The academy was unusually tense. Coach Devraj paced near the nets, checking his watch every few minutes. Cones were perfectly aligned, pitch freshly rolled, and even Kabir had tucked in his shirt.
"Selectors are coming," Rafiq whispered to Nikhil. "Today."
Nikhil's heart skipped. The district trials were still two weeks away. Why now?
Devraj gathered the boys. "Listen up. Two district selectors will observe today's match. No announcements. No second chances. Play like your future depends on it—because it does."
Nikhil swallowed hard. He hadn't told his father about the surprise match. He hadn't eaten breakfast. And Veer—his new bat—still felt unfamiliar in high-pressure games.
The teams were reshuffled. Nikhil was placed in Team Red, batting at number three. Kabir was in Team Blue, opening the bowling.
The match began. Team Red lost an early wicket. Nikhil walked in, eyes scanning the boundary where two men in white shirts and sunglasses stood silently, arms folded.
First ball: Kabir steaming in. Short, fast, aimed at the chest.
Nikhil ducked.
Second ball: full and swinging. Nikhil drove—edge, two runs.
Third ball: slower one. Nikhil read it late, mistimed—dot ball.
He felt tight. His shoulders stiff. His mind cluttered.
Then he heard a voice from the boundary.
"Relax your grip, boy. Let the bat breathe."
It was Rana ji.
Nikhil exhaled. He adjusted his stance. Next ball: Kabir tried a yorker. Nikhil stepped back and flicked—four runs.
The tension broke.
He began rotating strike, finding gaps, building rhythm. Rafiq joined him at the crease, calling sharp singles, keeping the scoreboard ticking.
By the end of the innings, Nikhil had scored 41 off 28 balls—not flashy, but composed.
During the break, one of the selectors approached Devraj. They spoke quietly. Devraj nodded, then called Nikhil over.
"Good knock," he said. "But they want to see more. You'll bowl the last two overs."
Nikhil blinked. "I'm not a bowler."
"You're a cricketer," Devraj replied. "Show them."
Team Blue needed 22 runs off 12 balls. Kabir was still at the crease.
Nikhil took the ball. His fingers trembled. He hadn't bowled in weeks.
First over: 6 runs. One boundary, three dots.
Final over: 16 needed.
Kabir on strike.
First ball: short. Kabir pulled—six.
Second ball: full. Kabir drove—four.
Eight needed off four.
Nikhil closed his eyes. He remembered Shera. He remembered Chandpur. He remembered why he played.
Third ball: slower one. Kabir mistimed—caught at deep midwicket.
The field erupted.
Fourth ball: dot.
Fifth ball: single.
Sixth ball: two runs.
Team Red won by four runs.
After the match, the selectors spoke to Devraj again. One of them glanced at Nikhil and nodded.
Devraj walked over. "You're shortlisted."
Nikhil smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He had done it. But he knew the road ahead was longer, harder, and lonelier.
That night, his father coughed violently. The medicine had run out. The tea stall earnings weren't enough.
Nikhil sat beside him, holding his hand.
"I made the list," he said softly.
His father smiled weakly. "Then make it count."