Just a gentle disclaimer: this chapter is in 1st person POV. So please keep that in mind while reading it
Aarav's POV
The IPL moved quickly. Days blurred into each other—practice sessions, travel, games, recovery. But as the season reached its halfway mark, I could feel how much I had grown in such a short span of time.
When I looked back at my first few games, I could see the nervous energy in my run-up, the hesitation in my eyes. I was bowling to survive. Now, six games later, I was bowling with purpose.
The yorker—my obsession for weeks—was no longer just a training-ground experiment. Under the watchful eye of Stokes, who constantly drilled into me the art of controlling length at will, I had turned it into something I could call mine. At first, I would hit one good yorker in every ten balls. Then five out of ten. Now, more often than not, I could land it when I wanted. And when I saw a batsman forced into a desperate block or a hurried dig-out, a quiet thrill ran through me. This was progress.
But it wasn't just about one delivery. The deeper lesson was discipline. The ability to trust the process, not rush for immediate results. There were matches where I didn't pick wickets, where my figures were plain and unspectacular. But I bowled tight lines. I contained runs. I built pressure. And in team meetings, I noticed how captains and coaches valued that just as much as the wickets.
That's when I realized: consistency was my identity. I didn't need to be flashy. I needed to be reliable.
Off the field, my cricketing education continued. Sitting in the dugout, I studied opposition bowlers with the eye of a student. Bumrah's wrist at release. Malinga's angle. Harbhajan's patience. Every over bowled was like a page in a textbook I was trying to memorize. In my diary, I filled pages with notes—field placements that worked, lengths batsmen struggled against, match situations where risks backfired. The game, I was learning, wasn't just played on the pitch. It was studied, absorbed, and then executed.
And then, there was Kavitha.
Our connection was strange in its simplicity. We weren't in love—not yet. But there was something steady and grounding in the way we spoke. Late at night, after matches, I'd find myself replaying her laughter in my head as I stared at the ceiling. A single message from her—something as small as "How's your body holding up?"—was enough to make the fatigue melt.
Sometimes, during those long, quiet hotel evenings, we'd talk on the phone. About her classes, her friends, her struggles in med school. About my matches, my routines, the pressure of expectations. We rarely spoke about "us." It was like we were walking on parallel tracks, close enough to hear each other, far enough to never collide.
Yet, I could feel it. A bond deeper than friendship. A presence that mattered more than I wanted to admit.
There were moments in games when I'd take a wicket, the adrenaline rushing through me, and the first thought that came wasn't about the applause from the stands or the high-fives from teammates. It was the hope that she had seen it on TV, that she had smiled.
But I kept it all to myself. She was back in Vijayawada, chasing her own dreams. I was here, grinding on the biggest stage of my life. Neither of us wanted to disturb the delicate balance we had built.
So I let it be. She stayed in the background of my mind—like a soft melody playing underneath the chaos of cricket. Not distracting, but calming. Not binding, but freeing.
As the tournament moved forward, I began to see that this balance—between ambition and connection, between pressure and peace—was what made me stronger.
Half the IPL was done. Half still remained. My yorker was sharp. My consistency was my strength. My hunger was intact.
And when the days got too long, when the noise of cricket threatened to drown me, I had that one voice waiting at the other end of the line, ready to remind me that I was more than just a bowler in a jersey.
It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was enough to keep me calm. Enough to make me believe.