The district stadium loomed like a fortress—tall floodlights, manicured turf, and a gallery that could seat hundreds. For Nikhil, it felt like stepping into another world. Chandpur's dusty field was a memory now. This was the proving ground.
He arrived early, Veer slung over his shoulder, his new gloves tucked into his backpack. Rafiq walked beside him, eyes wide with awe. "This place smells like real cricket," he whispered.
Nikhil nodded. "It smells like opportunity."
Inside, the shortlisted players were gathering—thirty boys from across the region, each handpicked from academies, schools, and local clubs. Some wore branded kits. Others had personal coaches. Nikhil wore his academy whites, freshly washed, still damp at the collar.
Coach Devraj met them at the gate. "You're not here to impress me anymore," he said. "You're here to earn respect. Play smart. Play clean. And don't let the noise get to you."
The trials were structured over three days—batting, bowling, fielding, and match simulations. Each player would be scored by a panel of selectors, including Kabir's father, Mr. Rajan, a stern man with a clipboard and a reputation for favoring academy-trained boys.
Day one began with fielding drills. Nikhil was placed in Group C, alongside Kabir, Aditya, and two boys from the city's elite sports school. The drill was simple: catch, throw, dive, repeat.
Nikhil moved like a machine—low stance, quick reflexes, clean throws. His dives were sharp, his recoveries faster than most. But when he missed a high catch, one of the selectors scribbled something on his sheet.
Kabir smirked. "One mistake. That's all it takes."
Nikhil didn't respond. He knew better than to chase perfection. He chased consistency.
Next came the batting nets. Each player got ten balls. The bowlers were district-level pacers, fast and unforgiving. Nikhil padded up, adjusted Veer's grip, and stepped in.
First ball: short. He pulled—four.
Second ball: full. He drove—dot.
Third ball: slower one. He waited—single.
He didn't dominate, but he adapted. He played each ball on merit, never forcing a shot. By the tenth delivery, he had scored 13 runs, no dismissals.
Mr. Rajan watched silently, then turned to another selector. "He's composed," he said. "But not flashy."
The other replied, "Flash doesn't win matches."
Kabir batted next. He hit two sixes, one four, and got bowled trying to slog the last ball. The crowd cheered. Mr. Rajan smiled.
During lunch break, Nikhil sat alone under a neem tree, eating roti and pickle from a steel tiffin. Rafiq joined him, munching on a banana.
"You think they'll pick us?" Rafiq asked.
"I think we'll make it hard for them not to," Nikhil replied.
That afternoon, the boys were split into teams for match simulation. Nikhil was placed in Team Green, batting at number three. Kabir was in Team Blue, opening the bowling again.
The match began. Team Green lost an early wicket. Nikhil walked in, calm, focused. Kabir bowled the first over—fast, aggressive, full of intent.
First ball: short. Nikhil ducked.
Second ball: full. Nikhil defended.
Third ball: slower one. Nikhil stepped out and lofted—six.
The crowd stirred.
He built a partnership with Aditya, rotating strike, finding gaps. By the end of the innings, Nikhil had scored 42 off 30 balls, retiring out to give others a chance.
After the match, Devraj approached him. "You're playing like you belong."
"I do," Nikhil said.
Mr. Rajan passed by, glanced at Nikhil, and nodded once. It wasn't approval. But it wasn't dismissal either.
That night, Nikhil returned home to find his father asleep, a faint smile on his lips. The medicine had helped. The cough was lighter.
Nikhil sat beside him, opened his notebook, and wrote:
"Lesson: Belonging isn't given. It's earned.
Fix: Stay grounded.
Goal: Make the final list.
Reminder: One mistake doesn't define you."
He looked at Veer, then at the stars outside his window.
Tomorrow was day two.