5: Threads of Fire and Flesh

31 July 2000

The morning light filtered through the cream curtains of Bharath’s bedroom. The quiet hum of the city waking up reminded him that another day had begun — another day where he had to be more than just a player.

Bharath sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. The events of the previous day — the photos, Priya’s voice when she told him about the girls who had given her their savings, and the fury that trembled in her hands when she spoke of what had been done to her — all echoed in his head.

She could have run. She would have disappeared. But she stayed.

And she wasn’t the only one. Those girls — nameless, faceless to the world — who had held Priya when she was broken, who had offered her coins and crumpled notes when they had nothing else. Bharath had never met them, but he could feel them — hovering behind every word Priya had spoken.

He looked around his room — the ceiling fan rotating lazily above him, the neatly stacked books his mother insisted he carry, the framed picture of his family that stood proud on the desk. All the signs of a life untouched by darkness. He had grumbled about missing sambar, hot idlis, and crisp dosas, while others had fought to stay out of cages.

His father’s discipline. His mother’s doting. His sister - Devi’s - fierce intelligence. They had raised him into a world shielded by love and structure. Bharath had been blessed. Sheltered.

He got up slowly and knelt by the window, pressing his forehead against the sill as dawn painted the world gold.

“I don’t want to be a tourist in someone else’s pain,” he whispered. “I don’t want to feel righteous just because I’m helping someone braver than me.”

Bharath’s fingers tightened into fists. “I’ll be your wall, Priya. I’ll be your legs when you’re tired, your eyes when you can’t see. And those girls — I’ll fight for them, even if they never know my name. I’ll be better. I have to be better.” He pressed his palms together and whispered a silent thank you to the gods. For his family. For his health. For waking up in a bed and not on a floor somewhere in fear. When he rose, it wasn’t just to train. It was to serve.

Bharath could hear soft footsteps and spotted Priya, rubbing her eyes as she entered. Her disguise was still half on — hair tucked under a faded dupatta, and kurta too large for her frame. But the smell of filter coffee made her pause. The table was laid. Toast, boiled eggs, cut fruit, a clean plate with a napkin folded into a triangle.

There was a folded note beside the plate in Bharath’s handwriting: “If the toast’s cold, blame the patriarchy. Also, I didn’t poison the eggs. Probably.”

Priya snorted.

The kettle was still warm, the pan on the stove rinsed, the kitchen wiped down. Bharath had done this before leaving. Probably hours ago.

She peeked at the laundry pile beside the washing machine. “Since I’m being pampered ... I’ll return the favour. I’ll wash your laundry.”

Two minutes later, she opened the hamper and recoiled dramatically. “Oy Ma! What hell dimension is this stench from? This isn’t laundry, this is biological warfare.”

She grabbed a dupatta and wrapped it around her face like a surgical mask, marching toward the washing machine like a soldier entering gas warfare. The socks went in first. She jabbed the start button and stepped back like it might explode. “If this machine survives this load, I’m writing to Godrej. They deserve a medal.” Then came the football shorts. She used tongs. Actual kitchen tongs. Then disinfected the tongs. Halfway through, the machine beeped angrily. Priya smacked it. “Don’t you dare die on me now. We’re in this together.”

Finally, after dumping a heroic amount of detergent, softener, and possibly prayer beads into the drum, she slammed the lid shut and leaned against the counter, panting like she’d run a marathon.

“Next time he leaves me breakfast,” she muttered, “he better leave gloves and a hazmat suit.”

Still wrapped in her make-do mask, she wandered back to the desk and unrolled the maps again. Her smile faded as her mind returned to the weight of what lay ahead. She thought of Rekha Das. Of the Syndicate. Of the perfect photographs lying safe in her folder — and how none of it felt like enough.

She outlined plan after plan on how to blackmail Rekha.

Idea 1: Send anonymous prints of the photo to Rekha’s publicist and wait for her to panic. But Rekha wasn’t the sort to panic. She’d spin it. Blame it on age, photoshop, claim it was a political smear.

Idea 2: Anonymously leak the photo to the press. Let the tabloids do the work. But again, Priya feared the outcome. Rekha had media allies. The story could easily be buried or worse, weaponised against some poor scapegoat.

Idea 3: Approach a rival politician with the photo and trade for protection. But that only opened the door to more powerful, more unpredictable enemies. No leverage lasted long in Calcutta’s politics. That door had a one-way lock.

