12: Game Day

9 August 2000

The sun hadn’t yet burned the mist off the edges of the pitch, but already the heat clung low and heavy, a thick, humid veil pressing against skin and sinew. The practice ground shimmered under a dull gold haze, and the grass bristled with morning dew, every blade sharp like intent.

Bharath jogged in with his boots slung over his shoulder and a silent fire in his chest. His kit bag bounced lightly against his back, but he didn’t notice it — not over the thrum in his temples, the breath that came steady and sure. He’d slept only a few hours, but it didn’t matter. His body felt alive, electric. His mind sharp. Like something in the dreamworld had been carried into the real.

Today wasn’t just another morning of training. Rising Sun FC had agreed to a closed-door friendly — a pre-season test match under wraps. No media. No fans. No noise beyond cleats on grass, coaches barking from the sidelines, and the sound of sweat being turned into strategy.

Biswas stood at the edge of the field with his clipboard clutched like a blade, whistle slung loose but ready. His eyes swept the arriving squad like a general at muster. When Bharath dropped his bag and unzipped his boots, Biswas gave him the briefest nod. No smile. Just that flick of acknowledgement.

Warmups came and went in a blur. Standard drills. Possession games. Quick feet. Then formations were handed out like loaded dice.

“You’re starting second half,” Biswas muttered as Bharath passed him on the touchline.

Bharath paused, blinking. “Yes, sir.”

The coach didn’t look up. “Earn it.”

The first half told its own story. Rising Sun FC were slick — a team that trained like they believed in one another. They played in tight triangles and low movement pulses, keeping the tempo just above comfortable. Heritage’s starting midfield, by contrast, looked hesitant. There were few mistakes, but even fewer risks.

By halftime, Bharath had stripped off his warmup bib and sat alone under the partial shade of the dugout canopy. He closed his eyes and heard Devi’s voice from their study session two nights ago — calm, clipped, exact.

“Don’t press the first pass. Wait for the second pivot. Let them commit — that’s when they open.”

He opened his eyes, heart steady. When the whistle blew, he stepped onto the pitch not with nerves, but clarity.

The first flash came in the 47th minute.

Rising Sun’s right back swept the ball inside to their defensive midfielder, who turned blind — and Bharath saw it. Not just the pass. The consequence. A flash. A blur of himself intercepting, spinning, and charging upfield.

It hit him like déjà vu.

And then it happened.

The ball left the boot and Bharath pounced, two steps ahead of timing, cleanly stealing it mid-turn. He didn’t hesitate — with one motion, he spun to his left, lifted the outside of his foot, and curled a low ball into Kofi’s stride on the wing.

Kofi raced down, cut inside, and crossed.

Rafael was there. A touch. A thump. A save.

Not a goal — but a warning. They were here now.

Ten minutes in, Bharath pushed higher. He clogged lanes, shoulder-checked Rising Sun’s smug number eight until he stopped asking for the ball. He broke up two link plays with tight footwork and one subtle tug that the ref either didn’t see or chose to ignore.

Kofi jogged past him after a midfield scrap and laughed. “Didn’t know you had bulldozer mode.”

“New feature,” Bharath said, not smiling.

But his eyes burned.

In the 63rd, Rising Sun tried to bait Heritage’s left flank again. Their playmaker dropped deep, dragging Arvind with him — just as they’d done before. But Bharath was already drifting. He cut the angle before the pass even left the foot. Stole it. Drew a foul.

Arvind jogged over, hands on hips. “Smart,” he muttered. “Reading them like a book.”

Bharath didn’t answer. His eyes were already searching. Watching patterns unfold like ink in water.

The second flash came in the 70th minute.

Rising Sun’s left back had begun to push higher, sensing space. Bharath had baited him for four straight possessions — sideways passes, easy lay-offs, feigned caution. Now, he struck.

This time, instead of returning the ball to Arvind, Bharath feinted, dropped his shoulder, and slid a disguised pass — not to feet, but behind the line. A perfect channel ball, splitting the gap.

Rafael was there again, reading it like telepathy.

One touch. Two.

Goal.

The net rippled. The silence shattered. The Heritage bench exploded.

Rafael turned back, beaming. “You magician!”

Even Biswas, unmoved, was scribbling furiously.

