Savage Drama

Hey guys here is the master list for my first fic.. Cleats Vs Combat Boots

I will be updating this list as i post the new chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11- A Series Of Unfortunate Events

“Jasmeet? “No” Jasdeep? “No” Jaswant? “No” Jaswinder?” “…”

“Goddammit, Hamza, you Military grade muscular meanie,” Uzair nearly shouted. “Tell me your name… I need to know what Jassi stands for!”

With dramatic flair, he threw himself onto the chair beside Hamza.

“No,” Hamza replied, far too smug for Uzair’s liking.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Uzair grumped.

“You had weeks to ask me. You could have gone through my file. Hell, you still can. So why don’t you?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Hamza didn’t answer. He simply smirked. “You could just ask your brother.”

“Where’s the fun in that? I will wear you down.” Uzair said with a confident grin.

“Then go ahead. Do your worst.”

And that was how Uzair made it his personal mission to annoy Hamza, something he was already exceptionally good at, to uncover his real name. Soon, he recruited his entire team into the effort.

Now Hamza was practically being harassed by a coordinated unit of overly curious idiots.

Still, he wasn’t about to give up.

The Delhi fixture should have been easy but it wasn’t and the match wasn’t the reason.

The week leading up to it followed the usual routine: training sessions, tactical meetings, recovery work and enough ice baths to make the entire squad question their career choices. The coaches drilled Delhi's weaknesses into them relentlessly while the physios hovered around the players. For once, Uzair didn't mind any of it. His Bhai, Bhabhi and nephews were coming

Match day arrived. The Delhi crowd was flashy, but Uzair cared about only one section of the stands.

He spotted them during warm-ups immediately. His nephews were waving like maniacs. His Bhabhi was recording everything. The pride in his brother’s eyes was unmistakable. The family was surrounded by their usual team of guards and Rizwan. Uzair grinned and waved back.

The match against Delhi Dominion FC was a spectacle from start to finish. Delhi could be brash, its crowd was rowdy, but Kerala supporters cropped up everywhere. Even in an away stadium, patches of yellow and blue were scattered throughout the crowd. The chants rolled across the stands, and the passion was unmistakable.

In the thirty-fifth minute, Uzair slipped a perfect pass between two defenders for an assist. Early in the second half, he added a goal of his own. By full-time, Kerala had secured a comfortable 3–1 victory.

When the Player of the Match award was announced, the team and Warriors supporters erupted, but no one was more excited than the Baloch family.

Uzair accepted the trophy before immediately pointing toward the stand where his nephews were bouncing around as though he had won the World Cup.

The family photographs took forever. His nephews wanted selfies, then individual photos, then reels. Hamza and Rizwan stood a short distance away, monitoring the crowd.

“You know,” Rizwan said.  “You are smiling a lot more.”

Hamza's eyes drifted toward Uzair, who was laughing with his nephews.

“And?”

Then Rizwan started humming. Hamza recognised the tune instantly. He looked skyward and closed his eyes.

“No.”

Rizwan's grin widened.

“Oh yes.”

“Don't.”

The warning in Hamza's voice was good enough to dissuade most people. But Rizwan continued fearlessly.

“Pehla nasha, pehla khumaar... naya pyaar hai, naya intezaar...”

“Nothing is happening,” Hamza replied immediately. Hamza somehow looked both defensive and annoyed.

“He is a client.”

The singing stopped, for exactly one second. Then Rizwan turned to look at him.

 “A client on whose back your hand has been since leaving the stadium.”

“Security.”

“A client whose location you check every ten seconds.”

“Security.”

“A client you keep looking at.”

“That is literally our job.” Hamza shot back

Rizwan's grin became positively demonic.

“Not the way you are staring.”

The singing resumed immediately.

“Once this assignment is done, I am going to run you over with my jeep.”

“That wasn't even a denial.”

“It absolutely was.”

“No,” Rizwan replied solemnly. “A proper denial would have been, ‘I don't like him.’”

Silence.

Hamza simply kicked Rizwan as hard as he could and smiled a little more when he heard Rizwan yelp.

The attack happened less than 5 minutes later.

The family was making their way toward the secured parking entrance through a crowded VIP exit corridor packed with stadium officials, sponsors and departing guests. Their security detail stayed close. That’s when a man broke away from a group of departing spectators.

At first glance, he looked harmless. Then Hamza noticed the way he moved. The man's movements were purposeful. He seemed focused, his eyes glued to the Baloch family with an emptiness that concealed abject cruelty.

“Uzair!” Hamza yelled.

The warning came just as the man got closer. The attacker lunged, and Hamza’s eyes caught the metallic glint of a knife. Hamza reacted instantly, shoving Uzair backwards with enough force to send him stumbling.

Rizwan moved at the same time. The attacker scarcely managed a second step before Rizwan slammed into him from the side. The man hit the ground hard, security swarmed, cops at the stadium moved in and within seconds, it was over. The attacker was restrained.

The family was safe, but Naieem and Faizal were terrified. Ulfat looked pale, but she held her chin high, refusing to let her fear show. Rehman, on the other hand had rage and worry battling across his face. His one arm remained wrapped around Ulfat while the boys stood pressed against their parents. Every few minutes, his brother's gaze drifted toward Uzair as if checking he was still there.

Much later, Hamza would learn that the attacker had been nobody important. Not a professional. Just a cheap thug willing to hurt someone for money, another pawn in Arshad Pappu’s vile games. By sunrise, the entire incident had disappeared. There were no media leaks. No statements were issued. Officially, nothing had happened in Delhi. Unofficially, everyone involved knew things had changed.

The drive back to the hotel was tense. Uzair sat quietly in the back seat, replaying the attack over and over in his head. Across from him, Hamza spent the entire journey coordinating additional security, his expression unreadable.

By the time they reached the hotel, Uzair felt drained. The walk to his room was slow. His legs worked, but the rest of him felt stuck somewhere back in that parking lot. The moment the door closed behind them, he turned to Hamza.

"I don't..." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know what to do with this."

For a second, Hamza simply looked at him. Then he stepped closer.

"Uzair..." Hamza said softly.

Hamza's hand settled against the side of his neck. The warmth of his large hand against Uzair’s pulse, it was the only thing keeping him steady. Hamza's thumb slowly brushed against his skin, it calmed his racing thoughts but did nothing for his heart that was beating louder.

"Look at me." Uzair did and was met with green eyes that held certainty and strength. "It's over," Hamza said quietly. "You are safe, your family is safe, we are okay."

Hamza's fingers drifted through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead before his hand settled at the back of his neck again.

It was a simple gesture that was comforting, intimate and probably entirely inappropriate. But neither of them moved away. For the first time since the attack, Uzair felt like he could breathe.

And for the first time that evening, Hamza looked less like a bodyguard and more like a man trying very hard not to reach for the man who he cared about.

The trip to their next fixture was far quieter than the journey to Delhi had been. Everyone in the Kerala Warriors camp knew what had happened, even if the outside world didn't. The coaches checked in regularly, the captain made sure nobody was carrying the burden alone, and the team psychologist quietly got to work. Nobody treated Uzair differently, but there was a shared understanding that things had changed.

In the meantime, Uzair was getting nowhere in his mission to annoy Hamza into revealing his real name.

The problem was that Hamza possessed the patience of a saint and the stubbornness of a mule.

" Jusveer?"

"No."

"Jasroop?"

"No."

Since Uzair had recruited the squad too, they had started participating as well.

They were gathered in the tactical room before training when someone from the back called out:

"Jaspreet?"

"Bumrah!" someone else called out

Several heads turned, Uzair looked incredulously at the player who said that .

"No, Einstein. We are trying to figure out Hamza's real name."

"Jazzveer?"

“That's the worst one so far" Hamza quipped. “I will not give up you Pehelwan-e-Anonymous” Uzair said.  

Their next opponents, Northeast Highlanders, were one of the toughest teams in the league. Training intensity increased immediately. Sessions ran longer, video analysis became more detailed, and every player pushed harder than usual.

The match itself was frustrating. The Warriors dominated possession, the Highlanders defended like their lives depended on it, and neither side could find a winner. When the final whistle blew at 1-1, both teams looked exhausted.

The Warriors looked annoyed. Nobody was happy with a draw. Especially Uzair. The draw had left Uzair in a foul mood. He was still muttering about missed chances as he made his way back toward the team bus.

"It wasn't that bad," Hamza said.

"We dropped points."

"You didn't lose."

"We didn't win either."

Things did not look good for the team’s psyche.

The next week was what Uzair privately referred to as Hell Week. Their next fixture was against Calcutta Legends FC—the defending champions and Kerala Warriors' biggest rivals.

Nobody needed reminding what was at stake and the Legends had beaten them in two finals. Two seasons of coming painfully close only to watch another team lift the trophy.

Normally, the Warriors would have arrived hungry, ready for a fight. This time they arrived frustrated. The draw against Northeast Highlanders still sat badly with the squad. The coaches increased the intensity in training, players pushed harder while tempers ran shorter. Every tactical session felt a little more urgent than usual.

The match against Calcutta Legends was everything people expected, it was fast, physical and fiercely contested. Kerala Warriors threw everything forward, but the defending champions matched them blow for blow. By the final whistle, the scoreboard read 2–1. Calcutta Legends had won, and for the first time that season, Kerala Warriors tasted defeat. The silence in the visitors' dressing room afterwards was brutal. Nobody yelled, nobody argued. A shouting match would have been easier. Instead, players sat staring at the floor, replaying moments they wished they could have back.

Uzair sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. The draw against Northeast and now the loss in Kolkata. For the first time all season, it felt like Kerala Warriors were chasing rather than leading. Five points dropped in two matches. What had once seemed like a comfortable march toward the title suddenly felt uncertain.

The coach allowed the silence in the dressing room to linger, long enough for every player to sit with the disappointment. Then he stood.

"I hope you are hurting."

Several heads snapped up. The coach wasn't angry, and somehow that made his words hit even harder.

"I hope every single one of you is hurting right now. Because if this doesn't hurt, then you are in the wrong profession."

He paused before continuing.

"You know what disappoints me? It's not the result. We lost to a good team. That happens….What disappoints me is that half of you spent the match worrying about losing instead of trying to win."

The words felt like punches.

"Your fear was visible, you hesitated, you doubted yourselves. And Calcutta Legends could smell it."

The room stayed silent because he was right.

"We are Kerala Warriors. We didn't get here by playing safe. Two bad matches that's all this is. Unless you decide it's more, the season isn't gone, the trophy isn't gone. But if you keep feeling sorry for yourselves, it will be." Coach Almeida looked them straight in the eyes. 

"Take tonight…be angry…be frustrated....cry it out …hate the result."

Then he jabbed a finger toward the floor. "But tomorrow morning, I want the team that made the rest of this league terrified to play us."

For the first time since the final whistle, something shifted, it was not optimism, not confidence. Something harder, it was determination, it was faith.

The team returned to the hotel exhausted. Most of the squad disappeared straight to their rooms. Uzair just wanted a shower and several hours of uninterrupted sulking. Unfortunately, life had other plans. He had barely crossed the lobby when someone stepped into his path.

A reporter, he looked young and persistent and was somehow inside a hotel he definitely wasn't supposed to be in.

"Uzair! Just a few questions."

"No comment."

"Just one minute."

"No comment."

"What happened out there tonight? Another disappointing result against Calcutta Legends…"

"No comment."

The reporter's eyes sharpened, he sensed weakness, he sensed an opening.

"Fans are starting to question your skills, your leadership. Some critics say your temper is becoming a liability."

Hamza immediately stepped between them. "That’s enough, he said no comment, you need to leave."

Hamza guided Uzair toward the lift while calling security. But the reporter pushed harder.

"Do you think your anger on the field comes from losing your parents so young?"

Uzair stopped. The lobby suddenly felt too quiet, too bright. The reporter saw the reaction and went in for the kill.

"Or does it come from your brother? He was a gangster. Is that where the violent streak comes from?"

Something inside Uzair locked up. The lobby disappeared, the sounds disappeared. All he could hear was blood rushing in his ears.

"After tonight's match, what can fans even expect from you?"

Uzair went still, not angry, not shouting, he just froze. Hamza knew something was wrong immediately.

One second, he was speaking with hotel security, the next he was moving.

"Get out or I will throw you out myself…NOW." The rage in his voice was unmistakable

The reporter tried to protest. Hamza didn't even look at him, he looked at the approaching security.

"Remove him before I put him down like the mutt he is." Hamza growled.

Several security personnel moved in instantly. The reporter was escorted away, still attempting to shout questions over his shoulder. Hamza ignored him, his attention was entirely on Uzair. The man hadn't moved, hadn't spoken.

His breathing had become shallow, rapid and just wrong.

"Uzair."

No response.

Hamza stepped closer. The signs clicked into place immediately, not shock, not anger. It was panic.

"Come on."

Hamza placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and grounding. Hamza got him into the lift before anyone else could notice. The entire ride passed in silence.

And Hamza suddenly had a feeling the loss against Calcutta Legends was the least of their problems tonight. By the time they reached Uzair's room, his hands were shaking. The panic attack was only just beginning.

Uzair was struggling to breathe. Not physically, logically, he knew he was getting enough air, but his lungs disagreed. The walls felt too close…his chest felt too tight. Every question the reporter had asked seemed to echo inside his head.

His parents…his brother…his failures…the match…everything. Hamza locked the hotel room door behind them and immediately turned toward him.

"Uzair."

Uzair slumped down the wall and stared at the carpet like it held the answers to the universe.

His hands were shaking. His breathing was getting worse.

"Hey. Look at me."

Uzair couldn't, the walls were closing in. The panic was swallowing him whole. A hand settled gently over his, warm and steady.

"Look at me."

This time Uzair managed it, green eyes met his.

"Good, that's it, look at me. You are in your hotel room. You are safe" Hamza squeezed his hand.

The room remained silent except for Uzair's uneven breathing. Hamza stayed close, sitting right beside him, one hand holding his hand and the other slowly kneading the nape of his neck. This gave Uzair something to focus on instead of the chaos in his own head.

"Stay with me. I am here, and I am not going anywhere, just breathe."

The words were soft, not an order, just a promise.

Hamza talked quietly the entire time. Not about the reporter, not about football, not about anything important. Just enough words to keep Uzair anchored. Whenever his breathing started to spiral again, Hamza gave him something else to focus on.

"Tell me what colour the curtains are."

"Blue."

"Good. And the lamp?"

Uzair blinked.

"White."

"That's it."

He was patient, steady and unmoving. Like there was nowhere else in the world he needed to be. Eventually, the worst of it began to loosen its grip, it didn't disappear all at once. It retreated in pieces. His breathing slowed, dizziness faded. The crushing pressure inside his chest eased. The trembling lingered longest, leaving his muscles weak and exhausted. Neither of them had noticed when their fingers had become intertwined. Or perhaps they had, but neither seemed willing to let go. Hamza studied him for a moment, making sure he was truly back.

Then Hamza spoke up, his voice was gentle "Can I offer you something?"

"What?"

"Mera asli naam jaanana chaoge?"

The words landed between them. For a second, neither moved.

"Haan." Uzair answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.