Idea 4: Confront Rekha anonymously, demand her withdrawal from certain Syndicate activities, threaten to release the images. But even in that hypothetical, Priya could see Rekha calmly inviting the storm — only to trap her blackmailer in a worse mess.

Idea 5: Frame someone within Rekha’s inner circle using the photograph as bait, ignite suspicion and infighting. But that required precise timing, deeper knowledge of Rekha’s circle, and someone on the inside — something Priya didn’t yet have.

Idea 6: Use the photo in an international sting operation with a human rights NGO. A long shot, requiring connections and a formal legal structure. Too slow. Too risky.

Of all the ideas, two seemed to have potential — if she had allies.

She jotted down notes, circled ideas, crossed others.

She’s too smart. Too experienced. A predator among predators.

Priya sighed. More evidence. More cracks in the armour. That’s the only way.

And so, she returned to the maps, to the whisper network she was rebuilding. There were other routes. Other girls. Somewhere, something would give.

The sun blazed over the turf as the reserves lined up against the starting eleven. The coaches were watching closely. This wasn’t just a scrimmage.

Bharath felt electric.

The first team stood opposite the reserves in their official match kits, Rafael at their center, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He nodded at them, just a slight dip of his chin—acknowledgment, challenge, warning all at once. The air crackled with unspoken tension. This wasn’t just a training match. This was an audition, and everyone knew it.

Coach Biswas blew the whistle.

In the first five minutes, Bharath played conservatively, getting a feel for the rhythm. The first team pressed high, aggressive, trying to establish dominance early. He stayed disciplined, making simple passes, keeping possession. No mistakes. No fancy moves. Just fundamentals.

But then came his moment.

Madhavan, the first team’s defensive midfielder, collected a loose ball near the centerline. He looked up, scanning for options, and Bharath read his body language instantly. The defender’s shoulders tilted slightly right, but his hips opened left. A tell. He was going to pass to Kofi on the wing.

Bharath exploded into action before Madhavan even kicked the ball.

Accelerating across the defender’s passing lane, Bharath intercepted cleanly, touching the ball just enough to redirect it while maintaining full speed. Madhavan lunged, but Bharath had already anticipated the tackle, shifting his weight to his right foot and pivoting sharply.

Madhavan slid past Bharath, cursing.

The field opened up. Two first-team defenders converged rapidly, but Bharath could see Sameer, our striker, making a diagonal run behind their back line.

He looked left first—a deliberate feint—before delivering a perfectly weighted through-ball with the outside of his right foot. The ball curved beautifully, skimming the grass, bypassing three defenders and landing precisely in Sameer’s path. “Run!” Bharath shouted, even as he sprinted forward to support the attack.

Sameer took one touch, composed himself, and slotted it past the goalkeeper. 1-0 to the reserves.

The bench erupted. The reserves swarmed Sameer, but he pointed at Bharath, acknowledging the assist. Bharath pumped his fist once, then immediately refocused. The real game was just starting.

Rafael’s eyes found Bharath’s across the pitch. He could see the calculation there, the recalibration. The star striker of Heritage City hadn’t expected this.

The first team kicked off again, more determined now. For ten minutes, they dominated possession, probing the reserve team’s defense, testing for weaknesses. Bharath tracked back tirelessly, helping his defensive line, reading patterns, cutting off passing lanes. Sweat poured down his face, but he felt like he could run forever.

In the 23rd minute, disaster struck. The reserve center-back misjudged a long ball, and Rafael pounced, controlling it with his chest before volleying it into the top corner. Unstoppable. 1-1.

As the game reset for the kickoff, Bharath gathered the reserves around him.

“That’s why he’s the star,” he said, not discouraged. “But we’re still level. Keep your shape. Keep believing.”

A few nodded, surprised by Bharath’s leadership but responding to it. They had been playing as individuals. Now they needed to become a unit.

The next phase was brutal. The first team, sensing blood, came at the reserves relentlessly. Tackles flew in, harder than necessary for a training match. Bharath took a knock to his ankle that sent fire up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.

In the 35th minute, during a rare moment of possession, Bharath dropped deep to collect the ball from the keeper. Scanning the field, he noticed something—a pattern in the first team’s pressing. They shifted as a block, but their right flank consistently overcommitted, leaving space behind.