But Bharath wasn’t done.

In the 78th, as Rising Sun pressed forward, they lost possession to Arvind deep in Heritage’s half. Arvind tapped the ball to Bharath, who turned, pivoted, and drove forward.

Space opened.

He surged — hips low, strides tight. One man beaten. Then another. A stepover, a drop of the shoulder. He was through.

The third flash came mid-run.

A flicker — him taking the shot with his weaker foot, the keeper diving late, the ball clipping bar and net.

He hesitated.

Then took the shot.

It curled, left-footed, across goal — and struck the underside of the crossbar.

Goal.

No one spoke at first.

Then Kofi screamed. “What the—? Bro!”

Bharath jogged back, breath controlled, face unreadable. But inside, he was on fire.

Rafael slapped his back. “You don’t play like a kid. You don’t even play like a rookie.”

Madhavan clapped slowly. “You see the field like it’s already happened.”

Bharath only nodded. He didn’t have the words. Not yet. But something had changed. These flashes — they weren’t imagination. They weren’t guesses.

He was seeing fragments of the future.

Not on command. Not always clear. But when they came, he trusted them. And they delivered.

Biswas still said nothing. But when the match ended and the squads shook hands, he walked over, looked Bharath in the eye, and gave a single word:

“Ready.”

It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t celebration.

It was a key turning in a lock.

And Bharath, sweat-soaked and radiant, simply nodded. “Yes, coach.”

As the players filtered off the field, toweling down, chattering, reliving moments, Bharath sat alone on the edge of the bench and unlaced his boots.

His heart was still racing.

But not from exertion.

From purpose.

From proof.

Whatever was waking inside him — the dream bond, the visions, the fire in his body — it wasn’t just a gift.

It was a calling.

And he was answering.

Celina lay on her bed in nothing but her towel. The fabric clung damply to her skin, but she was too numb to notice. Her thighs still burned faintly from the hours of posture drills — the pivot, the stillness, the silent smile that had to be held until her cheeks ached.

The fitting had left her raw — not in the body, but in the soul. The red silk, the slit that ran too high, the invisible hands adjusting the fabric over her breasts with clinical detachment. The heels had turned her ankles to ice. But it wasn’t the clothes that left her shaken.

It was Rekha’s voice.

Low. Sweet. Weaponized.

“This shade was made for skin like yours. Daring, but dignified.”

“Men don’t fall in love with effort. They fall in love with the illusion that you don’t need theirs.”

“Tomorrow, you won’t speak. Not unless spoken to. Just smile ... and mean nothing.”

Celina had nodded. She always did. But inside, something recoiled. She wasn’t a fool — she could sense the weight beneath Rekha’s compliments, the calculations behind her gaze. She noticed how the older woman’s fingers lingered just a second too long on her jawline when adjusting her profile.

But she ignored it. She had to.

Because all that mattered — the only thing that felt real anymore — was him.

Bharath.

Celina closed her eyes and let the heat rise again, this time not from shame, but from longing.

The fantasies no longer waited for her permission. They arrived like storms.

She imagined the door creaking open. Bharath entering shirtless, skin gleaming with sweat, jaw tense from training. His eyes finding her instantly — not like a man seeing a model. Like a man seeing his woman.

Behind him, Anya followed. Lip bruised from kissing. Hair damp from a recent shower. Her steps unhurried. Predatory. Possessive.

Celina tried to shake the image, but her breath had already quickened.

In her mind, Bharath crossed the room in three strides. Caught her chin. Pulled her off the bed and down to her knees.

Anya laughed from behind, sliding fingers along Celina’s spine. “You want to be ours?” she whispered, her voice laced with amusement and command. “You want to be used?”

Celina’s hands slid between her legs, finding that pulsing ache that had become so familiar. Her towel shifted but she didn’t care. The need hollowed her out.

In her fantasy, Bharath didn’t ask. He just took. Brutal. Honest. Possessive.

Anya straddled her, lips pressed to her collarbone, whispering things no mirror had ever dared.

“You’re not a model, Celina. You’re a sacrifice.”

The pressure swelled. Her whole body tightened. She bit her lip to keep from crying out too loud.