Hamza looked down briefly before meeting his eyes again.

"Jaskirat."

Silence settled over the room. Uzair repeated it carefully.

"Jaskirat." The name left his lips softly, almost reverently, like something precious, like a prayer.

Hamza closed his eyes, letting Uzair’s voice wash over him. He had heard his own name thousands of times. From family, friends, colleagues, commanders, clients, but never like that. Never as though it meant something more than what it was…just a name. Never as though it was being cherished.

For one impossible moment, the world narrowed to the sound of Uzair saying it.

Neither of them noticed how Uzair was melded into Jaskirat’s side. Neither acknowledged the fingers still threaded together.

"Jaskirat," Uzair whispered again. And Hamza thought, absurdly, how beautiful it would be to hear Uzair say his name for the rest of his life.

A military AU with second chance romance between ex lovers turned enemies Alpha Major Jaskirat Singh Rangi and Omega Scientist Uzair Baloch

Or

An arranged marriage, a heartbroken omega, and an alpha who realizes his feelings far too late.

Chapter 10 – The Bodyguard and the Bhondu

Uzair Baloch has had a sleepless night. He has a problem. The problem has a name and an attitude to go with it. Hamza Ali Mazari had, at some point, stopped being his pesky, competent, and hot bodyguard. Now he was the guy who had thrown Uzair’s whole world into a spin cycle that had left him completely wrung out.

His bodyguard was not straight.

He was attracted to his bodyguard.

Was his bodyguard attracted to him?

Right now, his inner monologue was spiralling out of control, and Hamza was not really helping. How dare he just stand there all protective, staring intensely, taking care of everything and making Uzair feel… things.

I hate him, Uzair declared internally. A tiny voice in his head whispered, no you don’t. Uzair told the voice to shut the hell up.

Their travel schedule had been relentless and merciless. Flights blurred into hotel corridors, hotel corridors blurred into stadium tunnels, and somewhere between intense training, recovery sessions, tactical meetings, and media obligations, Hamza had adapted to football life remarkably well. All this while goading Uzair to take breaks, drink water and glaring at anyone who looked at him funny

Hamza sat through strategy sessions like he was back in the army evaluating operation plans. He memorized player rotations. He knew which exits to secure in every stadium, which fans were harmless, and which journalists pushed too far. Somehow, he had even become useful to the team.

Uzair hated that, actually no. He hated that everyone else liked him too. He wondered if sticking out his tongue and dragging Hamza away while screaming “he is my bodyguard, get your own” would be too childish.

Currently, Uzair was glaring from the back seat of the team bus while Mateo happily discussed protein intake with Hamza like they were childhood friends.

And Hamza looked completely at home. The man who usually carried himself like he expected gunfire at any moment was sitting in black joggers and a shirt that showed off his impressive shoulders, listening to Mateo’s attempt at English with actual patience.

His phone buzzing gave him the distraction he needed.

It was Naieem video calling. Uzair accepted instantly.

“Hi chachu! You were amazing in the Mumbai match!”

“Thank you, chotte.”

“How are you?”

“I am doing okay.”

“How is Hamza bhai?”

“He is busy auditioning for dictatorship roles.”

Naieem giggled. “Come on, chachu… he is nice.”

Uzair feigned mock betrayal. “You little traitor. You are my blood, you should be on my side.”

Naieem just laughed.

They spoke for a bit, and it really put Uzair’s heart at ease. As he smiled out the window, he did not notice the man watching him from across the bus.

Hamza’s eyes had gone soft at the sight of Uzair’s genuine smile.

They arrived to their Bengaluru hotel and the first thing that greeted them was the coach yelling

“Phones away!” Coach barked from the front of the bus. Recovery session downstairs in thirty minutes. Nobody disappears.”

 “Coach, respectfully, this schedule violates human rights”. Their goalie Kwame said

“It would violate your rights extra if you let more goals slip past you,” Coach replied without looking at him.

Once the players started getting off the bus the atmosphere shifted. Players straightened instinctively, staff started gathering bags, security moved first.

Hamza was already on his feet. One second he had been sitting relaxed in his seat, the next he was alert, scanning exits and entrances with sharp military precision Uzair had grown disturbingly accustomed to.

“Stay close,” Hamza said automatically.

Uzair stared at him. There was absolutely no reason for two simple words to do whatever that did to his feel so personal.

“I know how security works,” Uzair muttered.

Hamza gave him a look. “Can’t let you out of my sight… what if you give me a slip again…for a goddamned shawarma”

“In my defence, the shawarma was excellent.”

Hamza looked at him for a long moment before shaking his head slowly. “You are incorrigible

Uzair grinned despite himself and for one brief second, Hamza smiled back fully.

By evening, the team was exhausted and half-listening through the tactical meeting. Coach warned them not to underestimate their next opponents, emphasizing discipline, possession, and avoiding unnecessary cards. Every time he mentioned reckless decisions, the coach looked directly at Uzair.

Uzair looked offended. “Why are you all staring at me?”

“Because,” Vitor said dryly, “you believe tactical discipline is a suggestion.”

“It IS a suggestion.”

Coach threw a marker at him and Uzair caught it one-handed with a grin.

Hamza watched silently, arms folded, clearly unimpressed by Uzair’s growing cockiness. For some reason, Hamza’s quiet disapproval irritated Uzair far more than Coach’s lectures ever did, which only made him more defensive.

Match day transformed the team. The locker room was louder, filled with nervous energy and pre-game rituals. Hamza knew that before every battle, all soldiers have their own superstitions, and sportsmen are no different. Vitor spoke to his wife and kids, Sameer prayed, some of the other players listened to music, while Uzair became quieter. By the time they entered the stadium, his entire posture had changed.

Hamza noticed Uzair stood at the front of the line, jaw set, eyes fixed on the field ahead while the roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium walls. Hamza understood why people followed him so easily. He looked like he would definitely follow you to your battles.

Kerala Warriors took over the match and played like the beasts they were. Uzair played like he had something to prove. As centre forward, he stayed high up the pitch, constantly forcing defenders backwards with sharp runs and dangerous positioning. Every time the ball reached him, the entire stadium seemed to lean forward expectantly. And Uzair did not disappoint.  He not only played well but put up quite the show.

Hamza shook his head. The man is a good player but cocky as hell.  Unfortunately, the idiot was good enough to get away with it.

Midway through the first half, Uzair controlled a long pass perfectly on his chest, turned past his marker and buried the shot cleanly into the bottom corner. Uzair spread his arms slightly as the crowd roared his name, wearing the kind of smug expression that suggested he had expected nothing less.

Hamza hated the way admiration kept creeping in when he wasn’t looking. Not just for Uzair’s skill, but for Uzair himself. He was getting under his skin, and worse, Hamza didn’t know what to do with that feeling.

Their next match was against yet another formidable opponent: Jamshedpur Steel FC. It started well, and by the twentieth minute, Kerala Warriors were already dominating the match. Uzair was playing like a man possessed. He pressed aggressively, made dangerous runs behind the defensive line, and spent an unreasonable amount of time embarrassing defenders one-on-one.

Hamza, watching from the side-lines, already knew this was heading somewhere stupid. Jamshedpur’s defenders adapted quickly. If they could not outplay Uzair, they would simply anger him into self-destruction. Football is a sport that could turn ugly pretty fast. This was clearly visible in the shoves, tackles, and constant trash talk.

When one of the opposing team players got too close for comfort, Uzair turned immediately.

“Keep up or stop fouling.”

The exchange quickly devolved into a verbal spat that was turning personal.

The referee called a foul against Uzair after a rough challenge near midfield. The whistle blew instantly.

Yellow card.

Uzair only scoffed and jogged away with that same arrogant expression still on his face. Kerala eventually won 2-0 but locker room afterwards was tense.

“You lost your head out there,” Coach yelled. “This isn’t street football.”

“We won,” Uzair replied coldly.

“Because the rest of the team cleaned up after your ego.”

Silence dropped heavily across the room. Uzair’s expression hardened instantly. Before anyone could say another word, he walked out. Hamza followed him without hesitation.

Hamza found Uzair outside the stadium near the service corridor, pacing angrily while scrolling through his phone like he was looking for someone new to fight.

“You going to insult the referee online too?” Hamza asked calmly.

Uzair looked up sharply. “Oh good. Another lecture.”

“You earned one.”

Uzair laughed bitterly. “Right. Because apparently I singlehandedly destroyed the sport of football today.”

“That’s not what Coach said.”

“That’s what he sounded like.”

Hamza crossed his arms. “You got brash and stopped playing for the team.”

“I scored last match.”

“And this match you spent half the game trying to prove a point instead of playing.”

Uzair’s jaw tightened immediately. “You think I don’t know how to play football?”

“I think you play like every mistake is a personal insult.”

Uzair looked away, rubbing his hand over his face and muttered, “If I stop proving myself for one second, people start doubting me.”

Uzair laughed bitterly “One bad game, and suddenly everyone remembers every stupid controversy, every suspension, every headline. I am tired of being treated like I am one mistake away from ruining everything. And if that wasn’t enough, I literally have people trying to kill me. Isn’t that why you are here? How is that for a life?”

The anger had cracked just enough for exhaustion, fear and stress to show underneath.

 “I know I got carried away,” Uzair said roughly. “I know. But when I am on the field it’s like…” He exhaled sharply. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Hamza studied him quietly for a long moment before speaking. “You don’t always have to fight people to prove you belong there. You DO belong here, every match, every game speaks for you.

Uzair let out a humourless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

“No,” Hamza replied. “Not easy.”

Then Hamza stepped closer.

“And for the rest of it...” His voice lowered. “The threats, the people after you…all of it …as long as I am here,” Hamza said firmly, “nothing is going to happen to you.”

The certainty in his voice was terrifying. There was no hesitation, no empty reassurance.

“I promise, Uzair…I promise” Hamza said, his green eyes shining alluding to protection and something more.

Whatever Uzair wanted to say died in his throat.

Hamza had just called him Uzair, not Mr. Baloch, Uzair…just Uzair.

It was such a small thing, ridiculously small, and yet hearing his own name in Hamza’s voice sent something warm unfurling through his chest. Uzair was suddenly, painfully aware of every emotion battling inside him, all tangled together too tightly for him to examine properly right now. He was not ready for that conversation with himself. But God. He really needed Hamza to say his name again.

“You called me Uzair,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t want that?” Hamza asked in a measured tone.

“No. I mean yes. No, that's not what I meant.” Uzair dragged a hand through his hair. “I mean... I want you to call me Uzair.”

For a second, neither of them moved, Hamza stared at him. Not because of what he said. But because of how he said it. Something warm settled low in Hamza's chest before he could stop

Hamza smiled slightly. “And why would I do that when you have a whole collection of names for me and none of them have anything to do with my actual name?”

This was the opening Uzair needed, because he wasn’t ready to face the real emotions, not yet

“Oh come on… just because I called you Miyan Muscle Mania once…”

“You never called me that.”

“Well, now I did,” he replied triumphantly.

Hearing Uzair ask for the professional distance to disappear, even in something as small as a name, felt strangely intimate, and he liked it.

They both knew what they were doing. They just wondered, each in their own way, how long this could go on.

There is always that one game that surprises you, and for Uzair, the match in Punjab became exactly that but it wasn’t the match that gave him surprises and shocks.

Punjab had always been one of his favourite places to visit. He loved the sheer life of the state; the loud laughter, the food, the music blasting from random speakers, the warmth of people who treated complete strangers like long-lost relatives. Punjab never believed in moderation.

But for Hamza, this was more than just another away game. Because here, he was Jaskirat Singh Rangi. This was home, more specifically, Pathankot. The closer they got to Ludhiana, where they were playing, the more Uzair noticed tiny changes in him. His usual stiff posture loosened slightly. He smiled more easily, his Punjabi accent more noticeable and he looked… lighter somehow.

“Who are you,” Arjun demanded, “and what have you done with the real Hamza?”

“Bola.. Ghunga Bola” Rahul said dramatically. “The most silent player of the team is asking you questions”

Hamza looked unimpressed. “I can go back to glaring at everyone.”

“That would actually comfort us,” One of the players in back of the bus admitted honestly.

Uzair stayed quiet, watching Hamza from across the aisle. Punjab looked good on him and that realization was both unnecessary and bothered him. The day before match, Hamza walked into the hotel lounge with a secret smile.  Which should have warned Uzair that the man was planning something, something diabolical.

The betrayal came later. Uzair walked into the tactical room and immediately froze.

Hamza Ali Mazari was sitting peacefully on the chair wearing a Punjab FC jersey. The Players who noticed fell silent for one glorious second.

Uzair gaped at him in genuine horror. His expression was scandalized, and he was pointing accusingly across the room like Hamza had committed an unforgivable crime.

“What the hell is THAT?” Uzair screeched.

Hamza looked down at himself calmly. “A jersey.”

“You traitor.”

“I am literally from Punjab.”

“How dare you.”

Rahul and Karan were holding on to each other and laughing.

Uzair clutched his chest dramatically. “Et tu, Brutus?”

“I don’t think you are using that correctly,” Vitor wheezed.

“I am being emotionally stabbed by my own bodyguard.” Uzair wailed.

Hamza looked entirely unrepentant. “You will survive.”

“No I wont you Bewafa Bench-press Beast.”

“We will see” he said with a smirk

Hamza should have felt guilty. Instead, he found Uzair's dramatic outrage hilarious. For reasons Hamza did not care to examine too closely, he found the entire thing ridiculously endearing.

The match itself was intense. Punjab pressed aggressively early on, feeding off the home crowd while Kerala struggled to settle into rhythm. But once Kerala’s midfield regained control, the game opened up. Uzair played smart this time. No reckless ego battles. Just sharp movement, clean passing, and dangerous runs behind the defensive line.

Punjab pushed hard for an equalizer late into the game, but Kerala held firm and closed the match out 2–1.

As the final whistle blew, Uzair turned toward Hamza near the side-lines wearing the most unbearably smug expression imaginable.

Post-match celebrations dragged late into the evening. Between media duties, sponsor appearances, and fans trying to take blurry selfies with exhausted footballers, the entire team looked seconds away from collapsing. Uzair had barely escaped another interview when he disappeared toward the hotel washrooms, with Hamza following automatically a few steps behind like always.

Inside, while waiting for Uzair, Hamza splashed cold water on his face before looking up into the mirror and freezing when he heard a familiar voice.

“Ghar ki yaad nahi aayi tujhe, Jassi?”

Hamza turned immediately. His best friend turned brother-in-law Gurbaaz Singh otherwise known as Pinda, stood in the doorway, a visitor's pass hanging from his neck and a smile on his face that felt like home.

“Pinda.”

The two men hugged tightly, Hamza looking at his best friend whom he hadn’t seen in months.

“Tu itthe kiven?”

“Office da chakkar si, yaar. Company ne match da vi jugaad kar ditta.”

Gurbaaz narrowed his eyes at him.

“Par tujhe kya pata hoga? Thoda sa contact mein rehta toh pata lag jaata, Jassi.”

Uzair walked out of one of the stalls halfway through the conversation and immediately slowed.

“Jassi?” Uzair repeated slowly. “Yeh Jassi kaun hai?”

