The world was only beginning to stir when Tithi stepped into the park, the soft amber hues of morning spreading gently across the sky like watercolor strokes bleeding into each other. A cool breeze swept across the path, carrying with it the earthy fragrance of damp soil, wet grass, and blooming flowers. The city was still half-asleep, lights fading, windows opening, and far-off traffic just beginning to hum. Birds hopped lazily between branches, chirping softly as if whispering good morning to the quiet world. The gentle rustle of the leaves and the faint mist still hanging in the air made everything feel both peaceful and slightly unreal, as if she had walked into a dream stitched out of familiar memories.

Tithi moved along the path with her usual steady steps, her sneakers brushing lightly against the gravel. Morning walks had become a sacred ritual, something she carried from her childhood like a treasure preserved across time. She had once walked this same trail with her grandmother, who used to hold her hand and walk slowly, telling her stories with a smile that warmed every corner of her heart. Those walks had shaped her mornings, gentle talks, quiet laughter, and the comforting presence of someone who made the world feel steady. Now her grandmother could no longer walk; age and illness had robbed her of mobility, her memory fading like old ink on forgotten pages. So, Tithi walked alone. But each step carried the weight of her grandmother’s affection, her values, and her gentle strength. Every morning felt like a conversation continued, one where silence spoke louder than words.

Her routine was always the same: watching the light shimmer, a quiet moment near the flowerbeds where butterflies danced lazily between petals, a pause near the old wooden bench under the large banyan tree, and finally, she always found herself drifting toward the basketball court at the far end of the park. She didn't understand why she always stopped there; it had become instinctive, as if her feet remembered something that her mind had not yet acknowledged. Perhaps it was because the court held a different kind of energy that she began playing basketball as a hobby, excelling at it and enjoying the game deeply whenever she had free time.

While looking at the basketball, she suddenly remembered a day when she witnessed a wonderful basketball match: one man against 6, that amazing Yashwant Shekhawat match. She had seen him play many times since she returned to the city. He was tall, sharp, and controlled; his movements were precise, and his intensity was sharp enough to slice through the air. He wasn’t loud, and he wasn’t dramatic; he played with an authority that didn’t need noise. Every step he took, every shot he made, and every turn he executed seemed to carry certainty. He didn’t play for fun. He played to dominate. To conquer. To win. And he won every time, effortlessly, as though victory lived in his bloodstream.

But today, the court was empty.

The wooden floor stretched silently under the gentle sunlight, glowing faintly. No bouncing ball echoed through the air. No shouts from players. No steady rhythm of footsteps. Just calm, still, inviting silence. A faint smile curved Tithi’s lips. The early joggers scattered far away, the breeze was soft, and the court was completely deserted. It felt like an invitation meant only for her.

Without hesitating, she stepped onto the court. The sound of her shoes touching the hardwood was soft, but it awakened something inside her, a familiar thrill, an old love, a memory she cherished. Basketball had once been a giant part of her life, something she didn’t talk about much anymore, but something she carried deep within her bones, a sweet memory with her grandfather. Early school tournaments, friendly matches, long evening practice sessions, and that sweet sense of belonging when the ball fit perfectly in her hands, it all came back to her in one beautiful rush by him.

A lone basketball rested near the bench. She walked over, picked it up, and ran her fingers along its rough surface. The texture brought warmth to her fingertips, a familiar comfort she hadn’t realized she missed this much. She bounced it once.

Thud.

The sound echoed across the empty court, bold and clean. It made her smile.

She began dribbling slowly, reacquainting her muscles with movements that had once been second nature. Her body responded instantly, as though it had only been waiting for her to pick up the game again. Her steps grew quicker and smoother. Her fingers danced over the ball, guiding it with a confidence she had long forgotten. Her ponytail swung behind her as she pivoted, turned, and switched directions, feeling the old rhythm return to her limbs. And when she finally took a shot, her feet pushing off the floor, her wrist flicking with perfect timing, the ball soared through the air and dropped into the hoop with a clean, satisfying swish.

A soft laugh escaped her. “Still perfect,” she whispered.

She moved again, this time with more energy, more joy, and more freedom. The court embraced her, the morning air lifting her spirits, and for a moment she forgot everything else: her responsibilities, her worries, and her thoughts. It was just her and the game, just like the old days.

Then a voice cut through the air, deep and unmistakable.

“Like… very good.”

Her breath hitched. She turned sharply. Yashwant stood near the boundary of the court, partially backlit by the early sun. He wore a dark jogger outfit, the fabric hugging the sculpted lines of his arms and shoulders. His hair was slightly damp from a run, she assumed, and a few strands fell near his forehead. His expression was calm and unreadable, and his eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse skip, not in fear or admiration, but in awareness. He looked like someone who belonged to power, someone carved out of ambition and precision, someone who moved with the kind of authority that didn’t need to be announced.

He walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. “Good shot,” he said, voice low and rich.

She offered a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“You come here every morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“I never noticed,” he murmured.

She laughed lightly, trying to soften his stare. “You’re too focused on winning.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lip. “Winning is the only focus worth having.”

“That’s very you,” she said, amused. “And yes, you’re excellent at it. Actually, amazing… But…”

“But?” he repeated, eyebrow lifted.

