The Kerala Blasters senior training ground felt like another universe.
Gone were the familiar routines of the academy. This place breathed intensity — GPS vests, nutrition charts, tactical briefings, professional-grade drills. The grass was perfect, but the pressure wasn't.
Arjun stood at the edge of the field, heart pounding under the yellow of his newly issued senior practice kit.
Beside him, Faizan bounced lightly on his heels, cracking his knuckles, muttering to himself. The cockiness was still there, but so was something else now — respect. Uneasy, unspoken, but growing.
The assistant coach blew his whistle.
"Rookies. Over here."
They jogged forward. A dozen senior players turned to look. Some smirked, others whispered. One of them — tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing the captain's band — eyed them like a hunter sizing up prey.
"Listen up," the assistant barked. "This is not a charity run. You're not here for photos. You're here to prove you belong. We don't care about academy hype. One bad session and you're back to U18."
Arjun nodded. But deep inside, a voice stirred:
> "I've played in colder places. Harder crowds. Rougher trials."
> "And I failed."
> "Not again."
---
The drill began with simple rondos. But nothing about it was simple at this level.
The passes were faster. The tackles sharper. The talking constant.
Arjun tried to adapt — quick touches, clean movement, scanning the pitch. He looked for spaces, angles, openings.
One touch too slow — whack. A senior midfielder clipped him with a shoulder.
"You sleepin', kid?" he growled.
Arjun got back up without a word.
Then came tactical exercises. Arjun's mind raced. The formations were fluid — from 4-2-3-1 to a 3-4-3 during transitions. He needed to be everywhere, and nowhere, at once.
And yet — something clicked.
He started reading plays before they happened. Sliding passes into spaces no one else saw. Feints that pulled markers out of position. Silent link-ups with Faizan.
Coach Sameer, watching from the stands, leaned toward the assistant.
"He's absorbing it."
---
By the afternoon, Arjun had won over some of the seniors.
But the captain wasn't one of them.
Aditya Menon — veteran, central midfielder, club legend.
After Arjun intercepted one of his passes and turned it into a goal during a scrimmage, Aditya approached him during the cooldown.
"You've got legs. And eyes," he said.
Arjun turned, unsure if that was a compliment.
"But this club bleeds for loyalty, not flashes," Aditya added, voice firm. "One good game won't make you family."
"I'm not here for family," Arjun replied calmly. "I'm here to finish something that was left behind."
Aditya studied him for a moment. Then walked away.
---
Later that night, Arjun called Amma.
He sat alone on the hostel roof, looking up at the stars above Kochi.
"Ma… the seniors are faster. Smarter. I'm not sure I'm ready."
Amma's voice was soft on the other end. "Did Appa ever say he was ready when he faced his first match?"
"No."
"But he played anyway."
"…He did."
"Then so will you."
---
Meanwhile, Kalyani stood in a film set vanity van, watching Arjun's latest match clip on mute. She smiled to herself — not just out of admiration, but something more intimate.
She'd watched him change.
He used to play like someone trying to prove himself.
Now, he played like someone chasing down a promise.
Her assistant knocked. "Ma'am, they're calling you to the shot."
She tucked her phone away. "Coming."
But even on the film set, her mind was still on him.
---
Three weeks passed. Arjun stayed with the senior squad.
His fitness improved. His movement sharpened. Aditya, though distant, began to pass to him more in practice. Coaches nodded more often. Reporters started mentioning his name in training reports.
Then came the announcement:
> "Arjun Dev and Faizan Qureshi named in squad for the Kerala Blasters Durand Cup opening fixture."
A proper match.
A senior debut.
---
Game day.
Kochi's Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium roared like a beast.
Over 30,000 fans. The Yellow Wall. Flares. Drums. Chants of "Blasters! Blasters!"
Arjun sat on the bench, heart racing. His name on the back of a senior team jersey. His number: 24.
The first half was tight. No goals. Heavy tackles. Tactical chess.
Then in the 60th minute, Coach turned to him.
"Arjun. Warm up."
He stood up, pulled his jersey down, and jogged along the sidelines as the crowd began murmuring.
Then the fourth official raised the board.
Number 24 — IN.
---
He stepped onto the pitch and everything slowed down.
The lights.
The sound.
The smell of turf.
He closed his eyes for a second.
> "Appa… this is real."
> "This is finally real."
---