Hamza looked at him, his eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline.

“Did you not read my file?” he asked.

“No... why would I do that?” Uzair replied, tilting his head.

Considering he had thrown a spectacular tantrum over being assigned Hamza in the first place, it probably would have been a sensible thing to do. Hamza, however, didn't need to know that.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe to learn something about the guy who's attached to you twenty-four seven?” Hamza fired back sarcastically.

“Attached?” Uzair looked mildly alarmed. “Try the words stalking or being Mr. Bossy Brawny Dictator.”

Gurbaaz interrupted and introduced himself before Jaskirat and Uzair could continue verbally sparring.

Gurbaaz rolled his eyes. “Waheguru. Tum dono aise hi ho?”

Then he turned to Uzair and held out a hand.

“Gurbaaz. Iska dost aur jija.”

Uzair took his hand and smiled.

“Uzair. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Gurbaaz said.

“Waise,” Gurbaaz continued cheerfully, “fantastic match. Painful for Punjab, but very entertaining.”

Uzair nodded graciously. “Thank you. I enjoy causing emotional damage professionally.”

Uzair’s phone rang before he could continue interrogating them. Muttering dark threats about media obligations, he stepped aside to answer it.

The second he walked away, Gurbaaz watched him for a moment before leaning toward Hamza.

“He seems nice. And he’s an incredible player,” he said. “Lekin thoda bhondu sa lagta hai.”

“Oye,” Hamza warned before he could stop himself.

Gurbaaz raised a hand in a placating gesture.

Hamza glanced toward Uzair, who was now arguing passionately with someone on the phone while gesturing as though he were defending himself in court.

A quiet laugh escaped him. Yes, he thought, he can be a bit of a bhondu sometimes.

But he is my bhondu.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 9 – Matches, Mayhem and Meltdowns

The departure day arrived without fanfare, and it was far more easy-going than Hamza had imagined. While he stayed busy double checking everything, Uzair was mentally steeling himself for the days ahead.

Uzair hugged his Bhai, Bhabhi, and the kids, they promised to come watch a few of his matches soon. Rehman’s security team whom Rizwan had nicknamed the elite goon squad gave him a goodbye filled with humour, teasing, and heartfelt wishes.

Hamza turned to Rizwan.

“Will my backup be here soon?”

“Yes, they are sending Saurabh.”

“He’s good.”

“Yeah, but he’s not you.”

“No one is.”

“Wow… how do you even walk around with a head that big?”

After one final pep talk and a quick bro hug, Hamza got into the vehicle with Uzair. They reached the training ground, where the players changed into their club-branded travel gear before boarding the bus to the airport.

Hamza had been cleared by the club and given access to most player and staff areas during travel, enough to stay close to Uzair without interfering with team operations. The moment he stepped onto the bus, instinct took over. He picked a seat with the clearest view of both exits and settled into silent observation for the rest of the ride.

The team was a boisterous bunch. In typical Premier League fashion, it was a mix of local and foreign players. In the days Hamza had spent observing the team and reading the files they had on each player, he had come to one conclusion: this was a professional football team made up of exceptional athletes powered entirely by talent, ambition, passion for football and questionable levels of maturity.

Their captain, Vitor Carvalho, the centre-back and defensive wall of the team, ran the squad less like the powerhouse player he was and more like an exhausted father of eight. This was made significantly more difficult by Sameer Nair, their defensive midfielder, who treated every serious conversation like open mic night. Arjun Menon, the central midfielder and tactical backbone of the side, was the only functioning adult in midfield, while wingers Rahul Bedi and Karan Sethi appeared to share a single brain cell dedicated entirely to hairstyles, shoes, and football.

Mateo Costa, the attacking left-back, believed defending was not optional both on and off the field, Dani Reyes, the attacking midfielder, communicated exclusively through dramatic hand gestures and aggressively offended Spanish, and Kwame Mensah, their powerhouse goalkeeper, attempted to solve every conflict with food and hugs.

And in the middle of all this stood Uzair Jan Baloch; the team’s centre-forward, wholesale dealer of chaos, and Hamza’s very own professional menace.

Somehow, against all odds, they played beautiful football together. Off the field, however, Hamza was convinced that given enough freedom, they would immediately devolve into schoolboys fuelled by energy drinks and adult money.

The airport and subsequent travel were largely uneventful, except for Hamza and the team having to wait longer than expected for security clearance. Once they landed, Hamza made sure his room was assigned right next to Uzair’s.

With only two days left before their first match against Goa, a formidable side, the boys were buzzing with energy. They were wired, restless, and desperately needed to be kept in line. Their coach, who reminded Hamza of his instructors back at the NDA, handled it expertly by putting the fear of God into them. No, scratch that, he put the fear of coach in them. Hamza had attended enough of their practice matches by now to understand their dynamics. He had seen them play, seen them fool around, seen them fight and recover together. This was a solid team.

Too bad Hamza preferred the Punjab team. Well, what did they expect? The man’s name is Jaskirat Singh Rangi. You couldn’t exactly take the Punjab out of him.

He couldn’t wait for Uzair to find that one out!

The day of the first match with Goa Titans arrived quickly. Goa has a passionate football audience, and the stadium was packed. The home crowd looked ready to celebrate a victory for their state. Goa pressed aggressively, forcing Kerala deep into their own half and leaving Uzair isolated up front. Kerala finally settled after halftime. Arjun took control in midfield, Sameer began disrupting attacks, and the game slowly opened up. By the final minutes, the score sat at 2–2. Then Goa made one final move which Vitor crushed with a massive clearance toward midfield, and Uzair exploded forward instantly slipping past two defender and burying the ball into the bottom corner.

3–2.

The stadium fell into stunned silence before erupting into scattered noise. The small pocket of Kerala supporters cheered as loudly as they possibly could. Kerala’s bench emptied onto the pitch while screaming teammates piled on Uzair before he could even process the winning goal.

And yet, even from under the chaos, his eyes immediately searched the side-lines for Hamza.

Did you see me?

Hamza gave a small nod, the faintest smile touching his face. I never took my eyes off you

The atmosphere in the dressing room was electric. Music blasted from the speaker while water bottles and towels flew in every direction. Rahul and Karan were dancing terribly on a bench, Kwame was trying to hug everyone in sight. Even Vitor, despite repeatedly yelling for everyone to calm down, couldn’t fully hide the grin on his face. Uzair sat in the middle of it all, drenched in sweat and triumph.

The post-match interviews were far calmer. Coach Almeida shut down any talk of statements immediately. “It is one match, three points, nothing more,” he said firmly.  “We celebrate for one night, then we focus on recovery and the next game.” Beside him, captain Vitor Carvalho spoke with the composure of a man used to carrying responsibility.

By the next morning, the high of victory had already begun fading beneath ice baths, sore muscles, and Coach Almeida’s sharp reminders that the league table did not care about dramatic winners. The boys still carried the energy of the Goa victory, but professional football moved too quickly to let anyone hold on to anything. Another match, another flight, another stadium already waited for them.

Hyderabad was a whole different ball game, both literally and figuratively. The team had a lot to prove. Namely, that their first victory wasn’t just chance or last-minute luck. They needed to show consistency, form, and cohesion. Which, admittedly, wasn’t a problem on the field. On the field, they were a force of nature. Off the field, however, was an entirely different story.

Because that day, on the day of their match with Hyderabad, Rahul and Karan, whom Hamza had privately started referring to as Tweedledee and Tweedledumb, had discovered the “Sexy Hairy Daddy” edits on Instagram. Naturally, they had shared them in the team group chat with all the delight and maturity of children discovering explosives. Uzair, traitor that he was, had proceeded to contribute an alarming personal collection of reels to the cause.

The prospect of mass murder had never looked this tempting to Hamza.

It was breakfast time when he walked up to Uzair, who was completely engrossed in his phone.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hamza asked with barely concealed irritation.

Uzair looked up with absolutely no remorse. “Ahhh… not nearly enough. Did you know there’s an entire fan page dedicated to you?”

“…”

Sameer appeared beside Hamza and casually threw an arm around his shoulders. “Bhai, did you know people are asking you for hair care tips?”

“You gotta share them with us,” Karan added from somewhere nearby while aggressively destroying his breakfast.

“He doesn’t have hair tips,” Uzair scoffed. “He probably glares his hair into submission.”

Hamza leaned closer to him so only Uzair could hear, his deep, gruff voice dropping lower as he spoke.

“And what exactly would you know about submission?” Hamza knew he was playing a dangerous game, but Uzair had baited him into it and the opportunity had been far too perfect to ignore.

Uzair promptly felt his face heat up

“Well, people are comparing him to Thor,” Rahul said while gulping down his breakfast.

“More like Thor from Chor Bazaar,” Uzair muttered immediately, his face still suspiciously red.

Hamza tilted his head slightly. “Thor from Chor Bazaar?”

Uzair looked immensely pleased with himself. “Yes. Very accurate, actually.”

Hamza considered that for a moment before giving a slow nod. “Sounds like you shop there often.”

Hamza walked away with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had once again won a verbal spar he technically never started while Uzair pouted.

Hyderabad should have felt like momentum. Instead, by the end of the match, Uzair felt exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with football.

The game had been ugly from start to finish. Hyderabad Storm was a team that hunted him relentlessly, turned every move into a wrestling match, and gave him barely a second on the ball all night. By the second half, frustration had already started creeping into his game. Passes went astray and every failed chance only made him push harder.

Kerala still managed to grind out a narrow 1–0 victory thanks to Vitor, but the dressing room afterward lacked the chaos and excitement of Goa. Everyone looked drained and they knew why.

Coach Almeida certainly didn’t sound drained, he sounded mad.

“You were on the field for 95 minutes and you played like idiots for all of those 95 minutes,” he said flatly before walking out.

None of the players had any defence against that. Once they were back in their hotel rooms, Uzair sent a text to Hamza.

“Going outside for a bit, in the garden”.

The message appeared on Hamza’s screen seconds later. Hamza followed him out but did not approach him, simply monitored him from afar where he could still see him. He understood the difference between watching over someone and crowding them and right now Uzair needed space.

About fifteen minutes later, Hamza stepped outside himself. He found Uzair near the back of the hotel grounds, sitting alone on a bench in the empty garden. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, the orange glow briefly lighting his face every time he took a drag.

Uzair glanced sideways as Hamza approached.

“You took your time.”

“You looked like you wanted to be alone.”

“That never stopped you before.”

Hamza hummed softly as he sat beside him instead of speaking further.

Uzair took another slow drag before exhaling toward the night sky.

“I played badly today.”

“You were frustrated.”

“That doesn’t help anyone win.”

Hamza didn’t argue with that.

“I hate matches like this,” he admitted eventually. “Everything feels heavy. Every touch, every decision feels questionable… meanwhile everyone expects you to pull something magical out of nowhere.”

Hamza understood exactly what he meant. One good performance and suddenly people stopped seeing the player. They only saw the moments, and when brilliance isn’t repeated, their talent, performance and form is called into question. Hamza bumped his shoulder lightly against Uzair’s.

“You will play better next match.”

“You sound very sure for someone who watched whatever that was today.”

“I have seen you do worse.” “That’s your motivational speech? Please keep your day job of being Big Bossy Grumpzilla,” Uzair muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

Silence settled again after that, but unlike earlier, it no longer felt heavy.

Uzair had always preferred being alone when his thoughts became too loud. Most people filled silence with questions, advice, or reassurances. Hamza did not do that, he simply stood there beside him, quiet and steady, sharing the night without demanding anything from it or anything from him.

And strangely enough, Uzair realized he didn’t mind that at all. The next match was in Mumbai. For Hamza, it was home. Not the home he had been born into, not the fields and mountains of Pathankot, but the one he had built for himself over the years. Mumbai was where he worked, where he lived, where he had learned the city’s moods and rhythms until he became a part of it. The chaotic energy that unnerved him before now offered familiarity and comfort.

For Uzair, though, Mumbai was what he saw through the glamour of after match events and romanticism of Bollywood. Yet he knew there was something about the city that spoke directly to his soul while refusing to let him experience any of it properly.

“I never get to do anything fun here,” Uzair complained as they rode to hotel from the airport. “Every time we come here it’s for a match followed by sponsorship this, media that and some ridiculous luxury party afterward.”

“Bougie,” Arjun commented from the seat ahead.

“Whatever,” Uzair muttered dismissively. “I just want to sit at Marine Drive and smoke in peace. Is that really too much to ask?”

“Yes,” Hamza deadpanned instantly. “Because it will get your ass fined and land you in another scandal.”

Uzair huffed but turned toward the window anyway, watching Mumbai blur past outside in streaks of headlights and endless movement. The match in Mumbai turned out to be exactly the kind of night Kerala Warriors needed.

After the exhausting grind of Hyderabad, this match felt alive again. Mumbai Strikers had a strong side and an even stronger crowd. Their supporters were loud from the first whistle, relentless in the way only Mumbai crowds could be, turning every attack into noise and every foul into outrage. But unlike Hyderabad’s suffocating physicality, this game opened up beautifully.

Fast counters, reckless tackles, strong blocks the match was unpredictable and for the first time since Hyderabad, Uzair looked like himself again. He thrived in chaos when it was football chaos instead of mental noise.

By halftime, the score sat at 1–1 and by the seventieth minute, it was somehow 3–2. Kerala eventually sealed the game with a dramatic late goal from Dani Reyes ending the game at 4–2.

The Hyderabad frustration vanished almost instantly beneath adrenaline, exhaustion, and pure relief. The team sprinted across the pitch screaming incoherently, Uzair looked breathless and alive again.

The sponsor event after the Mumbai match was exactly the kind of thing professional athletes secretly hated while pretending to enjoy. It was hosted on the rooftop of some obscenely expensive hotel overlooking the glittering stretch of Mumbai at night. Music drifted through the air, cameras flashed every few seconds, and people in designer clothes wandered around pretending to network while looking for gossip and drama.

The team, meanwhile, were threatened coached into good behavior before being released into a luxury event. They said the right things, shook the right hands, and posed as demanded.

Uzair, however, became instantly distracted the moment he spotted someone near the bar.

“No way,” he breathed.

Hamza glanced over briefly before returning to scanning the room. Uzair looked genuinely excited for the first time all evening.

“Tanisha!” he nearly shouted.

Before Hamza could respond, Uzair was already walking toward her. The woman in question turned just in time to see him approaching and immediately broke into a grin.

“Uzair?” she laughed. “You look like someone dragged you through the whole football field.”

Uzair replied with mock offense, “What are you talking about? I look gorgeous.”

“I am willing to debate that,” she said with a smile as she hugged him.

Tanisha Kapoor was an actress whose work Uzair had followed for years, even before her transition, back when she had still been acting under her dead name. He had always admired how she remained unapologetically herself despite the industry trying to tear her apart every few months for being a trans woman. They had met at an industry event a while back and unexpectedly gotten along well, staying close ever since.

While they talked, Tanisha’s gaze drifted past him toward the other end of the rooftop.

Then she suddenly gasped.

“Oh my God.”

Before he could even react, Tanisha was already moving past him at alarming speed… toward Hamza.