He received the ball, drawing two pressers toward him. Instead of rushing, Bharath shielded it calmly, waiting for them to commit. As they closed in, he executed a Cruyff turn—dragging the ball behind his standing leg with his right foot, then spinning away from pressure.

Both defenders lunged past Bharath but it was too late. He was free. “Switch!” he shouted, and launched a 40-yard diagonal ball to the left winger who had acres of space. He charged forward, cut inside, and fired a shot that the keeper parried—but only as far as the onrushing reserve midfielder who tapped in the rebound. 2-1 to the reserves.

As the teams jogged back for the restart, Bharath caught Arvind—the first team captain—looking at him with new respect. He said something to Biswas on the sideline, pointing in Bharath’s direction.

The first half ended with the reserves clinging to their lead, exhausted but elated.

During the break, Bharath gathered the reserves again. “They’re going to come at us hard now. Their pride is hurt. Stay compact. Counter when we can. We can do this.”

The second half began with the first team laying siege to the reserve goal. Wave after wave of attacks tested their resilience. Bharath tracked runners, blocked passing lanes, threw his body in front of shots. In the 58th minute, he cleared a goal-bound header off the line, somehow leaping high enough to head it over the crossbar.

But in the 65th minute, the first team broke through. A clever flick from Rafael, a low cross, and a simple finish. 2-2. The momentum had shifted. The reserve team heads dropped slightly. The first team sensed vulnerability and pressed harder. Then came the moment that changed everything.

In the 71st minute, Rafael received the ball near the halfway line and began weaving through the midfield. He dribbled past two players, his skill undeniable. Bharath tracked his run, staying patient, reading Rafael’s movements. As the striker approached the edge of the reserve box, preparing to shoot, Bharath timed his challenge perfectly—sliding in to poke the ball away cleanly, no foul.

The ball spilled to his feet. In an instant, Bharath was up and driving forward. Rafael, caught off balance, couldn’t recover in time.

The field opened before Bharath. The first team, committed to their attack, scrambled to get back. He accelerated, the ball seemingly glued to his feet as he slalomed between two retreating defenders.

As he approached the box, he had options—a pass to either wing, or take the shot himself. The goalkeeper began to advance, narrowing the angle.

Bharath looked left, then right, tracking the defenders and keeper with his eyes. Then, with minimal backlift, he executed a perfect chip—delicate yet decisive—sending the ball floating over the keeper’s outstretched fingers. Time seemed to slow as the ball arced through the air, hanging against the blue sky for what felt like eternity before nestling into the top corner of the net.

Silence. Then eruption.

The reserves bench stormed onto the field. Bharath’s teammates mobbed him, shouting, laughing. He had scored a goal that would have graced any professional match—against his own first team.

When play resumed, the first team threw everything at the reserves, desperate to equalize. Rafael led the charge, his competitive fire burning brightly. But the reserves defended as if their lives depended on it.

In the dying minutes, Madhavan lunged in with a reckless tackle that caught Bharath’s ankle. He went down, pain shooting up his leg, but refused to stay down. As he limped back into position, he caught Biswas watching him closely—testing not just his skill, but his character.

When the final whistle blew—3-2 to the reserves—Bharath collapsed onto the grass, exhausted but exhilarated. They’d done the impossible.

As they lined up to shake hands, Rafael approached Bharath.

“Lucky goal,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile behind his eyes.

“Lucky save,” Bharath shot back, referencing a spectacular stop he’d made from one of their shots.

He laughed, genuinely this time, and clapped Bharath’s shoulder. “Watch yourself in first team training. We won’t go so easy on you.”

It wasn’t just the win that mattered. It was the respect they’d earned—from teammates, from the first team, and from himself. On the sidelines, Coach Biswas turned to Kunal. “Yeh ladka sirf talented nahi hai. Yeh khatarnak hai. This boy isn’t just talented. He’s dangerous.”

Kunal shaded his eyes from the sun. “Woh dikhawa nahi kar raha. Woh apnapan chahta hai. That’s rarer.”(He’s not showing off. He wants to belong.)

They weren’t the only ones watching. First-team captain Arvind pulled his sweatband off and walked over to the coaches, motioning toward him.

“You saw that recovery run in the 65th minute? He closed down three zones solo. And then—”

“Turned it into a transition ball without fouling. Haan yaar,” Kunal added. “That’s what impressed me.”

