A week later, Arjun stepped into the press room at Kaloor Stadium for the first time.
Flashbulbs greeted him like gunshots. Cameras zoomed in on his face, searching for emotion, weakness, expression. Microphones were shoved toward him, all labeled with logos — Manorama, Asianet, ESPN India, Kochi Times.
He wore the Kerala Blasters polo. Sat straight. Tried to remember what the media officer had told him:
> "Be honest, but brief. Don't feed drama. Smile."
But smiling was hard when he knew what the questions were going to be.
The headlines had already begun twisting the story.
> "Arjun Dev: Wonder Kid or Media Product?"
"Is Kerala Blasters Too Focused on Youth?"
"Did Arjun Skip the Line?"
One journalist stood up. "Arjun, some fans and even former players believe young players like you are being overhyped. How do you respond?"
Arjun leaned into the mic, voice calm.
> "I didn't ask for hype. I asked for a chance."
Another chimed in, a little sharper. "Do you think you've earned your place over seniors who've been waiting for years?"
He paused, hands folded.
> "I think… when you get the ball, you don't pass it back because someone else has been waiting longer.
You pass it forward if you can."
The room quieted for a moment.
The media officer gave him a subtle nod. Good answer.
---
Outside, the press area spilled into a small fan zone. Kalyani waited near a parked crew van, sunglasses on, cap low.
When Arjun stepped out, she waved him over.
"You looked like a politician in there," she teased.
"I was trying to avoid landmines."
"You dodged them all. Especially with that 'pass it forward' line."
"Thanks," he muttered, unsure how to respond when she complimented him.
They started walking, unnoticed, toward the back of the parking lot. No cameras here. Just silence.
"You know," she added, voice softer now, "you could've been defensive. Angry. But you weren't. That's rare."
He looked at her, surprised.
"I've already lived the fall," he said quietly. "I know what it feels like to be forgotten. I don't want to waste this second chance fighting ghosts."
Her step slowed.
"You really talk like someone who's lived twice."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I have."
Their hands brushed slightly as they walked. Neither pulled away.
---
But elsewhere, not everyone was rooting for him.
In a small café in Kochi, a video clip played on repeat: Arjun's debut assist. Then his interview.
Faizan sat across from a local sports blogger.
"So you want me to help stir the pot?" the blogger asked.
Faizan sipped his black coffee. Eyes cold.
"I want the truth. Arjun's talented. But don't act like he's the next Messi. Some of us are grinding too. The spotlight should be earned evenly."
"Are you sure this isn't personal?"
Faizan stared at the screen one more time.
> "He's not the only one who wants to rewrite a legacy."
---
Back at the training ground, Coach Sameer called Arjun into his office.
"Sit."
Arjun obeyed.
Coach tossed a newspaper across the table. The headline read:
> "Golden Boy or Golden Gamble?"
"They'll build you up and break you down the second you dip," Coach said. "You want to be great? Ignore the cheers. Ignore the jeers. Listen to your boots."
Arjun nodded slowly.
Coach leaned forward.
"You've got a spark. But it needs steel. You'll start next game. Against East Bengal. One of the biggest matches in the season."
A pause.
"Don't prove the headlines right. Prove yourself right."
---
The days leading up to the match were intense.
Extra fitness. Extra film review. Opponent scouting.
Arjun buried himself in prep.
He stopped checking social media.
He didn't reply to the well-wishers.
Even Kalyani's messages went unopened for a while — not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. She was becoming a presence in his mind he didn't yet understand.
---
Then came match day.
The Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium was at full capacity. Over 50,000 fans packed the Yellow Wall. It wasn't just a game — it was a war of identity.
Blasters vs East Bengal.
Legacy vs Passion.
And Arjun Dev — 17 years old — was on the team sheet.
Starting.
As the national anthem played, he glanced into the crowd.
Amma was there again. Crying already.
And in the corporate box, dressed simply but unmistakable — Kalyani Priyadarshan, hands folded under her chin, watching only him.
He shut his eyes.
> "You don't play for the crowd."
"You play for the boy who died alone in a hospital room."
"And the man who promised he'd return."
---