Uzair stared in horror as she reached him and immediately grabbed his face dramatically, and Hamza was smiling. Not the polite, perfunctory smile he wore for appearances, but the honest kind that carried real warmth and affection.

“You are so in trouble,” she declared. “You vanished again.”

Hamza looked entirely unrepentant. “I was working.”

“For six months? You don’t even text back.”

“Sorry, you know how my job gets.”

“That is not normal behavior.”

“It is for me.”

Tanisha rolled her eyes before hugging him tightly anyway while Hamza rested a hand against her back with easy familiarity.

Uzair suddenly felt like someone had dropped a bunch of bricks on his head. Apparently, this man had emotions, but they were locked down like military secrets. Naturally, Uzair said absolutely nothing, mostly because he was stunned.

—

Later that night, as Hamza walked Uzair to his room, Uzair questioned him as soon as they had a moment alone.

“So,” he began carefully. “How do you know Tanisha Kapoor?”

Hamza answered casually. “We dated for a short time.”

Uzair’s soul briefly left his body while his brain rebooted unsuccessfully in the background.

“You dated—an actress … you dated Tanisha Kapoor?”

“Yes, it was a while ago.”

Uzair blinked several times. Now, to his credit, he genuinely was trying to phrase this diplomatically and with sensitivity.

“So… your ex-girlfriend…” he began slowly.

“Yes,” Hamza answered before he could finish.

Uzair hesitated anyway.

“You knew about her transition?”

“I don’t really care about gender,” Hamza said casually. “My girlfriends, boyfriends, their sexual orientation and gender identities… none of that matters as much as the connection I have with them.”

Uzair’s last two functioning brain cells made a desperate run for survival, abandoning him completely as he tried to process Hamza’s answers. Every excuse he made, every wall he built to keep his attraction to hamza at bay was now crumbling fast. Because Hamza was apparently not straight.

Hamza, meanwhile, simply walked away with the composure of a man who had launched a grenade into someone’s carefully constructed reality and felt no regret whatsoever.

Chapter 8 -  Mela, Manhandling and Mild Gay Panic

“This is a mistake,” Hamza said.

There was far too much to do, and only one day left before they had to travel for the tournament. He still had to go over the ground security plans once again, review hotel security details, coordinate with teams across different cities, and make sure every moving part was in place to ensure Uzair stayed safe.

Instead, somehow, he found himself chaperoning two kids and an adult harbinger of chaos to a mela.

A goddamned carnival!

“How did this even happen?” he asked Rizwan as they both casually leaned against the SUV they were taking to the mela.

Rizwan smirked. “He asked with his big brown puppy eyes… nicely.”

Hamza raised an eyebrow.

Rizwan continued with a knowing grin. “Waise toh mera bhai bada sakht launda hai, par yahan woh pighal gaya.”

“Did you just quote a meme at me? I will choke you,” Hamza muttered darkly.

“Not my kink, bro,” Rizwan replied without missing a beat.

Hamza tried to kick Rizwan in retaliation, but he was too fast. He immediately opened the doors for the boys, who came out of the haveli bouncing in excitement, while Uzair walked out at a more leisurely pace in dark aviators, a crisp white kurta over blue jeans, looking handsome, hot, gorgeous ….Hamza forced his brain to pause and quietly opened the door.

Once everyone was settled and Rizwan took the passenger seat, they set off for the mela. The backseat was a pit of noise, with Naieem and Uzair passionately arguing about football while Faizal had already asked, “Are we there yet?” at least ten times.

Hamza was discovering entirely new reserves of patience and was religiously tapping into them.

By the time they reached the mela, it was already in full swing. The rules had been made very clear: nobody wandered off anywhere without either Rizwan or Hamza. There were a hundred things that could go wrong, and Hamza approached the entire outing like it was a tactical operation.

The mela itself was a smorgasbord of colour, loud lights, music, smoke, and barely controlled mayhem. The boys wanted to try everything they saw. Naieem wanted to try every thrilling ride, and Faizal wanted to do whatever his brother was doing. They ended up on the Drop Tower, the 360° Pendulum Ride, a mini roller coaster, and a Columbus ride. Rizwan and Hamza, much to their chagrin, had to go on all the rides. The kids and Uzair were having the time of their lives. Finally, they decided their last thrilling ride would be the giant Ferris wheel

Uzair had confidently agreed to all of it too… right until he actually stepped onto the ride and the machine jerked violently to life.

Earlier, while they were waiting in line, Uzair had been unbearably smug about the entire thing.

“Why do you look like you want to blow up the Ferris wheel?” he asked, watching Hamza inspect the rusted machinery overhead with visible suspicion.

“I won’t have to blow it up. It might keel over all by itself,” Hamza said without taking his eyes off the ride.

 “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad, Mr Biceps- e- Paranoia.”

“It’s held together with nuts and bolts older than you,” Hamza retorted. “You might actually find yourself flying off this thing.”

Uzair laughed. “Is it? Not scared of that. I have literally been skydiving .”

Hamza looked at him, unimpressed. “Civilian tandem jump?”

Uzair frowned. “...Yes?”

Hamza leaned casually against the railing beside him. “I have jumped out of military aircraft.”

 “Military planes?”

“Hmmm.”

“With the parachute and everything?”

Hamza gave him a flat look. “No. We just flapped our arms on the way down and hoped gravity would catch us.”

Rizwan nearly choked laughing in the background.

Before Uzair could come back with something sharper, the ride operator asked people to move along. The younger boys rushed into the carriage ahead with Rizwan in a mess of laughter and shoving, leaving the next carriage swinging lightly in place.

Uzair had already stepped into their carriage, and Hamza followed with a sigh. The metal door clanged shut behind them. It was just the two of them in the cramped compartment. Between the two of them and their long legs, the carriage barely had enough room for both of them to sit comfortably opposite each other, knees almost brushing every time the carriage swayed.

Everything was fine until the wheel jerked violently upward.

“Shit”

The sudden movement threw Uzair forward before he could do anything about it. Hamza reacted instantly and caught him.

“Sit beside me,” he said, pulling Uzair beside him, his arm wrapping hard around Uzair’s.

The carriage rocked with the force of it, metal creaking alarmingly beneath them. For a second, Uzair could only blink. Half sprawled against Hamza, one hand clutching Hamza’s jacket uselessly while Hamza’s arm stayed firm around his waist like a restraint. It felt solid, protective, and possessive in a way Hamza probably didn’t even realize. Hamza adjusted his grip automatically when the carriage swayed again, steadying him without a word.

“You okay?” he asked; his voice was annoyingly calm. Hamza’s mouth was close enough to Uzair’s ear, and his gruff voice seemed to vibrate straight through him.

Uzair swallowed once. “Yeah.” His voice came out rougher than intended.

Hamza’s hand was still spread against his waist, large enough that Uzair could feel the heat of it even through layers of clothing. And Hamza smelled unfairly good up close- a mix of leather, spices, and gunpowder.

The wheel climbed higher and higher above the mela until the noise below faded into distant music and scattered lights. Then, abruptly, it stopped right at the top. The coupe swung gently in the cold night air. From up there, the mela looked unreal: tiny glowing bulbs, drifting smoke, moving crowds no bigger than dots.

And in the sudden quiet, all Uzair could hear was Hamza breathing, and he hadn’t let Uzair go. Uzair became painfully aware of how close they actually were. If he moved his head even slightly, his lips would brush against Hamza’s completely.

Hamza looked at him with a gaze that made Uzair’s stomach tighten unexpectedly. There was something in it: warmth, protectiveness, and something else he couldn’t define.

The carriage gave another sudden creak, and Uzair stiffened immediately. Uzair’s fingers tightened unconsciously against Hamza’s chest, where he was still gripping Hamza’s jacket for dear life. Hamza looked down briefly at his hands, then back at him. That look appeared again; it wasn’t mocking. If anything, it looked dangerously close to fond. Meanwhile, Uzair was becoming appallingly aware of the fact that being held by Hamza felt way too good.

When the wheel finally reached the ground, Hamza slowly let go of Uzair, and he felt strangely bereft of the warmth and comfort Hamza’s arm had offered. Once they were allowed to get off, Uzair realized his knees refused to cooperate. As he tried to stand with as much dignity as possible, Hamza’s hand appeared right in front of him. It was a simple gesture, but it was the first time Uzair held Hamza’s hand, and somehow it felt momentous.

Once the rides were done, the boys decided it was time for food.

They hit the chaat counters first. Hamza and Rizwan refused anything that didn’t come in sealed bottles or packets.

“Oh, come on… You city slickers. Gol gappas can’t hurt you… Live a little,” Uzair said as he stuffed another gol gappa into his mouth.

“Can’t risk it,” Hamza replied immediately. “Protocols.”

“Janab Protocol Pehelwan,” Uzair muttered, loud enough for Hamza to hear, and ate two extra gol gappas entirely out of spite.

The boys were bottomless pits when it came to food. They went for kebabs, more chaat, cotton candy, ice-creams, and anything else they wanted. Uzair was in a mood to spoil them, though he was also good at saying no when needed.

After the food stalls, the younger boys spotted the game section.

Rows of blinking stalls stretched ahead under strings of colored lights. Cheap prizes, giant teddy bears, cricket bats, toy guns, neon swords, etc hung upside down from hooks. Every few seconds came the sound of bells ringing, balloons popping, and vendors shouting over one another.

Faizal sprinted toward the ring toss stall before anyone could stop him.

“I want that football,” Naieem announced seriously, pointing at a black-and-gold one hanging from the top rack.

Hamza already knew this was a scam. Every bottleneck was spaced just far enough apart to make winning statistically annoying.

Naieem rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for an international championship and took the rings. Five throws later, he had missed every single one.

“It keeps bouncing,” he muttered.

“Because you are throwing too hard,” Hamza said. Hamza stepped beside him casually, taking one of the rings from the counter.

“You are aiming at the bottle; you need to aim behind it. And relax your wrist.” Hamza bent slightly so they were eye level, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Not once did he baby him, no fake encouragement, just direct instruction like Naieem was capable of understanding it. Hamza tossed the ring once lazily and landed it perfectly around the bottle neck.

Hamza handed Naieem another ring.

“You do it.”

Naieem adjusted his stance exactly the way Hamza had shown him this time.

The rings now arced cleanly through the air and landed around the bottle necks. For a second, Naieem looked genuinely stunned, then his entire face lit up.

“I DID THAT.”

“You did,” Hamza said simply.

Uzair watched the entire thing quietly from beside them, and something in his chest softened unexpectedly.  The football was now securely in Naieem’s hands, and that was when Faizal discovered the shooting stalls.

“Chachu!” Faizal grabbed Uzair dramatically. “Win me that tiger.”

The “tiger” in question was a horrifying orange monstrosity that had no business being a child’s toy.

Uzair stared at it. “Looks like it got hit by a truck.”

“I want it.”

“Well,” Uzair said, stepping forward, “let’s go win it.”

Hamza should not have followed them to the shooting stall. That was his first mistake, while his second mistake was letting Uzair touch a gun. He knew Uzair was a good marksman, but he was not prepared for the sight of Uzair handling the air rifle.

The moment Uzair picked it up, heat coiled low in Hamza’s stomach. The lazy grin Uzair usually wore disappeared as he adjusted the rifle against his shoulder instinctively, eyes narrowing toward the moving targets. His posture shifted subtly, balanced, steady, and controlled. Hamza’s attention locked immediately on Uzair’s long fingers curled around the barrel with surprising familiarity.

“Hit the red stars!” the vendor called.

Uzair barely acknowledged him, then he fired.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Three targets dropped in rapid succession.

Hamza’s gaze was fixed on Uzair and sharp concentration on his face, the way his kurta sleeves had rolled slightly up his forearms earlier. Hamza’s eyes dropped involuntarily to the movement of Uzair’s hands- his hands, his long fingers, they were… elegant.

Hands that had absolutely no business looking that good holding a weapon. Heat climbed sharply and immediately up the back of Hamza’s neck. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Uzair curled his fingers around the trigger one final time.

Hamza’s treacherous mind conjured up images. He wondered what that hand would look like curled around his—

POP.

His train of filthy thoughts derailed instantly as Uzair hit the final target. The boys exploded into cheers, and Faizal snatched the ugly stuffed tiger with genuine joy. Uzair turned back toward them, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

Hamza had the deeply uncomfortable realization that maybe watching Uzair shoot had affected him far more visibly than he was prepared to admit.

After the arcade, the boys dragged them toward the shopping lanes of the mela.

The entire stretch glittered under warm yellow lights, stalls overflowing with handmade jewelry, embroidered shawls, painted pottery, wooden toys, glass bangles, and enough decorative items to bankrupt emotionally vulnerable people. Which, apparently, was all of them.

Naieem stopped dead at a jewelry stall and picked up a pair carefully, turning them over in his hands with surprising seriousness.

“For Ammi,” he said to no one in particular. Uzair, meanwhile, bought bangles for his bhabhi.

Nearby, Faizal had become entirely consumed by a stall with wooden toys and keepsakes.

“Look!” he said, holding up a slingshot.

“That thing is absolutely going to hit someone in the face,” Rizwan said immediately.

 “It’s for Abbu,” Faizal declared proudly.

Uzair blinked. “Why does your father need that?”

“He doesn’t need it,” Faizal admitted honestly. “But he will like that I got him something.”

Uzair paid for all their purchases and moved on. As they continued walking, Uzair wandered toward one of the pottery stalls. The shelves were crowded with hand-painted trays, clay cups, incense holders, and tiny lanterns.

An ashtray caught his eye. Dark ceramic with intricate hand-painted blue and gold detailing curling along the edges. It looked exactly like something his brother would keep on his desk for years without ever admitting he liked it. Uzair suddenly became aware of how close Hamza was standing beside him in the cramped little stall. Close enough that their shoulders brushed lightly whenever someone passed behind them.

 “You are good at this,” Hamza said after a moment.

Uzair frowned slightly. “At buying ashtrays?”

“Caring about people.”

For a second, the noise of the mela seemed to fade around them. Which lasted only a moment before someone spotted Uzair.

“Oh my God, it’s Uzair Baloch!” someone squealed.

The next thing they knew, they were surrounded by a bunch of people.

A guy next to him immediately lit up. “OH MY GOD, IT IS YOU.”

Within minutes, three more boys and two girls had gathered around, and now Hamza was worried about mob situations.

They just wanted selfies. Hamza gave the small group a long, assessing stare.

“…Fine,” he said reluctantly. “Quickly.”

One girl shyly asked, “Can you say hi to my boyfriend? He’s obsessed with you.”

Uzair took the phone easily. “What’s his name?”

“Arpit.”

Uzair leaned toward the camera with effortless charm. “Arpit, your girlfriend bullied me into this. She is pretty special, and you owe her some really fancy gifts.”

The girl looked like she might throw herself at him and cry. Hamza endured exactly four minutes of this before he started herding them along again.

By the time they left, the boys were exhausted. In the car, Naieem was nodding off. Uzair was quiet, and Faizal had already completely passed out. Once they reached home, Naieem nearly stumbled out of the car. Uzair was about to help Faizal when Hamza quietly picked up the sleeping eight-year-old with surprising gentleness and carried him inside.

