Women cricketer Marriage called off | The Left-Handed Love Story | Fiction story – 01
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and situations are products of the author’s imagination. Although it references professional sports, celebrity environments, and public settings, it does not depict or represent any real athlete, celebrity, organisation, or public figure. Any resemblance to actual persons, teams, events, or locations—past or present—is purely coincidental and should not be interpreted as factual or based on real individuals. This work is created solely for entertainment.
Women cricketer Marriage called off | The Left-Handed Love Story | Fiction story – 01
Story
Below is a full single continuous story, cinematic and emotional, with no interruptions and no disclaimers.
All characters are fictional.
The Golden Girl Who Stopped Smiling
People think stadium lights are bright.
But they know nothing of the lights that hang above a bridal stage—those harsh, hot, artificial suns that burn every smile into a memory.
That morning, Anaya Rathore woke up believing she was about to live the happiest day of her life.
She was twenty-four, India’s most celebrated left-handed batter, the kind whose cover drive was studied like holy scripture.
Commentators loved to say something about her — that she wasn’t aggressive, she was inevitable.
Every girl in every academy wanted to be her.
Every sponsor wanted her face on their billboards.
Every TV camera waited for her smile.
But no one knew how much she bled for the game.
No one knew how lonely talent could feel.
Except Raghav.
The man she trusted
He wasn’t an athlete, and that was the charm.
A sports psychologist — calm voice, slow words, soft hands.
The first time they met was after a humiliating loss in England.
Her locker room smelled of sweat and tears.
Everyone spoke tactics, footwork, timing.
He sat beside her and asked:
“Do you still remember why you started playing?”
She broke down.
He didn’t offer clichés.
He listened.
Their love grew quietly.
Sneaking out for biryani at midnight.
Laughing at autographs requests.
Changing phone wallpapers every time she hit a century.
His voice messages before matches:
“Play free.”
“Trust yourself.”
“You were born for the big stage.”
Anaya believed him.
Not because he said those things,
but because when the stadium roared, he was the only one who looked at her like she was human, not a headline.
Their engagement brought calm into her chaotic world.
Her parents adored him.
Her younger brother, Aarush, asked him for dating advice like he was a real brother.
The wedding was meant to be simple.
She had dreamed of a small ceremony, jasmine flowers, close family, no media.
But India does not let its golden girl marry quietly.
The wedding of the decade
A private resort in Goa.
Palm trees wrapped with fairy lights.
Security tighter than a World Cup final.
Cricketing VIPs arriving in black cars.
Bollywood actors taking selfies with her uncle.
Sponsorship banners discreetly placed behind every floral arch.
Reporters waited near the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of her lehenga.
And it was stunning — ivory, threaded with gold, motifs of blooming flowers and tiny stitched cricket balls.
The designer whispered, trembling:
“This… is history.”
Anaya blushed.
Not because of the dress.
Because she finally felt safe.
She believed in destiny.
She believed she had survived injuries, hate, failures, pressure — to arrive here.
At 11:28 a.m.
The messages arrived.
The betrayal
Her phone buzzed on the dressing table.
Her best friend, Neha, glanced at it first.
She froze.
“Anu… you can’t see this.”
Anaya reached for the device.
She wasn’t a child.
She wasn’t someone to be protected.
She tapped the notification from an unknown number.
Three videos.
Raghav.
In a hotel room.
With another woman.
Not hugging.
Not mistaken.
Touching her like he once touched Anaya.
Kissing her neck.
Smiling.
The date stamp:
The night before.
The sound around her vanished — hairdryers, makeup chatter, gossip — all turned to static.
The fourth message arrived.
Screenshots of their chats.
Weeks of conversations.
Plans.
Promises.
Her blood grew cold.
She whispered, “This is real.”
Neha sobbed behind her.
The door opened.
Her mother — graceful, gentle, already half dressed for the ceremony — saw Anaya’s face and understood without needing a single word.
“What happened?” she asked.
Anaya passed her the phone.
Her mother’s hand slid to her chest.
Then she collapsed.