“The through ball to the left flank in the 71st? He sent their left-back into another postcode. And remember when he took that goal-kick down on the half-turn, one-touch control, and pivoted into space? That’s instinct.” Biswas nodded, arms crossed. “I was watching his reaction to his teammates’ mistakes. He covers, encourages, resets the tempo. Doesn’t sulk or lecture.”

Arvind smiled. “And did you hear how he kept calling out positional shifts for the midfield? He was coordinating and leading. In a scrimmage.”

Kunal folded his arms. “You think he’s ready for a senior call-up?”

“He needs to be with us in training. At least. The boy thinks faster than he runs. And that solo goal — he didn’t just dribble past defenders. He read them. Waited for the shift, anticipated the weight on their heels, and glided through. That’s not luck. That’s vision.”

Biswas cracked a smile. “You sure you’re not just tired of chasing him around the midfield?”

Arvind chuckled. “If he plays with me, maybe I won’t have to.”

By the time Bharath had showered and changed, the news had spread throughout the club. He had earned more than a stat sheet. He had earned the locker room. He had earned the admiration from the coaches. He had earned the respect of the captain himself. And most importantly — he had earned his next test.

The cafeteria buzzed with a post-match hum. Laughter, teasing, and the scent of curry and chicken biryani drifted through the air. Bharath carried his tray quietly, eyes scanning the room for a corner. But before he could escape, a voice called out. “Silver Spoon! Oye, come here! Sit!”

It was Rafael, the club’s star striker from Brazil, flanked by his usual entourage of flashy midfielders — Dinu, Ashu, Jignesh — and two junior marketing reps who’d conveniently parked themselves nearby.

Bharath hesitated, then smiled lightly and slid into the seat offered. Playing dumb was often underrated.

“Big game today,” Rafael said between bites. “Didn’t know you had samba in those South Indian feet.” Laughter. But there was a touch of bite in it.

Bharath offered a modest shrug. “We all play the same ball.”

Rafael studied him, tilting his head. “You play clever. That chip shot? Damn cheeky.”

Ashu leaned forward. “Cheeky’s one word. Arrogant might be another.”

“Word is Biswas might rotate him into our sessions,” Jignesh added, pointedly glancing at the marketing reps. The reps exchanged subtle glances, clearly aware of the rumours — that Bharath might be positioned as the new face of the club. It hadn’t been confirmed, but whispers had a way of travelling.

“He’s a baby,” Dinu scoffed. “Let’s see what happens when someone actually tackles him. This was just a reserves match.” Rafael sipped his buttermilk, tone deceptively smooth. “Still. He plays to make the team better. That’s dangerous. Means he doesn’t care who scores. That’s leadership.”

But Bharath could feel the tension layered beneath. It wasn’t just about football. He was rich. Well-spoken. Good-looking. And worst of all — untouched by Calcutta’s grime.

“So, Silver Spoon,” Ashu said, voice light but eyes hard. “What do they feed you in Chennai? Gold flakes and caviar? Or just motivational quotes for breakfast?”

Bharath chuckled softly. “Mostly idlis. Sometimes ambition.”

Even Rafael cracked a grin, but Dinu leaned back, arms folded. “So what do we do if the golden boy takes the spotlight?” Rafael smiled faintly, tone darker now. “Then we shine harder. Or ... we make sure he remembers who brought him to the dance.” More laughter. But Bharath noted how the smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Strategy was everything. He wouldn’t fight them. Not yet. Let them think he was harmless. Let them underestimate him. He played the part well — polite, humble, deferential — letting charm dilute challenge, letting wit smooth over status. He’d learned early that arrogance built walls, but subtlety opened doors.

Bharath sat on the physio table, shirt off, a towel around his neck. The team physiotherapist, Partho, circled him slowly, his experienced eyes studying Bharath’s body with professional curiosity. The medical room was cool and quiet, a sanctuary from the humid chaos outside. The antiseptic smell mixed with the menthol of muscle balms created that distinct clinical atmosphere he was slowly getting used to.

“You’ve definitely filled out,” Partho said, pressing his fingers against Bharath’s shoulder blade, then along his trapezius muscle. “Not a dramatic change, but the difference is noticeable — leaner lines, more definition, better posture.” He lifted Bharath’s arm, rotating the shoulder joint, testing its mobility. His brow furrowed slightly.