When the orgasm hit, it split her open — her legs trembling, breath ragged, eyes glazed. She fell sideways onto the bed, tears mixing with sweat, her sobs muffled in the sheets.

“Please,” she whispered, clinging to the remnants of the fantasy. “Please see me. Please take me. Please ... break me.”

But reality crept back slowly.

And so did Rekha’s words, repeating like a mantra disguised as mentorship:

“They want a fantasy. Not your thoughts. Be soft, not smart. Be seen, not heard.”

“The man who picks you will rewrite your life — if you stay empty enough for him to pour himself into.”

Celina had nodded then too. She had nodded when Rekha tightened the neckline, when she told her to arch her back more during photos, when she offered wine at 2 p.m. and slipped her a tablet saying it would help “relax the muscles.”

She wasn’t stupid. She saw the red flags. The way Rekha always made her stay late. The way she changed the subject when Celina asked about the other girls.

But her obsession was louder than her instincts.

Because in her head, this was still just a modeling assignment.

Anya had started with Rekha too, hadn’t she? And now she was with him. Not broken. Not lost. Chosen.

That’s what Celina clung to. The belief that if she endured just a little longer — the silence, the posture drills, the lecherous stares from “potential clients” — she would be rewarded.

She didn’t notice she was spiraling.

She didn’t notice that Rekha never answered when she asked about the event’s theme.

She didn’t notice that the guest list wasn’t shared. That the stylists spoke in code. That she hadn’t even signed a contract yet.

All she saw — all she wanted to see — was a path that led to Bharath’s arms.

The rest?

Noise.

She curled deeper into the sheets, whispering his name like a prayer. Like a spell. Like an anchor to the version of herself that still believed she was in control.

And far away, Rekha sat with a glass of wine and a list of buyers — circling names.

The product was nearly ready.

And Celina — eyes closed, sweat-soaked, whispering “please” to a ghost — still believed she was being groomed for greatness.

Kim’s notes were now a chaotic symphony — chakra maps, fragments of ritual diagrams, and physiological charts tracking her changes. Her fingertips tingled constantly. Her lips stayed flushed. Her breath quickened at night without cause.

She wasn’t sure what she was experiencing.

The dreams had become data. Her body the lab. Bharath the variable. Anya the catalyst. But she lacked a theory. She didn’t even know what to search for — only that something ancient was awakening within her, something bigger than biology.

She hadn’t yet identified the symbols. She didn’t even know the term “yantra.” But the shapes haunted her sleep — six-pointed stars, spinning circles, bodies aligned in light. She was trying to draw them, to categorize the sensations. Each night she noted:

“Heat spikes in lower back. Pulsing behind navel. Arousal begins before visuals start. Bharath always appears first. Anya usually arrives after. Repetition of eye contact. Always ends in mutual climax.”

She was deep in transcription when her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Beta! It’s Mama.”

Kim sat up straighter, her voice softening. “Mummy! I was just thinking of you.”

Her mother launched into familiar, affectionate banter — mango prices, Auntie Manjeet’s gossip, the neighbor’s son who still hadn’t gotten married. Her father chimed in next, teasing her about her diet.

“Still living on biscuits and stress?”

“I’m fine, Baba,” she laughed. “Eating well. Sort of.”

Then the harder part. Her mother’s tone shifted slightly.

“Kim ... why are you still in Bengal? So far from home. You know we support your dreams — but Punjab has good hospitals, good programs. We just want you closer.”

Kim swallowed. “It’s for the research, Ma. The subject is here. There’s ... a lot to observe.”

“Just be careful,” her father said, gently. “We worry. That’s all.”

Her little cousin hijacked the phone next to ask Kim about a school science project. She found herself explaining potential and kinetic energy with a fond smile, until the line was handed back.

“Call more often,” her mother said. “Even if you have nothing to say.”

“I will,” Kim promised. Her voice cracked. “I miss you.”

“We love you, beta.”

After she hung up, the room felt too quiet. Her heartbeat too loud.

Moments later, the phone rang again. She picked it up, still emotionally off-balance.

“Professor Rao?”

“Yes. I just got off the line with the club.”

Kim sat straighter. “And?”

“They’ve approved deeper field engagement. You’ll be embedded. Personal access. Meals. Informal observation. No notes in front of him. No questions during stress periods.”