Uzair paused for a moment, watching him, seeing how easy it was for Hamza to be so paternal. He guided Naieem back to his room and tucked the boy into bed. Later, Uzair made a detour to Faizal’s room to check on him, where Hamza had already carefully placed the sleeping child under the blanket.

On his way back, he met Hamza in the corridor, who seemed to be heading outside. Meeting Hamza eye to eye, alone, immediately brought back the heated moment on the Ferris wheel, and Uzair could barely look at him without blushing.

 “Good night,” Uzair mumbled and quickly ducked his head and escaped to his room.

Hamza walked out with a small smile, quietly reliving the moment on the giant metal death trap. He remembered how Uzair’s body had felt against him. How perfectly he fit against his chest, his arm around Uzair’s waist.

Unlike others, Hamza had never bothered overthinking his own sexuality. He knew what he wanted and knew what he liked. Gender had never mattered much in that equation anyway, not compared to trust, affection, and the slow-building certainty of wanting someone close. “Demisexual” was the term one of his military shrinks had once used for him. His sexuality had led to heartbreaks and one very impulsive decision with lasting consequences. Hamza didn’t advertise it; a few people like Rizwan knew, but that circle was small. His family definitely wasn’t part of it.

But as his thoughts turned to Uzair, Hamza violently shut it down.

 He is a client.

He is under my protection.

No, cannot do this.

 He shook his head and went outside to meet Rizwan.

Hamza found Rizwan in the backyard, watching the skeleton crew of guards patrolling the haveli.

“Did it work?” Hamza asked.

“Well, we definitely have a leak,” Rizwan muttered.

“According to our sources, three men were spotted outside the mall.”

“The mall everyone thought we were going to?” Hamza asked.

“Yup.”

“So the deflection worked.”

“Yes.”

“Who were they?”

“One was Babu’s man, and two were from Pappu’s crew. Low-level enough to be sacrificed if something went wrong, but violent history-sheeters.”

“What the hell are the cops even doing?”

“The SP here, Chaudhary Aslam, has it out for Rehman. He is hoping the gangs will take him out because Aslam can no longer touch him legally.”

“This gets complicated.”

“It does. But unlike before, Rehman isn’t easy to arrest or be attacked anymore. And Uzair is under my watch, so we can handle this.” Hamza said with finality

On the other side of the haveli, Uzair Jan Baloch was having a mild crisis. He could not stop thinking about his bodyguard, and that was a problem. Usually, it was easy to dismiss Hamza as a pain in the ass, but this time…

All Uzair could think about was the moment on the Ferris wheel. His strength, his arm around Uzair’s waist, the heat of his body, how firm and steady it had felt. He felt owned…it still sizzled in Uzair’s veins.

And now his body had apparently decided to react accordingly, judging by the very noticeable situation currently happening in his pants.

“Ya Allah,” he groaned, grabbing a pillow and smashing his face into it. “I cannot be having sexual thoughts about my bodyguard.”

My very straight, very emotionally dysfunctional bodyguard.

Unfortunately, that did absolutely nothing to stop the vivid replay in his head of Hamza’s hand spread wide against his waist, fingers flexing slightly as he pulled Uzair closer during the ride.

Uzair stared at the ceiling in absolute betrayal. Somewhere in the haveli, his bodyguard was probably cleaning a gun or doing push-ups while Uzair was out here crushing on him, like a hormonal teenager.

Uzair groaned louder into the pillow.

“This is a disaster.”

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Chapter 7 -  Tears And Fears

The ride home was quiet, cold and filled with tension. Uzair had expected an I told you so from Hamza. What he got instead was silence, and somehow that was worse. It stung in a way he couldn’t explain. He hated the way Donga had looked at him in the parking lot. Uzair wasn’t a stranger to guns. Hell, he was an excellent marksman. There was a reason he had learned to shoot in the first place. But he never carried a weapon on him because the idea of pointing one at someone brought back terrible memories. He didn’t need those memories in his waking life, they haunted his dreams anyway.

They reached home in silence, and Uzair saw Hamza’s knuckles, bloody and battered. Streaked with drying blood, the skin already swelling around the cuts. He opened his mouth to say, I am sorry, I am sorry you got hurt. I didn’t know it would be this bad. I just needed the noise in my head to stop for a while. I just needed to breathe. I… I am… sorry. But the words never came. He stayed staring numbly through the windshield at the driveway lights, fingers digging into his own palms hard enough to hurt. Neither spoke till Hamza stepped out and opened the door for Uzair. Uzair entered the courtyard and saw his brother and Bhabhi waiting there.

His brother walked toward him, and Uzair braced himself for the explosion that was coming. Yet when the moment arrived, he couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Finally, he looked up.  His brother slowly lifted the cigarette in his hand to his mouth. The tremble in his fingers betrayed how terrified he had been. But it was Bhabhi who reached him first.

She grabbed his collar and shook him harshly. “What is wrong with you? Why would you do this? You could have been hurt…or worse, you could have…” Her voice broke off and dissolved into tears.

This wasn’t a woman who cried easily. Watching her cling to him, sobbing, drove the message home. This was no longer just about him. He couldn’t keep fighting his inner demons through isolation and solitude. He needed another outlet and he needed to find a way to make peace with the things weighing him down.

“Bhabhi, yeh phir se nahi hoga,” he whispered. “I promise.”

She hugged him tightly, and he held her just as tight. Over her shoulder, he looked at his brother.

His brother merely turned to Hamza and said “Get your hand looked at.”

Then he ignored Uzair completely and walked off. That hurt far more than a slap or a lecture ever could, he would have welcomed anything but this cold dismissal.

The hurt must have shown on his face because Bhabhi quietly said,

“You scared him. He will be okay, but you don’t ever do something like this again.”

“I know, Bhabhi.”

And then Uzair became aware of another pair of eyes on him.

Naieem.

That was what finally broke him. Uzair knew that look, he had seen it before…years ago, in the mirror.

It was the same fear he used to carry when his brother had still been a gangster. Bone-deep fear, the kind that came from never knowing whether the person you loved would make it home alive. The terror of loving someone whose life was always one bad night away from ending.

After his brother left that world behind and consolidated his business, Uzair had believed his nephews would never have to carry that burden. But here it was again and this time, it was because of him.

Before Uzair could say a word, Naieem turned away and walked off; just like his father. Uzair felt something crack inside his chest. After reassuring Bhabhi for the hundredth time that he was fine, he sat alone in the courtyard for a while before finally deciding to talk to Naieem.

Hamza needed to breathe. He needed to bandage his hand. He needed to punch something…. he needed to shake some sense into one Uzair Jan Baloch. Before his inner monologue could get any more bitter and twisted, Rizwan gently took his hand and started cleaning blood off it.

“I will need to put this in the report today.” Hamza says

“The escalation has begun.” Rizwan replies

“How did they know where he would be?” Hamza asked.

“We have to assume that he is being followed…” Rizwan let his words taper off

“Or… there is a leak…” Hamza finished for him

“There is a leak…” said Rizwan finished grimly.

The dark look on Hamza’s face promised violence, and Rizwan simply nodded. He knew what was coming.

Uzair walked to his nephew’s room. He wasn’t asleep, his door open, he sat staring at his laptop blankly. Uzair knocked on the door and walked in.

“Hey.”

“…”

“Naieem…”

“Why did you do it? Why did you leave without Hamza bhai?”

Naieem knew why Hamza and Riawan were at the haveli. He understood the basics, but after what happened today, the kid had just gotten a crash course in how precarious their lives really were.

Something in his tone, the hollow emptiness beneath it told Uzair everything he needed to know. His nephew was scared. And that was the one thing he had never wanted the boy to feel.

“I am sorry…”

“That’s not an answer. That’s an excuse.”

Uzair let out a hollow laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Wow, kid… you really don’t pull punches, do you?”

But the boy didn’t laugh back.

“I could have lost you, Chachu.” His voice was barely a whisper.

And then the dam broke. One second the Naieem was standing there, trying so hard to look angry instead of afraid, and the next he was in Uzair’s arms, clutching him like letting go would make him disappear. The sobs came hard and broken, shaking his entire body.

Uzair held him tighter instantly, one hand cradling the back of his head as guilt crashed through him.

In that moment, he felt like the biggest asshole alive.

“Arrey, pagal,” Uzair murmured, pulling back just enough to ruffle Naieem’s hair. “Aise thodi na jaunga… abhi toh bohot matches jeetna baaki hai.”

That earned him a weak, watery scoff. But he knew things were far from better between them both. He needed to make it okay somehow.

As he walked towards his own room, he paused by Hamza’s door, briefly considering knocking. Instead, he laid his palm flat against it and breathed for a second. He was emotionally wrung out; nothing he said would explain or justify what he did. Sighing deeply, he walked away.

What Uzair didn’t know was that on the other side of the door, Hamza stood silently listening to Uzair’s footsteps. Counting them till he reached his own bedroom, he stood there with a hand on his own door, wondering what would have happened if Uzair had actually walked in.

The next morning was subdued. The breakfast table was silent, everyone going through the motions and Rehman was noticeably absent. Leaving half his breakfast untouched, Uzair excused himself and went to find his brother, who was holed up in his study. He walked up to the study and knocked on the door. His brother’s gruff voice asked him to come in.

Rehman stood by the window with a cigarette in his hand, staring outside.

Uzair began in a small voice. “Bhai… I am so sorry. I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have resisted. I am sorry, it won’t happen again. I will be more careful, bhai…” his words tumbled out before his voice broke. “I am sorry I defied you, I wasn’t trying to be… I…”

He stared at the floor as he spoke, and slowly it began to blur. He didn’t realize Rehman had walked up to him until he was standing right in front of him.

“Why?”

He took a shaky breath and tried to sum up the storm in his head.

“Dum ghootta hai, bhai…” he admitted quietly. “The memories… losing Ammi and Abu… I don’t think I ever really learned how to handle it properly.”

Rehman stayed silent, listening.

“Some days it just gets loud in my head, bhai. The expectations… constantly feeling like I am failing at being who everyone needs me to be.. there are things I cant tell….” His voice cracked softly. “And when it gets too much, I just want to be alone for a little while so I can breathe without pretending.”

“How long have you felt this way?”

Uzair looked down. “Long enough”.

He scrubbed at his face angrily before continuing.

“I know what I did was reckless. I know I worried everyone. But I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.” His eyes finally lifted toward Rehman’s. “I just needed isolation to drown it all out.”

“How long have you been carrying this?” Rehman asked quietly.

Uzair looked away again almost immediately.

“And you thought you had to deal with this by yourself?” Rehman’s tone held something that sounded close to hurt.

 “We all have our losses, our demons… the ghosts that haunt us. But we still have to live for the people who live with us and live for us. For me, first it was you… then Ulfat and the kids.” He swallowed thickly. “I have too much to lose, Uzair. That’s what keeps me awake at night. But I refuse to become the reason they lose sleep too… or the reason you do. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, bhai,” he replied thickly.

The next second, his brother dragged him into a fierce hug and whatever little composure Uzair had left shattered completely. He broke down against him, shoulders shaking with silent tears. There was no shame here… he was safe.

Somehow, despite being shorter and far less muscular than him, Rehman had always been his wall, the stronger force he could lean on whenever everything inside him threatened to collapse.

“Bas kar, chote…tu rota hua accha nahi lagta” Rehman said.

In reply, Uzair only held onto his brother tighter.

After Uzair left the study, Rehman lit another cigarette and watched the smoke disappear into the air. He had no idea how much his brother had been carrying around all this time, and honestly, he still didn’t know what to do with any of it.

But one thing was clear, the priority was keeping Uzair safe. Rehman’s shoulders eased slightly knowing his brother was finally going to take his own security seriously.

After talking to his brother, Uzair felt lighter somehow. Not better just less suffocated. There were still things he couldn’t talk to him about. Things he perhaps never would. Namely, his sexuality. That conversation was probably never going to happen.

Uzair exhaled sharply through his nose and shook the thought away before heading deeper into the haveli in search of Hamza. He found him out on the veranda with Donga’s men, leaning lazily against one of the pillars while talking to Babla. The warm breeze ruffling his long hair. He looked…good.

It was strange how naturally Hamza had settled into life here. He and Rizwan were outsiders, yet somehow they never felt out of place. Especially Hamza, the haveli had accepted him too easily.  As Uzair approached, Hamza glanced at him briefly before returning to the conversation. He didn’t walk over or acknowledge him beyond that single look.

Fair enough.

Uzair slowed near them and waited awkwardly for Babla to finish speaking. The entire time, he found himself staring at his own hands instead of looking at Hamza directly. Eventually Babla nodded at Hamza and left.

Silence settled between them before Uzair finally said “I am sorry.”

Hamza remained quiet.

Uzair swallowed and forced himself to continue. “I am sorry,” he repeated, softer this time. “For making your job harder, for not listening to you, for fighting this whole arrangement, for…”

Hamza straighten up, finally looked at him then, one brow lifting slightly.

“For calling me nanny muscle-e-jaan?”

Despite the knot sitting in his chest, Uzair huffed out a laugh. “I am not apologizing for that one.”

“No?”

“No.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “I am particularly proud of that one”

For the first time since Uzair had arrived, Hamza’s expression cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched upward before he looked away, clearly trying not to smile.

The sight loosened something painfully tight inside Uzair’s chest. He drew in a shaky breath and finally looked up properly. That was a mistake, because the first thing that greeted him was Hamza’s hands that were still healing.

And suddenly all he could think of was Hamza shoving him behind his own body without hesitation, fingers digging hard into Uzair’s arm as he forced him out of danger. The sheer strength in those hands when Hamza protected him.

The memory sent heat curling low through Uzair’s blood before he could stop it. He looked away quickly, jaw tightening as he willed his cheeks not to betray him. Because there was absolutely no reason that being manhandled into safety should affect him like this.

“I am sorry you got hurt,” Uzair said quietly.

Hamza shrugged one shoulder. “Part of the job.”

“I know.” Uzair hesitated. “but still, I didn’t like seeing it.”

Something unreadable flickered across Hamza’s face before disappearing just as quickly.

“Apology accepted,” he said eventually. “And for the record, I am not trying to make your life miserable.”

“I know.”

“I am just trying to keep you alive.”

Hamza leaned back against the pillar again, folding his arms loosely. “We are not trying to cage you in. We are just… building a wall between you and whatever’s out there.”

Uzair was quiet for a moment before asking carefully, “So that means I can still go out?”

“Within reason and…. with me,” Hamza replied immediately, cautious again.

 “I do have a reason. My nephews.” A faint smile crossed Uzair’s face before fading again. “Naieem is still angry at me.” He sighed softly. “And Faizal… he is going to miss me when I am gone.”

Hamza’s expression shifted slightly at that, but he said nothing.

“I just…” Uzair cleared his throat. “I want to spend time with them before we leave for the tournament. Outside the haveli, doing normal things they enjoy.” He glanced up carefully. “Can we make that happen?”

For a long moment, Hamza didn’t answer. He should say no, it would be safer, smarter and easier

Instead, he looked at the quiet hope in Uzair’s eyes and found he didn’t have it in him to refuse.

“I will make it happen,” Hamza said softly.

