The summer heat in New Delhi was stifling, but Priti thrived in it. Sweat slicked her toned skin as she smashed another delivery out of the nets at the Feroz Shah Kotla ground. At 22, she was on the verge of breaking into the national team, her name already whispered with admiration-and sometimes envy-in cricketing circles.

But the world outside the pitch was where the real games were being played.

She lived in a posh South Delhi duplex with her stepmother, her father away most of the year on diplomatic duties. Her stepbrother, Aryan-24, lean, and annoyingly charming-had just moved back home after a failed startup. Then there was Mr. Singh, her cricket coach, in his mid-40s, strict but with an unmistakable glint in his eyes whenever Priti bent a little too low for a catch.

And just across the road lived Dr. Ranjit Mehra, a family friend, widowed, in his 50s-wealthy, wise, and watching her a little too closely from his balcony whenever she came out for her morning jog in those snug shorts.

Priti was aware of the gazes. She'd learned to use them.

That evening, after practice, she walked into the house to find Aryan sprawled on the couch shirtless, sipping beer, remote in hand.

"You've got a nice follow-through now," he said, not taking his eyes off her chest.

She raised an eyebrow. "You've been spying on me again?"

He shrugged. "Hard not to. You moan when you swing the bat."

She smirked and walked past, brushing her shoulder against him just enough to make him shift in his seat.

Later that night, she received a message from Coach Singh.

"Tomorrow. Private nets. 7 a.m. Wear something flexible."

She bit her lip, fingers hovering over the reply. She knew what he meant. And she wasn't going to say no.

***