“I understand.”

“Kim.”

“Yes?”

“Be mindful of transference. Emotional entanglement is real, especially in cases with sexual undercurrents. We need data, not dependency.”

“I know,” she said. But her voice was smaller.

When the call ended, she sat in silence, her phone still in her lap. The soft hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound in the room, stirring loose papers on her desk like whispers she couldn’t quite catch.

She stared out the window. Elgin Road stretched before her in quiet twilight—orange halos from sodium lamps, distant honks from rickshaws, and the low murmur of evening life returning to the streets. Somewhere far behind her, in another city, her mother was probably folding laundry, her father reading the paper, her cousin playing outside in the courtyard with a cricket bat too heavy for him.

Kim could still picture it perfectly. The sun-warmed terrace. The smell of haldi and fresh coriander from the kitchen. The sound of kirtan playing from someone’s window. A neighborhood where every auntie knew your business before you did.

She hadn’t left because it was a bad life. She hadn’t lacked love. Or laughter. Or opportunity.

She left because she couldn’t breathe.

Not in the way her parents wanted her to live. Not within the neatly folded expectations of their world: respectable internship, timely marriage, a small clinic back home. She didn’t want to inherit a path. She wanted to forge one.

And now here she was, in a city that didn’t love her yet, but had already changed her.

She wouldn’t have met Bharath if she’d stayed in Amritsar. Wouldn’t have heard his voice in her dreams, or felt her skin light up with invisible stars when he touched her. Wouldn’t have found herself at the edge of something vast and ancient and unspeakable every time Anya kissed her in sleep, or whispered her name like a secret mantra.

She felt it in her spine — this truth she couldn’t shake:

If I go back, I will lose this. I will lose them. And I won’t survive that.

Her body already knew. Her breath changed when Bharath was near. Her skin hummed when Anya so much as looked at her. Their presence didn’t just make her feel alive — it made her feel chosen.

Now, with the club’s approval in hand, she finally had a reason. A legitimate academic excuse to live in their space, to watch them, to join the rhythm of their lives without explaining the cravings that haunted her nights.

But how would she tell her parents?

“I’ll be living with a man and his girlfriend — for research.”

She could already hear her mother’s silence. Could already see her father booking a train ticket. They wouldn’t shout. They would arrive. They’d bring her home in silence, like a rescue mission. A quiet, loving extraction from what they would never understand.

She sighed and turned back to her journal.

Pros of choosing this path:

Connection

Energy surge

Orgasm-linked awakening

Lucid sensory recall

Heightened perception

A sense of being truly seen

Cons:

Loss of analytical control

Emotional confusion

Erotic dependency

Dreams bleeding into waking

May have to leave family behind

She stared at that final line, her pen hesitating. Then, with a sharp breath, she underlined it. Twice.

Her hand trembled when she put the pen down.

She didn’t want to lose them. But she also couldn’t lose this. What was unfolding with Bharath and Anya wasn’t just sensual. It was sacred. She didn’t know what it meant yet — yantra, tantra, myth or madness — but it was hers.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t waiting for permission.

She would find a way to lie, bend the truth, spin a story. Tell her parents she was working from a hostel. That the flat was mixed, but supervised. That the research required close quarters, but not intimacy.

She would protect them from the truth. Because the truth was too wild. Too sacred. Too much like destiny.

The event was one of those typical early-August unveilings meant to feel exclusive — a new luxury wellness line backed by an industrialist’s daughter and co-sponsored by a retreat brand with vague ayurvedic origins. The venue: a refurbished colonial mansion converted into a boutique showroom, with slow sitar music playing over Bose speakers and artfully placed incense diffusers mimicking sacred havan smoke.

It was Calcutta high society at its curated worst — paunchy politicians with smooth silk scarves, retired film producers pawing at half-their-age models, brand reps in glossy saris, society wives flaunting new jewelry, and the ever-circling camera crew from Page 3.

Anya arrived just after five. The shutter clicks began the moment she stepped out of the black sedan. She wore ivory chiffon — subtle, luminous — with a string of gold-threaded jasmine at her wrist and her hair braided down her shoulder. Understated, but lethal. The cameras loved her.

