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!”
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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.”
“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.”
“I am literally from Punjab.”
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.
The two men hugged tightly, Hamza looking at his best friend whom he hadn’t seen in months.
“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.
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Yet another long read! I loved writing this one, i hope you guys enjoy reading it. Let me know your thoughts in the comments. I love hearing from you guys!