Chapter 7: Goodbye, Golden Boy

He pulled a bank card from his jacket.

The small black card gleamed in his hand, like a peace offering—or a weapon.

I raised an eyebrow. "What’s this supposed to mean?"

My tone was icy. Even the cat looked up, sensing drama.

"You don’t trust me anymore. There’s no point in me staying at DFC."

He couldn’t meet my eyes, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Arjun, do you even know what the breach penalty is?"

Eight lakh. Probably more than double what he’s earned over the years.

I wanted to laugh—so much money, so little loyalty. The irony was almost too much.

"I know. Don’t worry, there’s three lakh on this card. I’ll give you the rest soon."

His family’s just average—not rich enough to help him out. Looks like he and Mumbai Titans had a good talk today. That’s where his confidence comes from.

In India, money opens doors, but it also locks them behind you. Arjun had chosen his side.

[What’s the doosri ladki’s expression? The male lead’s already a league champion—any team will pay him lakhs a year. Why should he care about her breach penalty?]

[Exactly! Arjun, hurry up and leave DFC. You’ll see there’s no golden rain outside!]

The voices in my head were relentless. I wanted to block them all, but I couldn’t.

I was quiet for a few seconds, then took the black card.

My fingers lingered on the smooth plastic. It felt like the end of something sacred.

"Fine, but the contract requires a lump-sum payment. If you can’t pay it all, I’ll tack on another lakh in penalties."

No mercy. Not now, not after everything.

Arjun looked troubled, but in the end, he agreed.

His shoulders slumped, but he didn’t argue. For once, he accepted the consequences.

After that, Arjun took two days to pack up three years’ worth of things.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye, listening to the crinkle of old wrappers, the soft thud of books and trophies. The flat felt emptier with every box he sealed.

Maybe he felt sentimental, because when he left, he was a bit softer toward me, his eyes full of guilt.

He lingered in the doorway, keys jingling in his pocket. I could tell he wanted to say something, but words failed him.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching his back as he walked away.

The city lights blurred beyond the glass, streaked with monsoon drizzle. His silhouette looked small, almost lost.

"Arjun."

He paused, hand on the door, waiting for my final words.

"A pro player’s career is short. One wrong step and it’s all over. Hope you don’t regret it."

It wasn’t a threat, just a warning. I meant it.

He nodded, half-understanding.

In the silence, his gaze fell on the white wall of the living room—a photo wall, filled with memories from the past three years.

That wall was our story—framed moments of laughter, struggle, victory, and hope.

The day the DFC club was founded: a photo of me, Arjun, and Sneha. Sneha had just graduated, hair still dyed red.

We looked so young, so full of bravado. The world hadn’t yet knocked us around.

Our first time with a full team, seven of us raising our glasses at a barbecue, all smiles.

The smoke from the grill, the messy plates, the loud jokes—pure happiness. We thought we’d stay together forever.

And finally, me and Arjun, looking at the league championship photo on the sofa, not yet hung up.

That framed golden rain—maybe it would never hang in the centre of the wall.

Some victories can’t be celebrated, not when they come at the cost of your own happiness.

Arjun paused at the photo wall, fingers tracing the edge of one frame—our first club photo, laughter frozen in time—before leaving.

He lowered his eyes and said, "Sorry, Ritu."

His voice trembled, heavy with unspoken things. I felt the final thread between us snap.

In that moment, I didn’t know if he was apologising for the three years we’d spent together, or for leaving DFC, the club that had given everything to support him.

Maybe both. Maybe neither. Some things just end.