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Chapter 6 – The Week of Nopes

It had been ten days since Hamza arrived in Meerut. Ten days since he became Uzair’s bodyguard. And ten days since he had started congratulating himself for not smacking Uzair upside the head… especially when the man desperately deserved it.

Uzair was a danger to himself and to Hamza’s self-restraint.

On the other hand, Rizwan was having the time of his life. The kids were easy enough to handle, and since Rehman already had his own security team, Rizwan mostly ended up having fun with the young ones. By now, he was convinced they were far better behaved than Uzair.

At least the children didn’t sneak out at midnight.

Uzair’s schedule remained relentlessly packed, yet the man threw himself into the game with frightening intensity. He played like someone possessed, like every match was a war he refused to lose. The man was good… scarily good.

He was a contradiction in every possible way. A Baloch descendant raised in Uttar Pradesh, yet playing for a southern team. One thing that had initially raised Hamza’s eyebrows was the fact that Uzair played for the Kerala Warriors instead of the UP team. Their team had briefly wondered whether the threats on his life stemmed from that choice, but ultimately, there wasn’t any evidence to investigate further.

The Warriors had been training in Meerut for nearly three weeks now, their Kochi grounds still unusable after renovation delays and monsoon damage. In the three years since Uzair had joined the team, they had consistently reached the finals only to lose every single time.

It haunted him. Hamza could see it in the tension permanently locked between Uzair’s shoulders, in the sharpness of his tone, in the agitated energy that followed him everywhere. And, true to form, Uzair dealt with it the only way he knew how: bottling everything up, lashing out, and more recently annoying his bodyguard for sport.

With only three days left before the tournament began, tensions inside the haveli was high. Uzair was wound tight as a coiled spring, making breakfast a hostile battlefield of mood swings and silence.

One thing Hamza noticed, though, was that everyone was welcome at their table, especially the men who had worked with Rehman for over a decade.

Ulfat observed his confusion and smiled softly. “We have lived with smaller tables,” she said, “or no tables at all. Smaller homes, smaller places but our hearts have always had enough room to share.”

Something about her words made Hamza pause midway through his sip of coffee. He knew that sentiment. He had seen it before, in his mother, in his sisters, in the quiet generosity of his own home. The recognition must have shown on his face.

Across the table, Uzair noticed it immediately and blinked. Soooo...their emotionally constipated gun-for-hire had feelings after all? Alright, maybe that was unfair. But Hamza was so tightly locked down all the time that seeing emotion flicker openly across his face made him seem startlingly human.

“We need to discuss your Instagram” Anddddd it was gone Uzair thought. Hamza opened his mouth, completely ruining the moment.

“What,” Uzair asked slowly, “about my Instagram?”

“What the hell is ‘Sexy Hairy Daddy,’” Hamza bit out through gritted teeth, “and why are your fans calling me that?”

Uzair burst out laughing.

Across from him, Rizwan looked seconds away from collapsing from suppressed laughter, while Rehman quietly lifted his newspaper higher to hide his face.

----

It had been 10 days since Uzair decided that if he was going to be trapped in this situation, he might as well make the best of it, which, naturally, meant starting every morning by finding new and increasingly creative ways to annoy the hell out of Hamza.

But his mind was still a mess, especially when it came to the game.

After three years with the team, they had always come painfully close to success, only to fall short at the last moment. As vice-captain, Uzair took every loss personally. The sad reality of Indian sports was that cricket overshadowed everything else. Uzair didn’t hate cricket; he celebrated the national wins that mattered. He enjoyed watching cricket and has cheered for the team during big games. But the difference between the IPL and the football premier league was staggering.

‘You can’t make people love a sport.’ He had heard that line too many times.

Still, the blatant disregard hurt. The empty seats during India’s meagre football internationals hurt even more. That was why, instead of playing for his home state, he had chosen one just as football-crazy as he was and luckily, they had wanted him too. What the team had suffered from was bad luck. Bad timing. Constantly being pitted against stronger teams. Uzair was going to change that, he and his team were going all in.

So when some random online sports website asked him to comment on the upcoming matches, he let them have it. The interview eventually ended with Hamza tactfully dragging him away before his verbal vitriol escalated into a national controversy.

“I thought that went well,” Uzair said, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“You called half the cricket players overpaid celebrities and the other half decorative fielders.

 “Those are not the words I used.”

“It was close enough.”

 “If you wanted people to love football, antagonizing them isn’t exactly helping.”

“If I wanted to be loved by everyone, I’d need to be born as a stack of currency notes.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, that’s exactly the point.” His voice sharpened with frustration. “I love this game. I want people to care about more than one sport for once. I want this country to think beyond cricket. Not because I hate cricket but because we act like nothing else deserves space.”

Hamza stayed quiet, letting him vent.

“We flood streets when India wins a cricket match, but our football team plays in half-empty stadiums like nobody even remembers they exist. You think that doesn’t get to people like me?”

His voice dropped quieter then. “I don’t want people to stop loving cricket. I just want football to matter too.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Hamza said calmly. “But making people angry won’t make them love football.”

“No,” Uzair admitted, exhaustion replacing the heat in his voice. “I know.”

The conversation ended there, but Uzair still felt tightly wound with restless energy that demanded either a fight or a fuck distraction. Fighting was out of the question. Hamza was capable of folding Uzair like a flimsy lawn chair. And the other option…Nope, not going there.

He pulled out his phone instead and opened Instagram. Watching edits of Hamza labelled 'Sexy Hairy Daddy' did more for his stress levels than therapy ever could. He was halfway through one particularly hilarious edit with glitter overlays, sparkly heart filters, and a tiny pink bow edited onto Hamza’s head while some aggressively thirsty song crooned I need a biiig boyyyyy.

That’s when a message notification popped up on his insta message from an old hook up.

Thankfully, vanish mode existed.

Hey… I am in town. Wanna meet up?

Can’t. I am basically under house arrest.

Oh, come on. I am only here for a few days.

I know, but I really can’t.

At least try. I will make it worth your while ;)

Uzair glanced up at Hamza, who was driving like he was navigating enemy territory in a military tank instead of an SUV. Uzair sighed internally.

I need this. I will make it happen.

That night, he made his second escape attempt. This time, he turned off his location. When he finally slipped out unnoticed, he immediately sent a triumphant message to his date. Date? Nah. The dude who was hopefully going to give him orgasms and some peace of mind.

For the first time all day, Uzair could breathe. Mentally, he congratulated himself for successfully escaping the tyrannical watch of Hamza Ali Mazari—the lord of dumbbells.

Unfortunately, the victory lasted less than ten minutes. Because in the most anticlimactic way possible, when he stepped into the empty parking structure of the hotel, Hamza was already there waiting. Leaning against a concrete pillar, arms crossed and murder in his green eyes.

 “Oh, fantastic,” Uzair muttered. “My very own grumpy combat cupboard is here.”

Hamza walked toward him slowly.

“Do you enjoy making my job impossible?”

“Do you enjoy stalking grown men?”

 “You compromised security.”

“I needed a break.”

They stopped inches apart. Uzair’s pulse kicked harder. Hamza looked furious.

“I told you,” Hamza said quietly, “you do not disappear.”

“And I told you,” Uzair shot back, “you do not own me.”

“Do you have any idea what happens if someone grabs you during one of these stunts?”

“I can handle myself” Uzair Screamed

“That arrogance is going to get you killed.” Hamza said angrily

“And your control issues are going to get you punched.” Said Uzair without missing a beat

Hamza stepped closer. Uzair refused to step back.

“You think this is funny... you think this is a game?” the cold rage in Hamza’s voice was unmistakable

“You think breathing down my neck helps?”

“You think I enjoy this?”

“No,” Uzair snapped. “I think you enjoy acting like God.”

Something flashed across Hamza’s face then. Anger. Hurt. Memory. Before Uzair could identify it, a motorcycle engine roared through the parking structure. Hamza moved instantly.

“DOWN.” Hamza yelled!

Uzair barely processed the gunshot before Hamza grabbed him and slammed him behind a concrete pillar, covering him with his own body as another shot cracked through the parking structure.

Another shot cracked through the air.  Then chaos erupted.

Hamza drew his weapon with terrifying speed. The biker swerved, and Hamza fired once. The motorcycle crashed sideways. The attacker stumbled up, and before he could grab his weapon again, Hamza hit him like a freight train.

He was violent, efficient, and absolutely terrifying.

Uzair had seen aggression his entire life, his brother’s life as a gangster, violence on the football field... but this... this was different. This was military efficiency.

By the time Donga’s backup arrived, the attacker was unconscious on the ground, blood was dripping from Hamza’s knuckles onto the concrete floor. Uzair was still caged between the wall and Hamza’s body, the full force of Hamza’s protective weight pressing him back as his gaze swept the parking structure for additional threats.

Uzair was still trying to catch his breath when Hamza finally turned. His green eyes burned with frightening rage.

“You want to fight me so badly, Mr Baloch?” he said hoarsely.

Their faces were too close. Far too close.

“Fine.”

His hand pressed briefly against Uzair’s chest, checking for injuries while feeling his heart thudding behind his rib cage.

“First stay alive long enough to do it.”

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So i have changed the names of the football team to avoid any copyright crap .. if any

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Chapter 5 - The Rules Of Engagement

Uzair had a restless night. He slept fitfully and barely rested. His alarm dutifully woke him at 4, and by 4:50 he was creeping down the stairs. His car keys loosely dangled on his fingers as he quietly crossed the courtyard.

He was almost about to cross the veranda when a deep voice spoke up

“You are late.”

Uzair would never admit it, but the unmanly shriek that escaped him was usually reserved for people discovering lizards in their bathrooms. His keys hit the floor with unnecessary drama as he clutched his chest and glared at Hamza with deeply wounded dignity.

Hamza sat in one of the veranda chairs, dressed in dark track pants and a fitted black t-shirt, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. The bastard looked disgustingly awake for a man who was up at 1, but then again so was he.

“What?”

Hamza glanced at his watch. “Your file says you leave for conditioning runs at 4:45.”

Uzair narrowed his eyes. “What else does your little file say about me?”

“More than you would like to know.”

“You are so creepy.”

“And you are so reckless.”

God, he wanted to punch him, but instead, Uzair put on his headphones in. “I am going for my run.”

 “You are not going alone anymore.”

Uzair laughed humourlessly. “And what, take you with me?”

“Yes, because you are,” Hamza took another calm sip of coffee, “a security nightmare.”

“And you,” Uzair snapped, “are profoundly annoying.”

Hamza finally stood. It was deeply unfair how good the man looked at five in the morning.

“We leave in two minutes.”

“We?”

“Yes.”

“I run alone. It’s my ‘me’ time.”

“Not anymore.”

Uzair stared at him for a long moment before grumbling, “bloody desi discount hulk,” under his breath and storming toward the gates. Hamza followed silently.

—

By breakfast, Uzair was not just ready to throw punches, he was gearing up for another one of his infamous tantrums.

“Why are you glaring at your eggs?” Ulfat asked mildly.

“No reason,” he sulked.

Hamza, seated across from him, calmly drank tea. How dare he look so calm.

Rehman entered moments later with Rizwan and Donga behind him. “Good,” Rehman said. “Everyone’s here. Hamza wanted a briefing.”

“And I wanted to be left alone,” Uzair muttered. “But unfortunately, Nanny Muscle-e-Jaan arrived first.”

 Rizwan snorted into his eggs. Hamza ignored him completely, which somehow irritated Uzair more.

A long sheet appeared on the dining table moments later.

“This,” Hamza began with a sigh, “is Mr. Uzair Baloch’s upcoming schedule.”

Uzair blinked. “Why do you sound like a disappointed wife?”

“Because your schedule is a disaster.”

 Hamza pointed toward the paper.

“Three matches in fourteen days; Goa, Hyderabad, then Mumbai. Between fixtures, selected senior players travel for sponsor and media appearances while the rest of the squad remained in training and recovery camp. One session in Kochi which is opened to fans and local media”.

 “That’s football,” Uzair replied flatly.

“That’s exposure, that’s opportunity, and that’s risky.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“And keeping you alive is mine.”

Their eyes locked, annoyingly intense. Again.

Hamza continued, “New protocols from now on, you do not go anywhere without me. No impromptu outings, travel routes will vary daily, match hotels will have secured floors and training exits will be monitored.”

Uzair stared at him in complete horror.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am extremely serious.”

“You want to monitor where I go twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yes.”

“That is psychotic.”

“That is security.”

“This is dictatorship.”

“This is for survival.”

Uzair leaned back dramatically. “Bhai, why did you hire me a bodyguard with an inbuilt stalker?”

 “Only the best for you, princess.” Hamza deadpanned.

Rizwan burst into laughter. Even Rehman smirked slightly. Hamza remained unmoved.

“Your social media posting will also be monitored.”

Uzair screeched. “EXCUSE ME?”

“No live locations.”

“You can’t control my Instagram.”

“I absolutely can. In fact, I will need the login details to look for threatening messages, comments...”

“Oh hell no, you bossy tactical gorilla!

Hamza looked unimpressed

Oh, I hate him,” Uzair informed the table.

“No, you enjoy provoking him,” Rizwan corrected lazily.

Uzair glared across the table while Hamza’s jaw tightened.

Uzair’s nephews, who were at the table and so far, engrossed with their phones, also started paying attention. Thirteen-year-old Naieem looked between Uzair and Hamza like he was watching Wimbledon: Bitchy Men’s Singles Edition.

Faizal suddenly looked around the table. “Wait… there’s a gorilla here?” His head whipped left and right dramatically. “Where?!”

Hamza closed his eyes briefly, looking like he was updating his anger-management software in real time.

Ulfat looked between both men thoughtfully before speaking.

“Hamza.”

“Yes, Bhabhi.”

“Make sure he eats on time during training.”

Uzair looked betrayed. “BHABHI.”

Hamza nodded seriously. “Understood.”

“I am resigning from this family,” Uzair declared petulantly.

“Try it and see what happens,” Rehman replied calmly.

___

Football practice was worse, far worse. Because Hamza came with him and Uzair could feel his eyes on him everywhere.

Practice itself was brutal and Uzair thrived under brutality. He all fast feet, sharp turns and controlled aggression.

Hamza watched all of it silently. On the field, Uzair moved like violence given purpose. He was focused, disciplined, ruthless, not reckless, not bratty, not loud. He was just lethal, it was a thing of beauty.

One of Uzair’s teammates Sameer Nair, the squad’s nonstop chatterbox and self-appointed comedian jogged over during water break with a grin already forming.

“Bhai, aise kaun jhoorta hai… bodyguard ho ya jealous husband?”

Uzair spat out the water he was drinking.

Hamza’s expression didn’t change even slightly, remaining stoic as ever, which somehow made it worse.  Sameer wisely retreated. Uzair wiped sweat off his face furiously before stalking toward Hamza.

“You enjoying yourself?”

“No.”

“You have been staring.”

“I have been assessing threats. You are favouring your left leg…also you need to drink more water.”

Uzair froze. The injury. Nobody noticed that injury, not his captain, not even his coach yet.

“I am fine.”

“That wasn’t a question or a suggestion.”