Chaos
People ran.
Guests screamed.
The resort turned into an emergency ward.
A stretcher, rushed through the lobby.
Medical staff shouting instructions.
Aarush crying at 18 years old like he was six again.
Anaya stood frozen, her fingertips trembling, her lipstick untouched.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t faint.
She didn’t break glass or throw phones like movie brides.
She simply folded her lehenga and sat on the floor next to her unconscious mother, whispering:
“I’m here. I’m here. You’re not leaving me.”
The heartbeat monitor beeped unevenly.
Doctors said stress, shock, extreme anxiety — a heart attack triggered by trauma.
The media outside still believed the bride was getting ready.
The coward
Raghav arrived late — dressed like a hero, gold sherwani, rehearsed smile.
He didn’t know about the hospital.
He burst into her room, still trying to “explain.”
“It happened because—”
She lifted her hand.
“Stop.”
His voice cracked:
“I was drunk—”
“Say it again,” she said, eyes empty.
“So you cheat when you’re drunk?”
“It didn’t mean—”
“Do you think I care what it means to you?”
He stepped toward her.
She stepped back.
“You break me on the morning of our wedding,” she said, “and you think I will hold YOUR shame?”
He opened his mouth.
She walked past him.
The choice
At the hospital, surrounded by white walls, beeping machines, antiseptic smell, and her mother’s trembling lungs — Anaya picked up her phone.
She typed a single broadcast to the wedding group:
“Ceremony cancelled. No further arrangements. Do not contact me.”
No emojis.
No anger.
Just the truth.
The wedding manager fainted.
Sponsors called her agent in panic.
Family friends cursed Raghav and whispered superstition.
But the girl who once bowed politely after scoring 80 off 52 balls…
did not shed a tear.
The return
Two weeks later, the tabloids were still screaming.
“CHEATING SHOCK!”
“BRIDE ABANDONED!”
“CRICKET DIVA HUMILIATED!”
Talk shows debated whether she knew earlier.
Fans sobbed, raged, theorized.
And through all of it, Anaya traveled to the only place she trusted —
the empty academy nets at dawn.
It was still dark.
Mist curled above the pitch.
Her bat felt heavier than it used to.
The bowling machine whirred.
First delivery:
She met it early — a square drive slicing air like a blade.
Second delivery:
Rising ball — she rocked back, cut it through.
Third delivery:
Full, on off.
She lifted it straight, a perfect loft over an imaginary bowler.
Something inside her unlocked.
Not anger.
Not revenge.
Clarity.
She whispered into the morning air:
“The game never betrayed me.”
Her knuckles tightened on the grip.
Her spine straightened.
Her eyes finally burned.
The world had tried to destroy her —
a groom, a wedding, a betrayal, a single day of hell.
But she was a cricketer.
She had faced bouncers at 135 kmph.
She had faced crowds of 40,000 chanting her name.
She had faced defeat on foreign soil.
This?
This was just another delivery.
And she was going to hit it.
**The golden girl walked back to the crease.
Not to survive.
To own her life.**
Just tell me.
Then… silence.
The next day, social media exploded with screenshots of him messaging an aspiring singer — praises, emojis, nothing explicit, but enough to turn strangers into judges.
They tagged me relentlessly:
“He’s cheating.”
“He’s insecure.”
“Ditch him before he ruins your career.”
I sat on the hospital bed, scrolling, unable to breathe.
Kabir came to see me that evening. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days.
“It isn’t what they think,” he said.
“I know,” I replied.
“But do you know who you are anymore?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence between us was heavier than the entire stadium.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t care about selection, rankings, or trophies.
I cared about me.
The wedding was postponed. Not because of the knee — though everyone used that as the official reason — but because I finally understood something:
I had spent years playing for my team, my country, my family, the sponsors, the fans… but never for myself.
Kabir walked away quietly. No drama. No statement. Just a nod, as if he knew he didn’t fit in the world built for me.
People asked if I was heartbroken.
I told them the truth: I’m healing.
And healing isn’t losing.
It’s just another kind of winning.
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