You don't lose your place on the field first.
You lose it on a whiteboard.
---
## BANGALORE – MATCHDAY EVE
**RCB vs KKR | IPL 2009 – Match 1**
The team room smelled of marker ink and nervous sweat.
Chairs were arranged in a loose semicircle.
Bats leaned against walls.
Phones were face down.
No music.
That was the sign.
When music stopped in an IPL dressing room, it meant decisions were coming.
Aarav sat two seats away from the aisle, hands folded, back straight. He wasn't trying to look calm.
He was trying not to think.
---
## THE WHITEBOARD
The board stood covered, blank side facing them like a judge waiting to turn.
Anil Kumble stood near it.
Dravid beside him.
The coach leaned back against the table.
No one smiled.
No one needed to.
---
## SYSTEM – THE LAST WHISPER
The system flickered weakly, like it knew it wasn't welcome here.
> **SELECTION PROBABILITY:** 62%
> **RISK FACTOR:** Price-to-performance ratio under scrutiny
> **SUGGESTION:** Prepare for impact substitute role
Aarav didn't respond.
For once, he wanted to hear bad news without a buffer.
---
## KUMBLE SPEAKS
"First game sets tone," Kumble said calmly.
"Not just for points. For standards."
Eyes moved instinctively toward certain players.
Senior names.
Safe names.
Aarav stared at the floor.
---
## THE BOARD TURNS
Kumble flipped the board.
The Playing XI was already written.
Neat.
Decisive.
Permanent marker.
Names were read silently by everyone in the room.
Dravid.
Kallis.
Pietersen.
Uthappa.
Taylor.
Kumble.
Aarav's eyes moved faster now.
Searching.
Hoping.
Then—
He saw it.
**AARAV MALHOTRA – NO. 3**
Third line.
Clear.
Unmistakable.
---
## THE MOMENT NO ONE SEES
There was no announcement.
No applause.
Just a collective exhale.
Aarav didn't react outwardly.
Inside, something unclenched violently.
Not joy.
Relief.
Which scared him more.
---
## DRAVID'S LOOK
Dravid's eyes met his.
Not celebratory.
Confirming.
*You're in. Now survive.*
That look carried more weight than words ever could.
---
## KUMBLE'S CONDITION
Kumble continued, as if nothing special had happened.
"This isn't a reward," he said.
"This is responsibility."
His eyes settled briefly on Aarav.
"Play your game. Not the auction price."
Aarav nodded.
Once.
That was enough.
---
## AFTER THE MEETING – THE REALITY SETS IN
Players stood.
Chairs scraped.
Conversations began.
Aarav remained seated for a few seconds longer.
His legs felt heavier than they should have.
This wasn't India.
This wasn't national faith.
This was a franchise that would replace him in three bad games without apology.
---
## PHONE BUZZ – THE MESSAGE HE DIDN'T EXPECT
As he walked back to the dressing room, his phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He hesitated.
Then answered.
"Hello?"
Sachin Tendulkar.
His breath caught.
"I heard you're playing tomorrow," Sachin said calmly.
"Yes, sir," Aarav replied instantly.
A pause.
Then—
"Remember," Sachin said,
"IPL crowds love moments. Teams love consistency."
Another pause.
"Choose which one you want to give first."
The line went dead.
Aarav stood still in the corridor for a long second.
That advice was heavier than technique.
---
## NIGHT – HOTEL ROOM
The jersey lay on the bed.
RCB red.
Number 3.
Aarav sat beside it.
Didn't touch it immediately.
His mind wandered to childhood nets.
To empty grounds.
To the first time he'd dreamed of just *playing*.
Not being priced.
Not being compared.
Not being questioned.
Just playing.
---
## THE SYSTEM – FINAL CHECK
The panel opened softly.
> **MATCHDAY MODE:** ACTIVE
> **CROWD HOSTILITY:** POSSIBLE
> **FAILURE TOLERANCE:** LOW
> **SUCCESS MULTIPLIER:** HIGH
Aarav stared at it.
Then typed something new.
A manual override.
> *I don't owe fireworks.*
> *I owe clarity.*
The system paused.
Then accepted it.
---
## CALL HOME – SHORT, STEADY
He called his father.
"I'm playing," Aarav said.
A pause.
Then his father replied,
"Good. Now sleep."
No advice.
No warning.
Trust.
That steadied him more than hype ever could.
---
## FINAL IMAGE – BEFORE SLEEP
Aarav finally picked up the jersey.
Held it properly.
Folded it once.
Placed it carefully in his bag.
Not as a trophy.
As a tool.
Tomorrow, a stadium would judge him in three deliveries.
Tomorrow, commentators would measure him in strike rates.
Tomorrow, fans would decide his worth in seconds.
But tonight—
Tonight, he was just a cricketer on the eve of a match.
And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.
---
**END OF CHAPTER 89**