Something dangerous flickered in Hamza’s green eyes then. Not anger.

Uzair suddenly became hyperaware of the sweat cooling on his skin, Hamza standing too close, the smell of his cologne and black coffee, the fact that this man noticed things nobody else did. It made him deeply uncomfortable.

So naturally, he lashed out.

“Are you always this controlling?”

“Yes.”

“Must be exhausting.”

“You seem worth the exhaustion.”

The words landed between them heavily. Uzair’s breath caught very slightly. Hamza looked irritated immediately after saying it, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

--------

That night, Uzair did something incredibly stupid. Which was, admittedly, what he believed was his way of rebelling. At 11:30 PM, he slipped out through the side gate after bribing one of Donga’s men with movie tickets.

Freedom lasted exactly thirty-seven minutes.

Thirty-eight, if Uzair counted the moment he triumphantly bit into roadside shawarma and thought, See? Perfectly fine. Freedom and no Gym bro with control issues staring at me…

A black SUV rolled silently to the curb beside him and Uzair closed his eyes. “Ya Allah.”

The driver side window rolled down. Hamza sat inside, glaring at him with the kind of calm fury usually seen before natural disasters.

 “Get in.”

“No.”

Hamza’s green eyes dropped to the vendor. “Did he pay already?”

The vendor blinked nervously. “N-no?”

Hamza handed over money without breaking eye contact with Uzair. “Keep the change.”

“That is so humiliating,” Uzair hissed.

“You bribed the security with movie tickets.”

“They were premium tickets; how did you find me.”

“You left your phone location on.”

Uzair froze.

Hamza raised an eyebrow slowly. “You are a nightmare.”

“Oh my God, you are stalker pro max.”

“Get in the car.”

“I hate you”. Uzair bit into the remaining shawarma with a vengeance.

“You say that a lot for someone who keeps describing my body in different ways.”

Uzair stumbled and nearly faceplanted into the curb. Red-faced, Uzair yanked open the SUV door and slid inside. The second the door shut, Hamza leaned over him suddenly.

Uzair’s breath caught, he found himself staring in to those green eyes for second before Hamza reached past him, grabbed the seatbelt, and slammed it across his chest aggressively.

“Seatbelt,” Hamza said coldly.

“YOU are such a control freak.”

“You could have gotten kidnapped.”

“I went for food!”

“At midnight. Alone. When there’s an active threat… never do that again.”

“Or what?” Uzair scoffed, folding his arms tighter across his chest. “ Are you going to put me in handcuffs?”

Hamza’s eyes darkened slightly.

“Be careful what you ask for,” he said, in a tone that did deeply concerning things to Uzair’s nervous system.

Uzair immediately regretted having a mouth.

The anger was still there, sharp and crackling. But something hotter had slipped underneath it now, dangerous enough to make his pulse stumble.

Uzair looked away first while Hamza’s grip tightened around the steering wheel.

From the back seat, Donga - who Uzair had not noticed until now, chuckled hard. “Wait,” Uzair said slowly, horrified. “You brought witnesses?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 4- The Collision - Brat meets the Babysitter

By the time their plane landed, Jaskirat was armed with everything he needed to know about Rehman Baloch and his family. He and his partner collected their baggage, they had to complete additional security formalities before their weapons were released.

When they finally stepped out of the airport, it was close to 8 PM and their stomachs were staging a quiet rebellion. Outside, a driver stood waiting with placards held high; except the names weren’t quite theirs. In bold overconfident letters it read: HUMSA and RIZZWAN. They were thus welcomed to Meerut.

Their welcoming committee consisted of Siyahi, Rehman Baloch’s former henchman and current right-hand man. He, along with two others whose names Hamza decided to learn later, told them dinner awaited them, as did their new responsibility. Rizwan, being the chatty one, was pulled into conversation while Hamza took it all in.

By the time they reached the haveli, it was close to 10. The haveli was grand but not ostentatious. It held a classic charm that spoke of wealth but did not advertise it. Its owner stood in the veranda with a cigarette loosely held in his mouth. And that was when Hamza came face-to-face with Rehman Dakait—now known to the world as Rehman Baloch.

“Mr. Baloch.” Hamza politely extended his hand.

“Major Jaskirat Singh Rangi,” he responded shaking his hand politely.

“Sir, while we are here, I will be going under my alias, Hamza Ali Mazari, and Roshan will be Rizwan. While I appreciate it, I no longer use my military title unless the occasion calls for it,” Hamza said.

Rehman studied him for a moment before speaking. “If you are going to be that covert, then you should know one thing…people who work for me don’t call me Mr. Baloch. It’s Rehman Bhai.”

“Understood.”

“I believe we have a lot to talk about. We can do it once you have freshened up and had your dinner. Siyahi…”

“Ji Bhai,” Siyahi responded and quietly guided the men inside the haveli.

A few minutes later, they were settled into their rooms, Hamza’s he was informed was closer to Uzair’s. Thankfully, both were assigned rooms with quick access to emergency exits; just in case things went wrong.

Dinner was a polite affair. Ulfat Baloch was clearly the matriarch; too formidable to tolerate nonsense from anyone. Hamza quickly understood that she ran the household on a blend of charm and absolute authority, the kind that not even Rehman would dare challenge. What Rehman lacked in physical stature, he compensated for with an aura that dominated every room he stepped into. He could command a room, charm it, and intimidate it, all in the same breath. It was a dangerous combination, especially for a man preparing to enter politics. Once dinner was out of the way, they retreated to Rehman’s study, where they briefed him on the threat.

“Arshad Pappu,” Rehman said softly, though the anger beneath it was unmistakable.

Donga, his security head, looked a little uneasy. The rest of his men looked restless.

“How certain are you it’s them? Babu and Pappu?”

“Sir…” Hamza quickly corrected himself, “Bhai… we analysed all the data. Our team here has people with ears on the ground. It’s absolutely certain. It’s not one of your business or political rivals or anyone Mr. Uzair Baloch has pissed off professionally. This is them.”

When Rehman remained quiet, Hamza took it as a hint to continue.

“You see, Babu Dakait holds a lot of grudges against you.”

Rehman laughed bitterly. “Of course, he does.”

“Arshad Pappu as well. The past fuels his vengeance. And while he—”

“He killed my uncle and my aunt,” Rehman said quietly, “left my cousin holding their bodies… all to send a message.” He paused, jaw tightening. “And before I could act, he built a wall of protection I couldn’t get through. I should have ended it when I had the chance.”

“Be that as it may, your cousin appears to be the primary target. We believe this is personal… an attempt to finish what was started years ago.” He paused briefly before continuing. “Your cousin has never been particularly careful with his opinions. Word reached Pappu that he had been speaking against him, which only intensified the hostility. And your growing influence—political, social, financial—is something he cannot rival. To men like him, success they cannot reach becomes obsession. But he knew he could never take you on alone, so he aligned himself with Babu Dakait.”

Rehman exhaled heavily. “I tried to leave all of it behind, but the past has a way of catching up.” His expression hardened for a moment before softening at the mention of his cousin. “Uzair… he’s been through enough already. He deserves a better life than this.”

“Speaking of, where is he?” Hamza enquired.

“He took his car and left at 7,” Donga said.

“Well, that’s the last time he is doing that without you, Hamza. I think that’s enough for the day. You should rest. You can meet Uzair tomorrow” Rehman said.

As they dispersed, Rizwan and Hamza did the full perimeter check with the in-house security team. They needed to familiarize themselves with the layout of the house, entry points, exits, blind spots, guard rotations, all of it.

It was past one by the time Rizwan finally turned in for the night. A reduced security team still patrolled the haveli grounds when an SUV rolled down the driveway. Midway through his patrol, Hamza turned toward the sound and saw the man he would be saddled with for the foreseeable future.

__

Uzair Baloch had a great time. He savoured every moment of it, every thrust, every moan, every touch. He had no idea when the time would come where he felt another man intimately again. His hook-up, a prominent Bollywood star he met during a match, was down in Meerut. What better reason than that to get laid? Their tryst lasted quite a while, ending with him ranting about his new security detail and they parted after making plans… which he knew wouldn’t happen.

He drove straight home and slowed down on the driveway. The moment he exited his car, he saw a face that startled him into silence.

The man standing before him was tall, shorter than him but powerfully built, with a broad chest and arms that looked sculpted by years in the gym. Thick shoulder-length hair framed a face sharpened by a well-groomed beard. But it was his eyes! those striking light green eyes that rendered Uzair speechless. Green and luminous beneath the night lights, they carried the cold elegance of a lion; watchful, intelligent, deadly. He looked like a man capable of violence at any moment… but one who preferred to study his prey before striking.

“Are you new?” Uzair asked.

“Sort of,” the man replied.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Hamza Ali Mazari,” he replied smoothly. Too smoothly. Too practiced.

“What are you doing out so late, Hamza?”

“Checking the perimeter.”

“Peri… wait a second… nooooo. You are my new babysitter?”

“And you are the brat I am looking after?”

That remark seemed to bristle Uzair; Hamza noticed immediately. He noticed everything. The lanky man had more muscle than his frame first suggested. Clean-shaven now, he looked younger, almost boyish and when he smiled, his cheekbones did something dangerously distracting.

Wait. Not the time to be poetic about his cheekbones. Focus on the reckless fool.

“Brat?? Just who the hell do you think you are?” Uzair said indignantly

Hamza replied coldly, “I am your personal bodyguard, and let me make one thing very clear, Mr. Baloch, tonight is the last time you disappear without me knowing where you are. From this moment onward, there will be rules. Strict ones. Where you go, who you meet, when you leave, when you return, I will know, and I will be there. As long as there’s a threat to your life, your safety is my responsibility, whether you like it or not. I take my assignments seriously, I have never lost a person under my protection.” He took one deliberate step closer, his voice lowering into something sharper. “And I refuse to start with you.”

Uzair’s face flushed with anger. “Now you listen to me, you hostile tank with biceps,” he snapped, stepping closer. “I am not a child, and I am definitely not your prisoner. I had a life before you showed up, and I am not changing it because my brother hired some glorified attack dog. Who I meet, where I go, what I do, none of that is your business. I don’t need a personal jailor breathing down my neck every second of the day, checking where I am, who I am with, or acting like I need permission to leave my own house. Your job is to stand there, look scary, and keep people from killing me. That’s it. You do not get to control my life, and you sure as hell do not get to order me around.”

He walked slowly toward Hamza, studying him as he closed the distance. When he stopped in front of him, Hamza had to tilt his head up to meet Uzair’s gaze. Good, Uzair thought. Let him understand exactly where he stands.

Just before he could close the distance, Hamza walked straight into his personal space and said “Listen to me carefully,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “My job is to keep you alive, even if it means protecting you from your own overconfidence. From now on, you do not go anywhere without informing me or without me accompanying you. You do not disappear, switch your phone off, or run around the city acting untouchable.” His gaze hardened. “I don’t care how rich you are, how many people want to sleep with you, or how badly you react when someone tells you ‘no’. You don’t have to like me, but you will cooperate with me. I am not here to entertain your ego. I am here to make sure your family doesn’t end up identifying your body because you mistook stupidity for freedom.”

Before Uzair could fire back with a sharper retort, Hamza turned on his heel and walked away.

How. Dare. He.

Uzair stared at his retreating back in outrage. The man was arrogant, controlling, self-righteous, built like a fucking overgrown fridge and somehow still very sexy.

Wait.

No.

Absolutely not.

Uzair narrowed his eyes at the broad shoulders disappearing down the corridor. Stupid military posture. Stupid voice. Stupid mysterious eyes.

Meanwhile, Hamza walked away flexing his hand once before forcing himself to unclench it. He mentally repeated the breathing exercises his army psychiatrist had drilled into him.

Inhale. Exhale. Do not strangle the ex-gangster turned politician’s brother.

What an absolute menace. Reckless, entitled, loud, allergic to authority, and apparently determined to die just to prove a point. And somehow still annoyingly gorgeous.

Hamza scowled harder.

No. Absolutely not.

The haveli had just witnessed its first collision, and both men had barely survived it with their egos intact.

The next few months were going to test the patience of the staff, the strength of the security team, and quite possibly the structural integrity of the haveli itself.

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Chapter 3- The unstoppable storm

“I said I don’t need a bodyguard!” Uzair screamed.

“This is non-negotiable,” Rehman said softly, in the kind of tone that could make grown men reconsider their life choices.

“I don’t need a watchdog. I can take care of myself, and if you feel I need someone, why can’t I have one of your security detail? Donga! Why can’t you or your men keep me safe?” The accusation in his voice was sharp .

Donga, who headed security for Rehman, wasn’t exactly a professional. He was a street-level thug who had risen alongside Rehman when he went from gangster to semi-legit businessman. In simple terms, Donga was a goon. A very well-dressed, very well-paid goon who now had a team and wore expensive cologne while threatening people professionally.

“Uzair Bhai, you need someone who can handle your high-profile football matches and travel with you everywhere like a professional. Hamare ladke yeh sab nahi kar sakte.”

“Kya bakchodi hai yeh?” Uzair shot back instantly. “You can look after my brother but not me? You do realize premier league matches draw crowds in only a few places? I am not under threat there. There’s stadium security, team security, fan security… probably even security for the damn grass!”

“Bhai..” Donga helplessly tried

Uzair wasn’t done yet. “Everywhere? Did you just say everywhere?” He pointed accusingly at Donga. “What does that even mean? Bathroom tak bhi ayega kya?”

“Bhai,” Donga started patiently, already exhausted, “woh toh…”

“No, explain properly,” Uzair cut him off dramatically. “I wake up? Bodyguard. I eat? Bodyguard. I scratch my ass? Bodyguard standing there evaluating technique?”

“UZAIR.” Rehman’s voice boomed through the room.

Uzair flinched before he could stop himself. “I’m just trying,” he muttered, quieter now, “to understand the logistics of my imprisonment.”

“It’s security.”

“It’s invasion of my privacy”

“Why are you so resistant to this?” Siyahi, his brother’s right-hand man, who had been quietly enjoying the show till now, finally asked. “If it’s about the women, I am sure they can be discreet.”

A few deeply disrespectful snorts echoed around the room from the assembled men, his brother’s so-called security team who were pretending very hard not to laugh. The meeting had officially derailed fifteen minutes ago.

“I JUST DON’T WANT SOMEONE FOLLOWING ME 24/7!”

“Kyu?” Rehman asked softly. Dangerously softly. “Aise kis se mil raha hai jiske baare mein teri security nahi jaan sakti?”

“Wohh… meinn… there is no one… not now…” Uzair stumbled over his words.

“Kuch bhi, Bhai… what about Isha?” Donga asked immediately.

“She has been dumped. He’s with Nusrat now,” Siyahi said like an elderly aunt discussing neighborhood gossip.

“Nusrat nahi… woh last month thi, Bhai,” another idiot from the group chimed in.

A wicked grin spread across Donga’s face immediately. “Haan Bhai, what about  Mahira?”

“She blocked him,” someone supplied helpfully from the back.

“Arre woh toh Sara thi na?” another chimed in.

“Nahi nahi, Sara slapped him,” Donga corrected.