“Strange,” he muttered.

“What is?” Bharath asked.

“Your range of motion has increased since your entry assessment two weeks ago.” He continued his examination, pressing points along Bharath’s spine. “Most players take months to achieve these adaptations.” “Been working hard,” Bharath said, keeping his voice casual despite the flutter of unease in his stomach. Even he had noticed changes that seemed ... accelerated.

Partho moved to his legs, testing the flexibility in his hamstrings, the stability in his knees. He made notes on a clipboard, his expression growing more intrigued.

“No doubt. But two weeks isn’t usually long enough for this sort of visible change. Your stamina’s way up too. What’s your recovery routine like?”

Bharath shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Eggs. Runs at dawn. And trying not to die during drills.” Partho placed a stethoscope against Bharath’s chest, listened intently, then checked his pulse at the wrist. “Your resting heart rate is 42 beats per minute. That’s elite marathon runner territory.” He paused, his voice lowering. “Two weeks ago it was 61.” Bharath swallowed hard. The changes weren’t just in his mind.

“I’ve always recovered quickly,” he offered weakly.

Partho reached for a blood pressure cuff. “Let’s check a few more things. Any changes in sleep patterns? Appetite? Dreams?” The last word made Bharath’s stomach clench. Dreams. The realm where Anya waited. Where we connected. Where something inexplicable was happening.

“Just the usual football dreams,” he lied. “Scoring goals. Missing goals. You know.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with Bharath’s answer, but he could tell Partho was cataloging everything—every measurement, every change, every response. As a medical professional, he knew something unusual was happening, even if he couldn’t explain it.

“Your blood pressure is textbook perfect. Muscle tone is exceptional.” He sat on his rolling stool, facing Bharath directly. “I’ve worked with professional athletes for fifteen years. Bodies don’t transform this quickly without...” He left the implication hanging.

“I’m not taking anything,” Bharath said quickly, understanding his unspoken concern. “I swear on my family’s name.” His expression softened. “I believe you. But something’s happening physiologically that’s ... unusual.” He clicked his pen thoughtfully. “I’d like to run some additional tests. Blood work. Maybe an ECG.”

“Is there something wrong with me?” The question came out smaller than Bharath intended.

Partho shook his head. “On the contrary. By every metric, you’re in exceptional health. But rapid changes, even positive ones, deserve monitoring.” He paused. “Any unusual sensations? Tingling? Warmth? Anything you can’t explain?”

The golden thread. The pull in his chest whenever he thought intensely about Anya. The sensation of being drawn into the dreamspace. But how could he explain any of that without sounding insane?

“Sometimes I feel ... more energetic than I should. After hard training. Like I could run another session immediately.” Partho nodded, writing something down. “Any changes in your mental state? Mood swings? Unusual focus or lack thereof?”

“I feel ... clearer,” Bharath admitted. “Like I can see the whole pitch at once. Read patterns better.”

“Interesting.” Partho set down his clipboard. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. But stay grounded. Body’s only part of the game — mind’s the engine. Keep both tuned.” He applied some cooling gel to a bruise on Bharath’s thigh that he barely noticed, then handed him a protein shake from the mini-fridge.

“Drink this. Come back Thursday for a follow-up. And Bharath—” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “—if you experience anything unusual, anything at all, come see me immediately. Day or night.” Bharath nodded, slipping his shirt back on. “Thanks, Partho.”

As he left the medical room, he caught his reflection in the long mirror by the door. The face looking back at him was his, but somehow ... refined. Sharper. More defined. Like an artist had gone over a sketch with a finer pencil, bringing out details that were always meant to be there.

Deep down, Bharath knew there was something else at play. Something connected to Anya, to the dreams, to the Red-Silk Goddess. And part of him wondered—if his body was changing this dramatically in just two weeks, what else was transforming? What was he becoming?

The marketing director, Tapan Ghosh, stood at Coach Biswas’s desk, gesturing animatedly, a folder of printed mockups under his arm.

“Look at him! Fresh-faced, good backstory, national-level talent. He’s media gold, sir. If we position him carefully, we’ve got ourselves a brand that can challenge even Rising Sun’s poster boys.”