Right behind her was Priya, introduced as her personal assistant. Black sari. Hair in a bun. No makeup. Anya had insisted on it.

“You’re the shadow,” she’d said in the car. “Not the flame.”

Priya had smirked. “Don’t worry. I brought the blade.”

The venue buzzed. Waiters passed out mocktails with tulsi foam. A glossy brand video looped silently on a flatscreen. On the upper floors, private rooms had been converted into consultation lounges where guests were invited to “discover their inner glow.”

To the trained eye, it was a Syndicate playground — perfect for exchanging girls, grooming new recruits, and laundering reputation.

Anya played the star effortlessly — all glowing laughter, polite nods, and wrist-touching familiarity. She kissed cheeks, posed for a few photos, and even indulged a long-retired actor who claimed to have known her father. All while gently steering the spotlight.

Meanwhile, Priya weaved through the crowd, camera bag slung across her chest. She lingered near the staircases, the powder room corridors, the curtained corners where deals were whispered.

She spotted the usual types — fixers, brokers, talent managers. One of them nodded to Rekha with leering familiarity and made his way over, carrying a drink and oozing entitlement.

“Looking regal as ever,” he said with a smirk. “Heard you’ve got something new coming in tonight. Young. Untouched. You always did know how to find the rare ones.”

Rekha smiled faintly, like a queen humoring a jester. “That’s not for you to know until I say so.”

Anya, a few feet away, caught the exchange. Her eyes narrowed, the smile on her lips never wavering. But something in her throat curdled.

Priya, nearby, had already turned slightly, making mental notes of the man’s face, voice, and phrasing.

The man leaned closer to Rekha, voice dropping. “If it’s anything like the Andhra girl last quarter, I’d like to make an early offer.”

Rekha didn’t reply. She just turned her gaze toward Anya — who was now watching openly.

The message was clear: behave, or be replaced.

Priya stiffened. Filed the phrase. She resisted the urge to reach for her camera. Not yet. Not now.

Anya’s smile stayed fixed. “I should go before I start asking questions.”

She turned away — and met Rekha’s eyes across the room.

Rekha had been watching her all evening. Leaning against a column, drink in hand, adorned in indigo chiffon and diamonds. No cameras approached her. No one dared.

For a brief moment, something flickered behind Rekha’s eyes — not jealousy. Something colder. Appraisal. Possession. Like a craftsman watching a well-made tool perform exactly as designed.

She approached slowly, a predator in pearls.

“You shine well, darling,” she said, tone dipped in syrup. “Just don’t forget who first polished you.”

Anya’s smile froze — then cracked wider. “You mean the people I burned to get here?”

Rekha’s eyes narrowed. “Careful. Wax melts.”

Then, louder — deliberately within earshot of the press: “The team is expanding its youth line. I want you to be the face. Wholesome. Devoted. Undefiled. And we’ll need Bharath too. The public loves a golden couple.”

It wasn’t a compliment. It was a leash. And a chain for two.

Anya’s stomach clenched, but her smile didn’t flinch. Not because she wasn’t rattled — but because she wouldn’t show it. Bharath wasn’t here to parry this. So she would shield him, wrapped in velvet and venom.

She stepped in, brushing her fingers lightly over Rekha’s wrist — the touch was affectionate to onlookers, but a warning beneath.

“Send the details. My PA will screen it. As for Bharath — he’s busy with football. He can’t spare time for modeling just yet.”

Rekha’s gaze sharpened. “Too busy to be seen?”

“Too focused to be distracted,” Anya replied, voice sugar-drenched steel.

Rekha tilted her head. “Ah. The sharp one.”

She didn’t move. Her gaze lingered, then dipped — just briefly — toward the second floor of the venue.

“I’ve found new ways to train girls who start thinking they’re stars too early,” she said, her voice smooth, her meaning buried under lace. “Sometimes, they just need to be reminded what they’re really meant for.”

Anya’s fingers twitched at her side. But her voice was light when she replied, “Let me know how that works out.”

Rekha smiled, all molasses and menace. “Oh, it always does. Eventually.”

Before she could press further, the event hostess clapped her hands nearby. “Anya? We’d love a few words on camera — just a soundbite for the brand video?”

Anya turned with perfect poise. “Of course. Just a moment.”