Page 21 of Stumped

Elias

It’s been a week since my incredible night with Vera and every time my phone buzzes, I lunge for it hoping it’s her. It’s Dhruv. My parents. My teammates. Even my coach.NeverVera.

It was foolish, leaving my phone number behind and expecting her to use it. I know the score; we sharedonenight and it wasn’t meant to be anything more. I don’t know how to turn off this desire to hear from her though. I’m not a master of one night stands, but I know the expectations. The problem is, none of them wereher. In the days since I left her apartment, she’s consumed my every thought and I can feel myself come unhinged when her silence continues.

Despite what social media or the internet says, just because I’m an athlete doesn’t mean I’m partying all the time or paparazzi tracks my movements. And yet, pictures of us that night are circulating everywhere. The only saving grace is Vera’s face isn’t visible. They caught everything else though. Especially the times I groped her ass or when I pressed my face into her neck. It certainly didn’t help seeing those pictures while I was missing her, because all I could think about was the taste of her skin and how good it felt to be buried inside her. Two things I’m possibly never going to experience again.

Like Dhruv predicted, everyone was furious with me. The Renegades management did not appreciate that I wasn’t resting and recuperating, so they forced me back on the road with the team as a way to ‘curb my antics’. I’m not complaining because now I have access to Dr. Theo, our physician and he can make sure after all my shenanigans, I didn’t fuck up my shoulder even more.

Okay, Imighthave underplayed my role with the Chennai Renegades. I’m one of two top-scoring batters, an achievement I’ve worked towards my entire life. Put me in front of the wickets and on any given day, I will hit the ball into the stands. My strike rate is very high for a damn good reason. I’m the guy the team—Renegades or India—brings out when they need to catch up in points and win the match. Makes me sound cocky, I know. But I’ve delivered on this expectation every single time. Until one too many aggressive batting practices and a fielding injury took me out of the game. My rotator cuff doesn’t care for my star status.

The gossip blogs do, though. They’ve never cared about me before, but now I’m all they’re talking about. Not to mention the ‘serious’ sports pundits too. I’d be impressed by their creative headlines if I wasn’t so pissed with this development—One year away in recovery and the Renegades’ golden boy is making fans question his dedication to the sport; Renegades’ Joseph gives ‘resting’ a whole new meaning; Elias Joseph might not be the boy you can take home to mom, after all.

This reached my parents too, which was unpleasant because it disrupted their holiday. I have a spreadsheet with their travel plans, but I don’t refer to it regularly enough to know where they are. As long as they’re safe and having fun, I’m not too worried.

“Is this going to turn into a scandal?”

“No. I promise, everything is okay.”

“They’re saying horrible things about my son on the internet. It’s notokay!”

I wince at my mother’s volume and silently thank my father as he wraps an arm around her. She settles, glaring at me through the screen. I didn’t want to FaceTime them, but when I wasn’t replying to texts fast enough, Mom took matters into her own hands.

“Do I need to come home?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve got everything under control.”

By their expressions, it’s obvious they don’t believe me. While I wasn’t the first of the Joseph siblings to become a professional athlete, I’m the one that’s garnered far more attention. As much as field hockey is often considered our national sport, cricket is always in the spotlight much to my older brother’s chagrin. But none of us have ever gotten into any trouble before, so I can see why my parents are worried.

“Who is she?”

I recognise the glint in Mom’s eye and shake my head. Even though she never forced me or my siblings, Patrick and Nina, into arranged marriages, she wants us to find our happily ever afters. I have nothing against marriage, it’s sometimes hard to know if people want me for my personality or my name.Not Vera, though.I nudge the thought away and choose to keep any information about my mystery woman a secret.

“You’re in Mumbai now?”

I nod, grateful to Dad for saving me from further interrogation. “There’s a match here tonight and we fly home tomorrow. I’m confined to the medical room as punishment.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s okay. Hurts now and then, but Dr. Theo’s helping a lot.”

I could have lied, but my parents only want the best for me.

“Please be safe, mone,” my mother says, worry etched into her face.

“I will, Mom. You should enjoy your trip. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”

After a quick round of byes, the call ends and I collapse onto my hotel bed. Disappointing my parents is my least favourite thing and while they’ll never actually say the words, I know they’re upset by my actions. When my alarm buzzes, I drag myself to Dr. Theo’s room for another round of physiotherapy—aka torture.

The Renegades are playingthe Mumbai Legends in the second match of this group stage. They met us on home soil a few weeks ago and destroyed us. And my teammates aren’t in a forgiving mood—you don’t show us up in our own stadium and expect to get away with it.

I’d love to be on the pitch against the Legends, playing up the rivalry we’ve built over the years. We’re the only two teams in the league with the highest number of wins—six a piece—and every match is a battle to see who will get the seventh title. Instead, I’m sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable chair in the medical room with the large flat screen television on low volume. My attention is divided between the match and social media, mostly on the latter, as I scroll through Vera’s Instagram account.

A few days after our night together, I decided to look her up. Her profile doesn’t have a lot of information outside of her name and a quote by Maya Angelou, so she continues to be a mystery. Her pictures are also scarce—a few of her as a kid with her family, a group picture with some friends—but her tagged section is flooded with photographs. Weddings, birthday parties, holding babies, wearing tiny dresses, draped in gorgeous sarees; she’s stunning in every shot. Everything points to her being aparty girl and weirdly, I like that. She’s not the kind to post about her every move, though, and that’s refreshing.

There’s a picture I stare at longer than the others, one I take a screenshot of and save. She’s wearing a dark red sweatshirt that makes her brown skin glow, with her hair up in a messy bun and while she’s smiling, her eyes are not. There’s something so vulnerable about her expression. The tip of her nose is pink and some of her eyeliner is smudged, making me wonder exactly what happened to make her sad. And yet, it’s the most beautiful picture I’ve ever seen.

The room vibrates with a loud cheer from the stadium and I put my phone away to focus on the match. Nothing good will come from stalking Vera online, especially since it was meant to be one night and one night only.

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