“You do make one small mistake,” she said carefully.

His expression sharpened. “Mistake?”

She nodded. “When you drive left, your wrist tightens too much. It slows your rebound. Anyone fast enough could steal the ball.”

His eyes changed, not drastically, but enough for her to feel the shift. The air around them thickened, as though something cold had just settled between them.

“You think you could take it from me?” he asked gently.

She blinked. “No, I meant…”

“Then show me.”

Before she could protest, his jogging group entered the court laughing and stretching.

“Yash… Early start again?”

“Boss, who’s this?”

“New competition?”

“She looks like she might beat you…”

Tithi shook her head quickly. “I wasn’t… this isn’t….”

Everyone laughs, and Yashwant chuckles as he looks at her and informs the others.

"She is saying I am making a mistake, so she is proof of that."

One friend joked, “Oh, really... then... First to three wins. ”

Yashwant didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“Wait…”

He tossed her the ball. “Prove your point.”

She stared at him, stunned. His eyes were sharp as steel, not giving her room to refuse. Finally, she exhaled.

“Fine… Three goals.”

“That’s all I need,” he said coldly.

They took positions. And the match began.

He moved first, fast, fierce, and controlled. The court echoed with the sound of the ball pounding against the surface. He cut across the court with practiced precision, his body angled powerfully. She watched him closely, reading him like a language she’d once mastered. Then she saw it, the wrist. Tightening. Hesitating. She slipped forward swiftly, stealing the ball cleanly. One quick pivot, a smooth leap, and

Swish.

His friends were surprised but clapped. However, Yashwant did not clap because he was too shocked to respond.

Round two was sharper. Harder. He came at her like an unrestrained force, his frustration bleeding into each movement. But she stayed steady, calm. When his wrist tightened again, she caught the flaw, stole the ball, sprinted, and shot.

Swish.

Two.

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking sharply. The silence around him was louder than any applause.

“Again,” he said, voice cold enough to freeze air.

His friends noticed that something was wrong, so they tried to calm him down.

"Hey Yash… Leave it…"

But he didn’t listen. This time he is determined that the ball will not reach her hands and she will not score any goals. She will never score goals at all this time.

The third round felt different, more pressure, more intensity. He was no longer playing to win; he was playing to crush. His steps hit the floor hard, his breathing was louder, and his aggression was unmistakable. But precision wasn’t born from anger, and she used that against him. When his timing slipped by even half a second, she stole the ball. And the final shot.

Swish.

Three.

The court fell silent. His friends snickered nervously, offering excuses, trying to soften the blow.

“She’s trained, man.”

“It’s a small match.”

“It happens.”

But nothing reached him. Nothing. Tithi listened to everything and was very surprised why they were talking like this. She turned her face toward Yashwant; maybe he was very hurt by his defeat, so Tithi approached gently.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said sincerely. “You’re an excellent player.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t blink. He only stared at her like she had just committed an unforgivable crime. She placed the ball down, smiled politely, and walked away.

Yashwant’s eyes followed her every step.

Burning.

Dark.

Unmoving.

His friends began teasing and laughing again in muffled voices, because this is the first time he is losing the match. but their laughter died quickly when they saw his expression.

He walked out silently, every step fueled by something dangerous and cold. By the time he reached his car, humiliation had coiled inside him like a tightening fist. He sat behind the wheel, fingers gripping the steering wheel violently hard, breath unsteady, and jaw tight. His reflection stared back at him through the windshield, eyes darker than usual, simmering with fury.

“Who the hell was she?” he whispered.

Then he exhaled, his voice turning into something sharper, colder, and far more dangerous.

“Whoever she is… I won’t forget this.”

The moment Yashwant drove away from the park, the world outside his car blurred into meaningless streaks of color. He didn’t hear the distant horns or the morning bustle beginning on the streets. Through the partially open window, he was oblivious to the wind. All he heard was the echo of that final swish, the sound of the third basket she had made against him. All he felt was the burning humiliation of sitting like a stone in his chest. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white, veins running like angry rivers under his skin. He wasn’t used to losing. He wasn’t built to lose. The very idea of defeat was foreign to him, unacceptable, and unforgivable. Yet it had happened, and not at the hands of someone who matched his reputation, not through a complex game, not through strategy, but through a simple, clean, humiliating truth: a random girl had beaten him. A girl he didn’t know. A girl who stood so calmly afterward, as though she didn’t realize she had just shattered something he held sacred.

He drove faster, the engine growling like an extension of his fury. The city lights filtered through the windshield in quick flashes, but none of it calmed him. His jaw tightened, teeth gritting in frustration. He replayed every second of the match, every turn, every movement, and every mistake she had pointed out. Her voice echoed inside him: “Your wrist tightens too much.” He hated that she was right. He hated even more that she spoke so casually, as if she weren’t afraid of him and didn’t recognize him as Yashwant Shekhawat, the man who never lost. Her expression had been polite, not mocking, but that didn’t matter. His pride had bled all the same. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the sound sharp and violent inside the car. His breath grew heavy and uneven. He wasn’t angry at the game. He was angry at himself. How could he let such an incident happen? How could he, even for a second, allow someone to catch him off guard?