The academy ground had changed. It wasn't just the pitch or the drills—it was the energy. Every boy shortlisted for the district trials moved with urgency, as if each step, each swing, each breath could tip the scales. The countdown had begun: seven days to go.
Nikhil arrived early, as always. The sun hadn't yet pierced the morning haze, and the dew clung to his shoes. He jogged laps around the boundary, Veer tucked under his arm, his breath steady, his mind sharper than ever.
Coach Devraj watched from the pavilion, sipping tea. "You're not chasing selection anymore," he said as Nikhil passed. "You're chasing legacy."
Nikhil slowed. "I'm chasing survival."
Devraj smiled. "Same thing."
The day's session was intense—match scenarios, fitness drills, and mental conditioning. Nikhil was paired with Kabir for a two-over batting simulation. The goal: score 20 runs without losing a wicket.
Kabir didn't speak as they padded up. He just nodded once, then walked to the crease.
First ball: Kabir flicked it for four.
Second ball: dot.
Third ball: single.
Nikhil took strike. The bowler was Rohan, the spinner. First ball: tossed up. Nikhil stepped out and lofted—six.
Second ball: quicker. Nikhil cut—four.
Third ball: full. Nikhil defended.
They ended with 21 runs. No wickets lost.
Kabir looked at him, surprised. "You're not bad."
Nikhil shrugged. "I'm not done."
Later, during cooldown, Kabir sat beside him on the bench. "You know, I used to think you were just lucky. But you work harder than anyone here."
Nikhil didn't respond.
Kabir continued, "My dad's a selector. That's why I got in early. But he says talent without hunger is useless."
Nikhil turned. "Then you better get hungry."
Kabir laughed. "Maybe I already am."
That evening, Nikhil returned home to find his father asleep, a half-empty medicine bottle beside him. The tea stall had closed early. The earnings weren't enough.
Nikhil sat quietly, watching the ceiling fan spin. He opened his notebook and wrote:
"Lesson: Respect is earned, not demanded.
Fix: Stay humble. Stay sharp.
Goal: Make the trials count.
Reminder: Hunger is the difference."
The next morning, Rana ji was waiting outside the academy gate with a small cloth bundle.
"I made something for you," he said.
Inside was a pair of custom batting gloves—stitched by hand, padded with care, and marked with a small lion emblem.
"For Shera," Rana ji said. "And for Veer."
Nikhil's throat tightened. "I'll wear them with pride."
"You'll wear them with purpose," Rana ji corrected.
That day, Nikhil batted like a man possessed. He faced 60 balls in the nets, scored 72 runs, and didn't get out once. Devraj watched silently, then walked over.
"You're ready," he said.
Nikhil nodded. "I'm not afraid anymore."
Devraj smiled. "Good. Because fear is the first ball every batsman faces. You just learned to play it."