The academy ground was unusually quiet that morning. The usual banter, the thuds of leather on willow, even Kabir's cocky laughter—all muted. Something had shifted.
Nikhil had scored a half-century in the last match. Not a fluke, not a lucky swing—pure, technical brilliance. And now, the whispers had begun.
"Coach favors him."
"He's not even from the academy."
"Street kid with a magic bat."
Nikhil heard them. Every word. But he didn't react. He just tied his laces tighter and walked to the nets.
Coach Devraj was waiting, arms crossed. "You're early."
"Two minutes early is still late," Nikhil replied.
Devraj smiled. "Good. Today we test your temperament. Match simulation. You'll bat with a target. No second chances."
The setup was simple: 10 overs, chase 72 runs. Fielders placed strategically. Bowlers rotated. Pressure real.
Nikhil padded up. His new bat—still unnamed—felt heavier today. Not physically, but emotionally. Expectations clung to it like dew.
First over: 6 runs. Easy singles, one boundary.
Second over: dot balls. Tight fielding. Frustration building.
Third over: a mistimed pull. Nearly caught.
Fourth over: Kabir came in to bowl.
His eyes locked with Nikhil's. "Let's see if you're still special."
First ball: short and fast. Nikhil ducked.
Second ball: full and swinging. Nikhil drove—edge, four.
Third ball: slower one. Nikhil misread it. LBW appeal.
Umpire said not out.
The tension was thick.
By the seventh over, Nikhil had 39 runs. Required rate climbing. He needed boundaries.
He stepped out to loft a spinner—misjudged. The ball flew high, straight to long-off.
Caught.
Silence.
Devraj didn't speak. He just noted the score and walked away.
Kabir smirked. "Pressure's different when you're not playing in slippers."
Nikhil sat alone by the boundary, staring at the bat. He hadn't named it yet. Maybe it didn't deserve one.
Rafiq walked over. "You played well."
"I lost."
"You learned."
That night, Nikhil didn't sleep. He replayed every ball. Every mistake. Every hesitation.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
"Lesson: Pressure reveals truth.
Fix: Shot selection under stress.
Goal: Finish games. Not just start them."
Then, he turned to the next page and wrote one word:
"Veer."
He looked at the bat leaning against the wall.
"Your name is Veer," he whispered. "Because you'll fight with me."