Coach Biswas raised an eyebrow. “He’s just played one big reserves match. Let’s not carve a statue before the cement’s even set.” Ghosh chuckled. “Ei shei to kotha! That’s precisely why we need to move fast. The press is already sniffing around. If we don’t control the narrative, someone else will. And they won’t say ‘dedicated young player.’ They’ll say ‘privileged upstart with rich parents.’”

Biswas leaned back, skeptical. “Aar Rafael ebong bakiraa (And Rafael and the others)? You think they’ll sit quietly while you plaster a new kid’s face across town?”

Ghosh nodded. “I’ve thought of that. We will roll out a campaign — ‘Legacy and Future.’ Rafael becomes the face of the club’s tradition. Bharath, the rising star. They appear together. Mentor and protégé. We shape the transition before it becomes a fight.” “That depends on Rafael agreeing to it.”

“We incentivize him. Give him creative input on a campaign — maybe even his own signature training gear. And we double down on the idea that he’s helping build the next chapter.”

Biswas grunted. “We’re not writing a novel, Ghosh. This is a football club.”

“Exactly — and in 2000, football is as much about narratives as numbers. Look at what Rising Sun is doing. Their entire youth academy launch was a media spectacle. We’re playing catch-up. Bharath is a gift. We just have to manage the pieces.”

“And the locker room?”

“Handled with care. Quiet promotions. Nothing flashy until the gala. We keep the photographers away from training. Let things build subtly.”

“And Bharath? What if this goes to his head?”

Ghosh handed over a thin manila folder. “We get ahead of that. I’ve arranged for a student psychologist — Kim, top of her class at Presidency. She observes, builds rapport. Keeps his ego in check.”

Biswas flipped through the file. “And if she fails?”

“Then we reassess. But we’re not tossing him in without a support system.”

The coach sighed. “Fine. He starts training with the seniors next week. And if he survives that, you can have your photoshoot.” Ghosh grinned. “Deal.”

Bharath stepped in, his hair still damp from his shower, hair slicked back, eyes alert but guarded. Coach Biswas sat behind his desk, the manila folder Ghosh had given him still open in front of him. Ghosh was seated on the couch, flipping through a glossy Warrior mock-up.

“Sit,” Biswas said, not looking up.

Bharath lowered himself into the chair across from him.

“You’ve got a new assignment. Warrior’s doing a brand shoot. Models. Glamour. Lights. You’re the face,” Biswas said flatly. Bharath blinked. “Wait. Warrior? The sportswear people?”

“Yes,” Ghosh chimed in with a grin. “And there’s a charity gala too. Black tie. You’ll get the invite tomorrow.” Bharath tried to control his expression, but his mind raced. Gala. Public event. Anya. He leaned forward, suddenly breathless. “Will Anya Das be there?”

Ghosh burst into laughter. “Oh-ho! So that’s the motivation. Models, cameras, and now dream girl Anya?”

Biswas raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve got a better chance of running into a tiger on Park Street, but sure. Let’s say ... maybe.”

Bharath cleared his throat, cheeks reddening. “I’m just asking so I can be ... prepared.”

“Of course,” Ghosh said, still chuckling. “We’ll add ‘emotional preparedness’ to the checklist. Right next to ‘hide the erection during fittings.’”

Biswas shook his head, hiding a smirk. “Let the boy suffer in peace, Ghosh.”

Ghosh, still grinning, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “But seriously, Bharath — this is a big deal. You’ll be representing the club in public events, ad campaigns, and possibly a media series we’re pitching for national syndication. This is about more than just football now. You’re a package — youth, talent, charm. If you’re up for it, we’ll back you. But it won’t be easy. You in?”

Bharath hesitated, overwhelmed. “That’s ... a lot. I mean, I came here to play football, not become a billboard.”

“And you will,” Biswas said, voice steady. “But football now happens in stadiums and in soundbites. You want the best contracts, you make yourself visible. Relevant. Marketable.”

Bharath sighed. “Well ... if it helps the club and gives me a chance to meet Anya ... fine.”

Biswas glanced at Ghosh and shook his head in mock defeat. “We’ll have to babysit him. Infatuated boys are walking disasters.”

“Exactly why we’re assigning you a sports psychologist,” Ghosh said, sliding a sheet from his folder. “Kim. Final year at Presidency. Trained in performance psychology. She’ll monitor your emotional well-being, help you balance training and exposure, prepare you for media pressure.”