The ball rolled across the ground as if it refused to stop.
Ayaan Khan chased it without thinking, bare feet slapping against the hard, uneven earth. Dust rose with every step, clinging to his skin, filling his lungs, but he didn't slow down. The late afternoon sun hung low over the abandoned factory behind him, painting the sky orange, yet Ayaan saw only one thing,the ball.
The "field" was nothing more than a vacant lot filled with stones, broken glass, and patches of dry grass. Two bricks on each side marked the goalposts. There were no nets, no lines, no rules beyond what the boys shouted at each other. But to Ayaan, this place was sacred. This was where he felt alive.
"Last goal wins!" someone yelled.
Ayaan wiped sweat from his forehead with his forearm. His jersey—two sizes too big and faded beyond recognition—stuck to his body. He nodded once, eyes sharp.
The ball came toward him after a messy tackle. He trapped it cleanly, instinctively, as if it were an extension of his body. A defender rushed in. Ayaan shifted his weight, faked right, went left. Another boy lunged, kicking nothing but air.
The shouts faded. The laughter disappeared.
For a brief moment, there was only him and the goal.
He struck the ball with everything he had.
It flew low and fast, slipping perfectly between the bricks.
Goal.
The silence lasted half a second.
Then the lot exploded with noise.
"Are you crazy?!"
"Where did that come from?"
"You're cheating, man!"
The boys rushed him, slapping his back, laughing, shoving him playfully. Someone nearly knocked him over. Ayaan smiled, breathless, but his eyes drifted beyond them, past the broken walls and rusted metal, toward the distant city skyline.
Far away, a stadium stood tall, its floodlights just beginning to glow.
One day, he thought.
One day, I'll play there.
Reality returned the moment he reached home.
The small house smelled of oil and spices. His mother sat on the floor chopping vegetables, her bangles clinking softly. His father lay on the narrow bed, work boots still on, staring at the ceiling.
"You're late," his father said without looking at him.
"I know," Ayaan replied quietly.
He washed his feet at the door, watching brown water swirl away. He picked up his schoolbag and pretended to check his books.
"You were playing again," his father said.
Ayaan hesitated. Lying felt worse than the truth.
"Yes."
His father sighed, long and tired. "Football won't feed you. It won't pay rent. You think talent is enough?"
Ayaan said nothing.
"You're smart," his father continued. "Study. Get a proper job. Don't ruin your life chasing fantasies."
The words stung, but Ayaan nodded.
"I understand."
That night, after the lights were turned off, Ayaan reached under his thin mattress and pulled out his football. It was old, the leather cracked, the stitching loose, but it was his.
He rested his hand on it.
"I won't stop," he whispered.
School felt like a prison
Teachers spoke, chalk scraped across blackboards, numbers and formulas filled the pages, but Ayaan's mind was always elsewhere. During lunch breaks, he practiced dribbling between benches, flicking the ball against walls, ignoring the laughter and comments.
"Why do you even try?" one boy sneered. "People like us don't make it."
Ayaan didn't answer. He never did.
One afternoon, as the final bell rang, a piece of paper on the notice board caught his eye.
CITY YOUTH FOOTBALL ACADEMY
OPEN TRIALS
AGES 14–16
His heart raced.
This wasn't street football. This was real. This was the first step toward that glowing stadium in the distance.
He copied down the details carefully. The date. The location. The entry fee.
His hands trembled.
The entry fee equaled two days of his father's wages.
At home, he stared at the paper until his eyes burned. Asking his parents was impossible. They were already struggling. Every coin mattered.
That night, he lay awake listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sounds of traffic. Doubt clawed at him.
What if I fail?
What if I don't go?
The second question hurt more.
Before dawn, Ayaan folded the paper neatly and slipped it into his pocket.
The academy ground felt like another world.
Perfect green grass stretched under his feet. White lines marked every inch. Boys arrived wearing branded boots, clean kits, confidence written all over their faces. Parents stood near the sidelines, filming and cheering.
Ayaan stood alone.
His shoes were worn. His jersey was borrowed. His stomach twisted with nerves.
"What's your name?" a volunteer asked.
"Ayaan Khan."
"Number twenty-seven."
The whistle blew.
The game was chaos. Everyone wanted to shine. Players dribbled too much, shouted instructions, ignored open passes. Ayaan waited, moving quietly, watching.
Minutes passed.
Nothing.
Then the ball rolled loose near midfield.
He reacted instantly.
First touch—soft.
Second—controlled.
A defender charged. Ayaan shifted, slipped past him.
Gasps rose.
Another defender closed in. Ayaan knocked the ball between his legs and burst forward.
The goal was in sight.
He didn't hesitate.
He shot.
The net rippled.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Then murmurs spread.
A coach stood up from the bench.
"Number twenty-seven," he called. "Come here."
Ayaan jogged over, heart pounding.
"What position do you play?" the coach asked.
"Forward," Ayaan replied.
The coach studied him carefully. "Where did you learn football?"
Ayaan swallowed. "On the streets."
The coach smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "That's not something you can teach."
As the sun dipped low, Ayaan walked home, legs aching, heart racing.
He didn't know if he'd be selected.
But for the first time in his life, the dream felt real.
And the ball?
The ball kept rolling forward.