Just a gentle disclaimer: this chapter is in 1st person POV. So please keep that in mind while reading it
Aarav's POV
Six matches gone. Three wins, three losses. The IPL table didn't flatter anyone, least of all me. On paper, I had done my job—disciplined overs, one or two breakthroughs, a handful of useful runs. But in reality, I knew the truth. I wasn't yet impactful. I wasn't yet the player who turned games.
And that knowledge stung more than any defeat.
The Delhi Daredevils match played in my head like a film on loop. Chasing 200, we had folded for just 120. I had walked in at 90 for 7, the wreckage of a collapsed top order around me. For once, the stage had been set—not for glory, but for resilience. I could've hung around, stitched a stand with the tail, maybe salvaged pride if not victory.
Instead, I did what my younger self in college would've done. Swing big. Two boundaries, one massive six, adrenaline surging. Fifteen runs in eight balls. And then—gone. Top edge. Caught.
The applause from the crowd meant nothing. The look on the coach's face meant everything: disappointment without words. Walking back, my own heart hammered accusations: "You could have done more. You should have done more."
That night in the hotel, I sat at my desk with my diary open. The page looked emptier than ever. I forced myself to write the truth:
Lesson 1: Control the adrenaline. Don't let excitement decide your shot. Big hits don't always win matches. Survival sometimes does.
The very next game against Gujarat was a different script, but the same verdict. We had posted 184, a competitive score. My four overs should have been the clamps that sealed the win. Instead, they were cracks in the wall. 1 for 32. Not disastrous, but not threatening. Finch and McCullum picked off my short balls, and my yorker—my supposed weapon—hardly made an appearance.
I wrote again:
Lesson 2: Pressure is collective. Every ball matters. A single bad delivery doesn't just give runs—it releases tension built by others.
The act of writing those lines didn't ease the weight. If anything, it pressed harder. IPL wasn't school cricket where learning could happen quietly in the shadows. Here, every mistake was public, magnified, replayed, and analyzed.
I stared at the ceiling fan that night, the shadows flickering across the hotel room wall. I wasn't afraid of failure. What scared me was irrelevance—being the kind of player who was remembered for being "promising" but never more.
I opened my tablet and rewatched my overs frame by frame. Each delivery was a lesson:
That slower ball too wide.
That short delivery sitting up to be hit.
That yorker attempt turning into a half-volley.
I wasn't watching with regret now; I was watching like a surgeon, dissecting my own craft. And yet, despite the analysis, the sting in my chest wouldn't go away.
That was when I reached for my phone.
Kavitha.
Her name glowing on the screen was different from any stat, any replay, any criticism. I pressed call, and when her voice answered—soft, warm, familiar—I finally let myself breathe.
"How are you?" she asked, already sensing the heaviness in my silence.
"Tough day," I admitted. My voice cracked more than I wanted it to.
"Cricket?" she guessed.
"Always cricket."
She didn't lecture me, didn't tell me to cheer up, didn't offer clichés. Instead, she listened. I told her about the Delhi match, how stupid I felt throwing my wicket away. I told her about Gujarat, how every loose ball felt like a betrayal to my teammates. I told her about the pressure of knowing thousands were watching, judging, expecting.
When I finished, she said quietly, "Aarav… you're too hard on yourself. Failure isn't betrayal. It's training. You'll get better because you're seeing it this clearly. Not everyone does."
Something in her words settled the storm. For a moment, I wasn't an IPL cricketer drowning in self-doubt. I was just a boy from Hyderabad talking to a girl who believed in him.
And yet, even that comfort carried its own weight. I knew we weren't "just friends." We both knew. But neither of us dared step beyond that line. The distance between Manali and Hyderabad, between her MBBS textbooks and my cricketing life, was too wide. Still, the late-night calls, the stolen conversations—they kept me sane.
In the mornings, I returned to my notes with new clarity. Fatigue felt lighter after talking to her. The self-doubt shrank. I told myself: One mistake at a time. One improvement at a time.
Six matches in, the numbers said average. But deep down, I felt something stirring. My yorker was sharper. My reading of batsmen was clearer. My discipline was harder. And through every high and low, there was Kavitha—never telling me what to do, but reminding me who I was.
The IPL had its own mirror, reflecting every flaw and every strength. And I had no choice but to look into it, unflinching.