, his grip on her shoulder tightening slightly as he let out a slow, shaky breath.

"I should've hit that six," he muttered, his voice raw, almost bitter.

Ananya shook her head against his chest. "You did more than enough."

He didn't answer.

Because a part of him still didn't believe it.

As Ananya slowly loosened her grip, about to step back, Advay suddenly pulled her in again.

This time, it wasn't just her holding him together—it was him not wanting to let go.

His arms wrapped around her tightly, his fingers gripping the fabric of her dress as if anchoring himself to something real, something that wouldn't slip away like the trophy had.

Ananya didn't say anything. She didn't ask, didn't question.

She just held him back, just as tight.

For the first time that night, the pain in his heart wasn't suffocating him.

The frustration, the heartbreak, the weight of the loss—it was all still there, but for this one moment, it didn't feel unbearable.

They stood there like that for a full minute, saying nothing, just breathing.

And then, finally, Advay exhaled.

The tension in his body eased, his grip softened.

And slowly, he let go.

A few days had passed since the IPL final, but the weight of that night hadn't fully left Advay. The loss still lingered somewhere deep inside him, like a dull ache he had learned to carry.

The world, however, had moved on—but not completely.

The buzz around the final hadn't died down. Everywhere he went, every headline he saw, every social media post—it was all about that night.

"Mumbai Indians—2019 IPL Champions!"

"Malinga's Last-Ball Drama Secures MI's Fourth Title!"

"Advay Rai's 129 in the Final—The Greatest Knock in a Losing Cause?"

His name was everywhere. They had lost, but he had won hearts.

And yet, the only thing he could think about was how close they had come.

It was Ananya who had convinced him to get away for a while.

"Come with me," she had said a day earlier. "You need a break. You need fresh air, space. It'll help."

And so, here he was—driving along an empty mountain road, the air crisp, the sky clear, Ananya sitting in the passenger seat next to him.

The hum of the Porsche's engine was the only sound for a while, neither of them speaking. The road stretched ahead, winding through the hills, surrounded by endless greenery.

Ananya, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, finally broke the silence.

"You've been quiet."

Advay exhaled through his nose, gripping the wheel a little tighter. "Just thinking."

She leaned her elbow against the window, tilting her head slightly. "Still about the final?"

He didn't answer right away.

The world had praised him for his innings. Analysts had called it one of the greatest knocks in an IPL final. Fans had flooded social media, calling him a warrior, a future legend, the crown prince of Indian cricket.

But all he could think about was those last two meters.

Two meters more, and the ball would have cleared the ropes.

Two meters more, and RCB would have been champions.

Ananya sighed, looking at him like she could read his thoughts.

"You know," she said, breaking the silence again, "everyone is still talking about that night. Not just about Mumbai winning, but about you. They're calling it the best innings of the tournament."

Advay's fingers tapped the steering wheel lightly. "Doesn't matter. We didn't win."

She rolled her eyes. "You and your obsession with winning."

He glanced at her briefly before looking back at the road. "It's not just about winning. It's about finishing the job."

She let out a small sigh, shaking her head. "You'll never change."

Advay smirked faintly but didn't argue.

For now, he just kept driving, the road stretching ahead, the mountains towering around them, trying—just for a little while—to leave the past behind.

By the time they reached the camping site, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting a warm golden hue over the mountains. The place was peaceful—far away from the noise, the interviews, the headlines. It was exactly what Ananya had wanted for Advay.

They stepped out of the Porsche, stretching their legs after the long drive. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

Ananya turned to him, hands on her hips. "Alright, Mr. Cricketer, let's see if you can handle something as basic as setting up a tent."

Advay raised an eyebrow. "You doubt my skills?"

She smirked. "Highly."

Advay rolled his eyes but got to work. They unpacked their gear, laying everything out on the grass. For the first time in days, their conversation had nothing to do with cricket.

Ananya, struggling with a tent pole, sighed dramatically. "I swear, if you let me do all the work while you just stand there looking pretty, I will throw this at you."

Advay smirked, holding up his hands. "Relax, I've got this." He bent down and effortlessly fixed the pole into place. "See? Perfect."

Ananya eyed him skeptically. "You just got lucky."

"Talent," he corrected smoothly.

They continued working, the conversation flowing naturally. They argued about the best way to start a fire, debated whether s'mores were overrated, and made fun of each other's questionable camping skills.

Then, as they finished setting up, Advay suddenly spoke.

"Thank you."

Ananya, who had been adjusting the sleeping bag inside the tent, paused. She looked up at him, surprised. "For what?"

Advay exhaled, his hands resting on his hips. He glanced around at their setup—the quiet mountains, the gentle breeze, the complete absence of anything related to cricket.

"For this," he said simply, looking at her. "For dragging me out here. For knowing I needed it before I did."

Ananya watched him for a moment, her teasing expression softening. Then, she shrugged lightly. "Well, someone had to save you from overthinking yourself to death."

Advay smirked but didn't deny it.

For the first time in a long while, he felt at ease.