“That was ONE TIME!” Uzair shouted, scandalized. “And technically she threw a book at me first.”

“You deserved it,” Siyahi said calmly.

“Kamine log.” Uzair howled feeling utterly betrayed

“What about that actress?” another voice added excitedly. “The one from Mumbai?”

“Which one?” Donga asked immediately.

“Exactly,” Siyahi deadpanned.

The room dissolved into shameless laughter.

Uzair looked deeply offended. “Wow. Amazing. I come here looking for support and instead I am being character assassinated by useless criminals.”

“We are employed criminals,” Donga corrected proudly.

“Toh Bhai abhi kaun hai?” a voice chimed in

“Koi nahi hai, bhenchod!” Uzair screeched, looking one second away from ripping his own hair out dramatically.

The problem was that his outrage was only partially fake. Beneath all the yelling and theatrics, he was absolutely petrified. A man tailing him 24/7 meant his clandestine meetings with men were over. His sex life was …Finished. Dead. Gone.

The women Uzair dated were camouflage more than romance, relationships built to look convincing from the outside. But he never slept with them; he refused to use women that way just to protect his secret. So he hid behind conveniently old-fashioned talk about celibacy until marriage. And when they inevitably wanted something real, Uzair would slip easily into his playboy act and leave before they could get close enough to see through him.

The men he dated…well, slept with had as much to lose as he did. So they kept things simple. They met up, hooked up, and went their separate ways. If they particularly liked each other, maybe share a drink after. Nothing more. Uzair was careful about who he let into his life and even more careful about who he let into his bed.

All of that would come crashing down if someone was attached to his hip like a shadow.

And honestly? Forget the sexual frustration. The real tragedy was the invasion of his solitude. People saw Uzair as a womanizer, someone one loud, impossible to manage, full of dramatic complaints, and reckless energy. That was intentional. It was easier to be misunderstood than be looked at too closely. Because underneath all that noise lived a grief he had never learned to carry properly.

Some nights, it still hit him without warning, the memory of losing his parents, and tangled up with that grief was another loneliness he could never speak aloud. Years of swallowing pieces of himself, sanding down every instinct, every glance, every truth that felt too dangerous to let the world see.

So he escaped whenever he could. Two in the morning, chai in hand, cigarette burning between his fingers, wandering empty streets. Those stolen hours of silence were the only times he didn’t have to perform. The only times the mask slipped enough for him to breathe.

Now some ex-military hulk was apparently going to breathe near him for twenty-four hours a day.

Disgusting.

“Let the team get here, talk to them, and then maybe you can continue part two of your theatrics.” Rehman said.

“Bhai,” Uzair tried again, now sounding victimized.

“I have made my decision clear. They are going to be here, and that’s it.” Rehman said with a tone that brooked no arguments.

“But why?” Uzair whined, dragging the word.

“Because there are threats to your life you don’t know about.” Rehman said through a clenched jaw.

“That’s not new, Bhai. You know it, so why are you so…” Uzair hesitated before finally saying it carefully. “Scared?”

That made the room go quiet for a second.

Because Rehman Baloch wasn’t scared of anything. Not cops. Not politicians. Not rival gangs. Not business rivals.

So, what had changed?

“There are things in motion that you know nothing about,” Rehman said finally.

“Once they get here, they’ll brief us properly. And once that happens, I expect you to behave.”

A wicked smile crossed Uzair’s face before he quickly schooled his expression into innocence. “Who, me? Bhai, I am a paragon of innocence.” He even widened his eyes for effect.

Rehman snorted loudly. “You haven’t been innocent since the day I caught you trying to google porn when you were thirteen.”

The room erupted into laughter.

Uzair turned tomato red instantly. “Traitorous dogs,” he hissed at the laughing men. “All of you.”

“Fine,” he muttered eventually. “I know how to handle them.”

His brain immediately began producing the worst possible ideas imaginable.

“When are they getting here?” he asked suspiciously.

“Tonight.”

Uzair groaned loudly like he had just received news of his execution. “What do we know about my new nanny?”

“Nothing till they get here,” Rehman replied calmly.

Uzair looked out the window as his phone vibrated in his pocket. His latest hookup.

He sighed dramatically while replying to the text. Might as well enjoy the last few hours of freedom before his life became a hostage situation.

—

While Uzair sat down in the garden of the haveli plotting against his future security team, one Jaskirat Singh Rangi sat thirty thousand feet in the air, calmly flipping through the files handed to him aboard his flight.

Uzair’s handsome face smiled back from the photographs with the kind of charm that usually came attached to scandals and controversies. Jaskirat stared at the picture for a long second before sighing deeply. Yeah. This assignment was going to ruin his peace.

And a collision, it seemed, was absolutely inevitable.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2 - The immovable force

Jaskirat Singh Rangi woke at four am and did what he had been doing for over fifteen years: run ten kilometres. Mumbai’s streets were quiet and almost empty at that hour, so he ran. The military had drilled absolute discipline into him. Fifteen years of service and an honourable discharge would do that to a man. He had his medals. His commendations. His war stories. Those were the stories that kept him awake at night.

The smell of gunpowder had become part of him. The calluses on his hands and the scars on his body bore witness to both his skills and his kills. What he lacked was a home for his heart. He had buried it beneath his oath to the nation, ignored it in favour of military rules, and slowly suffocated it under years of lying to everyone who asked if he was okay.

He was fine.

That was his answer to his doctors, his sisters, his parents, and his friends.

He was fine.

He had a decent pension, a family, and co-workers at Phoenix Security Inc. But his green eyes, dulled over the years, told a different story. No one looked deeply enough to see the scars etched into his soul, or the hollow space in his chest that no one had ever managed to fill.

Back home, in a cramped one-bedroom flat in a residential corner of the city that made commuting hellish, he stepped inside dripping sweat. He glanced longingly at the weights in his living room before deciding, another day.

He had just stepped out of the shower when his phone rang.

Aalam.

His handler. His boss at the organisation. Jaskirat picked up, already bracing himself for an assignment he hoped would keep his mind occupied.

“Hamza.”

The name always hits like a jolt to the nervous system. During his years in the armed forces, he had worn many identities. Hamza Ali Mazari was one of the few that had followed him home. Most personas had died natural deaths once missions ended. Hamza survived.

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Hamza, we have a job for you. Serious risk assessment and management. Multi-person operation, so you will be teaming up with Rizwan. Get to the office. We need to talk.”

He grunted his assent and quickly dressed in black cargo pants, a Phoenix Inc. t-shirt, and his trusted combat boots.

By the time he arrived at the office, the glass corridors buzzed with organised chaos and practiced discipline. He muttered as many good mornings as he could before heading straight for Aalam’s office.

Rizwan was already there, lounging in a chair with a cup of tea and a grin that promised trouble at Hamza’s expense.

Everyone at Phoenix Inc. used code names for operational security. Some names, like Hamza’s, came with history.

Mohammad Aalam, formerly Major Gaurav Rai, knew two things. First, his best agent was about to throw a fit. Second, only that same agent could do this job.

He silently prayed for patience.

Rizwan, aka formerly Captain Roshan Khanna, was sprawled across his chair with the kind of loose ease that would have gotten him kicked out of a military briefing. But it was the grin on his face put Hamza on edge.

Rizwan knew something.

And worse, he was enjoying it.

Aalam looked up from his computer and took a measured breath.

“Hamza, we have a task for you. The client is a VIP. Businessman. Political aspirant.”

“Your favourite kind,” Rizwan quipped.

Aalam ignored him.

“He received death threats. Targets include his wife, his two children; ages thirteen and eight and his brother. Cousin, technically, but close enough.”

“Okay…” Hamza said slowly. “Who are they?”

“The Baloch brothers.”

Hamza frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Rehman Baloch. Owner of Istiqāmat Conglomerate.”

“You mean the thug who paid off half the system to legitimise his business?”

Rizwan snorted loudly. “So politically correct, bro.”

Aalam continued as though neither of them had spoken.

“Yesterday morning, Rehman received a threatening letter. Explicit threats against the family, especially his brother Uzair Baloch.”

“Uzair Baloch?”

“Yes. That Uzair Baloch.”

Rizwan burst out laughing.

“Yes, I know who he is,” Hamza deadpanned. “Anyone who watches football and owns an internet connection knows who he is. If he’s made enemies, I am not surprised. He is a brat.”

“Well,” Aalam replied calmly, “the brat needs a bodyguard. And you are the right fit.”

“One,” Rizwan whispered under his breath.

“Don’t.”

“Two.”

“Rizwan.”

“Three.”

“Absolutely not.”

“NO.”

“Hamza…”

“No.”

“Hamza,” Aalam said firmly, “this is not a request. It’s an order.”

“You are ordering me to babysit a spoilt celebrity?”

“That is the assignment, yes.” “Then why can’t Rizwan do Uzair while I take the family?”

“Because,” Rizwan cut in smoothly, “I have a girlfriend. He’s not my type.”

Hamza frowned. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Rizwan only smirked into his tea. “Exactly what I said.”

Aalam closed his eyes briefly, already regretting this assignment. Hamza stared at him with what he hoped conveyed profound disappointment in humanity.

Aalam pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Can we behave like trained professionals for five minutes?”

Silence.

Then he continued.

“The threat isn’t from a disgruntled fan or some random rival. It’s from the same people who killed Uzair’s parents.”

That got Hamza’s attention.

He knew Uzair was an orphan. Rehman had raised him after the murders.

“It’s Arshad Pappu,” Aalam said. “Started as a low-level gangster. Now he’s partnered with Babu Dakait, and together they have built serious influence.”

Hamza exhaled slowly.

“Why now? After all these years?”

“Because Rehman Dakait is preparing to join a major political party. If things go well, he could become the next MLA. That doesn’t work in favour of old enemies with long memories.”

“Rehman Dakait?” Rizwan interrupted.

“Babu Dakait?” Hamza asked, connecting dots.

“Yes,” Aalam replied. “Rehman is his illegitimate son. Not public knowledge, but not exactly a secret either.”

Rizwan blinked. “This is a landfill sitting on top of a landmine.”

“Which,” Aalam replied dryly, “is why I need my best people on this. Rizwan handles the family. Hamza gets Uzair.”

Hamza looked unimpressed.

“I don’t like babysitting.”

“Lucky for you, he’s a fully grown adult.”

“The man trends on social media more often than terrorists make watchlists,” Hamza muttered. “He was literally trending today for firing a gun.”

“It was a registered weapon,” Aalam replied. “And he’s a trained marksman.”

Hamza registered the information but said nothing.

“Gentlemen,” Aalam concluded holding out files, “the briefing is over. Assignment begins tomorrow. You leave for Meerut at fifteen hundred hours today.”

Hamza remained expressionless as he grabbed the files and walked out. Rizwan hurried after him, grinning like a menace.

“So…” Rizwan drawled. “Uzair Baloch.”

“Shut up.”

Meanwhile, in Meerut, a certain six-foot-two man was throwing a temper tantrum most toddlers would have been proud of. Uzair Baloch, a force of chaos wrapped in charm, was about to collide headfirst with an immovable force and for the first time in a long time, he might not be the unstoppable storm.

Chapter 1- So it begins…

The mornings at the haveli were always bustling with life. It started small, with the servants waking up, the lights being switched off, curtains being pulled back, names being shouted in a tone that wasn't hushed but wasn't quite loud either. Rehman Dakait, known to the world as Rehman Baloch, woke up slowly and smiled sleepily at his wife, Ulfat, who had just woken up. "Meri jaan," he whispered. She looked at him; instead of replying, she moved closer. She rested her head on his naked torso and slowly rubbed soothing circles on his chest while he held her close. These were their little rituals that kept him sane before the madness of the day began, before his budding political career beckoned him, before his kids needed their Abba, before his business claimed his attention, and before his brother's latest antics sent his blood pressure skyrocketing.

It started small. Rehman always thought, how do things that have the potential to cause maximum damage start small? His brother's doings, or wrongdoings, did not reach him in loud noises but in small pings. His phone notifications went crazy. It was a new article, and it wasn't flattering. The headlines screamed, "Cousin of prominent businessman Rehman Baloch caught firing a gun." Rehman sighed, looked skywards for patience, and slowly got off the bed. He absolutely refused to give his cousin, his brother, his first child, any more thought for the next 15 minutes... or till they both ended up at the breakfast table together.

Ulfat Baloch is many things: a wife, a mother, a sister-in-law. Married into a political family with a celebrity BIL, she knows life is far from easy. But within her four walls, on her dining table, she was the law. So, when her darling BIL came stumbling in from his early morning practice, reeking of sweat, his cleats tracking mud over her precious floor and, God forbid, her expensive rug, she sent him away to take a shower and be presentable, while her husband glared at his cousin. She knew a storm was coming and decided it could wait till everyone had had paratha and chai.

Uzair Baloch has a reputation for being a player; a good one on-field and a questionable one off-field. As one of the best centre forwards, he is known to be aggressive, lethal, and absolutely in love with the game. The vice-captain of his premier football team, a player on the Indian National Team, wasn't a stranger to controversies. His take on cricketers and their extremely privileged sport was well documented. Him playing fast and loose with women in public was well documented. But what most people did not know was that the Uzair Baloch whose public persona screamed so loud had a reason to drown his real feelings. That his need for speed, his incessant need to speak his mind, his brattiness, was just him burying his real self. He is gay. He knew it, his heart knew it, his body knew it, but his brother didn't, neither did his bhabhi. They, along with his nephews, were his whole world, all that was left of their family. He could never tell them; he knew what was at stake. That, along with being a part of a masculinity-obsessed sport, kept him firmly inside the closet, his own personal hell while he raised hell outside.

While Rehman was still stewing in his anger over Uzair’s latest video, their house help, Akhlaq, delivered some of the mail that was left out in the open, one of which was addressed to Rehman with ‘Private and Confidential’ written over it. It was heavy, but the cover itself was cheap. Curiosity got the better of Rehman. He opened it with his silver letter opener, only for the contents of the letter to fall from his hand, the words and pictures sending a chill through his heart. He took a shaky breath before he calmed down, and hot white anger settled in his chest.

Ulfat, who had been quietly eating, came over to her husband, took one look at the contents, and paled. She sat down heavily in the chair next to him.

“It’s Uzair,” Ulfat whispered.

“Not just him. They have threatened the kids too, all of us,” Rehman muttered. “But yes, it’s mostly him.”

“But… who wants to…”

Rehman laughed harshly. “The politicians, the cricket fanatics, the people who hate him for his opinions, his political stance, his football opponents, my business rivals… take a pick,” he finished with a heavy breath.

Ulfat gripped his hand, and he gripped back tighter. Exactly as if summoned purely by their worries, Uzair emerged with a megawatt smile that dimmed when he saw their expressions.

“Kya hua… koi marr gaya kya…” he asked with a bit of a laugh and some trepidation.

Ulfat looked at him with worry, and Rehman simply got up and walked away to make a phone call. And it was that call that changed everything. It brought Jaskirat Singh Rangi into their lives, a strong, capable, lethal, immovable force with green eyes and a stoicism that needed to be studied. And when this immovable force met the unstoppable storm that is Uzair Baloch, sparks flew, fires were set—a slow burn that would change everything.