Alan turned then, facing the others, Evan, Rauf, Isa, Elias, Zach and the line of middle schoolers waiting beside them.
The moment they saw him; it was as if something clicked. Their eyes widened. Not just because Alan looked different, but because he felt different. There was a calm certainty in the way he moved now.
No hesitation in his stride. No lingering mystery in his eyes. He wasn't observing from the sidelines anymore and he wasn't waiting around. The confidence he once saved for lectures and big talks? He had dug it out of the rubble, cleaned it up, and wrapped it around himself like armor.
Heber nudged Ezekiel with his elbow, "Is that… Alan?"
"He looks…" Ezekiel blinked, "...Dangerous."
Xavier narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see beneath the surface, "Dangerous… hun."
Kenzo's gaze met Alan's. It was a still, silent collision of two opposing mirrors: youthful arrogance and quiet certainty. For a second, Kenzo's brows twitched as if unsure what he was looking at.
Alan smiled: subtle, amused, just a flicker. "Watch and learn, little highness," he said as he walked past, his voice light, teasing, but firm with promise.
Kenzo didn't answer. His jaw tightened slightly as he sat down beside Helios and Poseidon, arms folded. Yet, this time, he didn't look away.
Alan checked his gear, and adjusted the hem of his jacket.
The world outside continued to buzz. MCs calling out the line-ups, announcing the team leaders to head for the toss, the crowd singing anthem verses, drum beats syncing with heartbeats. The air was thick with tension and perfume, the spicy scent of stadium snacks mixing with dust and energy.
Alan's gaze turned across the field. The Multan Sultan high schoolers had returned to their pavilion.
Haitam, noticing Alan's glance, raised his hand with two fingers in a V-shape, his grin wide with challenge and brotherhood both.
Alan returned the gesture with a nod, calm, sharp, respectful. But then, as if time itself clicked, he saw her.
Yara.
She was seated beside Yasir. Same clothes, same expression, again. Still as stone, eyes like winter glass. Their gazes clashed and Alan looked away almost immediately, a flicker of old discomfort ghosting through his chest like a passing chill.
But when he turned again, he found Nidou watching him. Really watching him. The kind of look that wasn't given to a player but to a person. A child. A soldier. A soul who had walked through fire and returned. And, was ready to do it yet again.
Their eyes held each other for a moment. And Nidou didn't speak. Didn't move. His hands rested on the railing, his expression unreadable. But something passed between them.
Because Alan knew. He remembered the night before…
(FLASHBACK)
The floodlights hummed like distant stars watching from above, their cold silver beams washing the ground in diluted blue. The cricket nets stood beneath them like quiet sentinels, ropes fluttering faintly in the breeze.
The pitch, dusty and worn, was damp at the edges where the dew had begun to gather. From the trees beyond the fence, crickets sang in rhythm, and the scent of earth, leather, and cut grass mingled in the stillness.
Alan was alone in the nets. His figure moved through the white light like a shadow in practice, flickering between each delivery. He bowled again. The ball struck the stump with a dull, clean knock. He picked up another. Bowled. Again. And again.
Not rushed. Not forceful. Each action tuned with eerie precision. He wasn't training. He was remembering, rebuilding something from the bones of repetition. He stepped back after the over ended and wiped the sweat off his brow with the edge of his sleeve.
The silence folded around him: thick, unspoken, and for a moment, the echo of his breath was all he heard. Then he saw him. From the corner of his eye, past the ropes, on the iron bench just outside the nets.
Nidou. Sitting. Watching. Unmoving.
Alan's back straightened instinctively. He turned away, walking to his gear bag resting on the wooden stool. His hand reached down to place the ball inside, fingers lingering on the seam as if uncertain whether to let it go.
"Leaving already?" came Nidou's voice, low, casual, but weighty in the night's hush.
Alan didn't look up. His hands stilled. A beat of silence passed.
"If it's because I came…" Nidou leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, "...then stay. I'll go."
Alan didn't speak. He simply closed his fingers around the ball again. Not placing it in the bag. Just… holding it.
Nidou studied him in the blue-grey haze of light. The shadows beneath Alan's eyes. The slight stiffness in his shoulders. The way he kept himself turned away. His silence that echoed louder than any answer. Then Nidou reached into his side and pulled something from under his file, "Catch."
Alan's reflexes kicked in. He caught it cleanly. A piece of cloth. Worn and loose. Heavy in memory. When he looked down at it, he found himself holding an oversized jersey. Faded gold over royal blue, with strips of red near the collar and sleeve, frayed with time. But unmistakable. Nidou's old high school jersey.
Alan stared at it. His fingers curled into the cloth slowly, drawing it to his chest. Then he looked up, eyes locking with Nidou's.
"What?" Nidou asked, his tone suddenly edged with a challenge, "You scared now?"
Alan's lips tugged into a small, crooked smirk, but his eyes never left the jersey, "I was never afraid," he said quietly.
The wind rustled the nearby leaves. A soft chill wrapped the scene like a breath against the skin. "Not of my health. Not of my identity. Not even of the blank spots I can't explain," Alan's voice didn't rise. It was measured, calm, "I've never feared it." His grip tightened slightly. "But now… it's different," he added.
Nidou's head tilted faintly, listening.
Alan's eyes traced the hem of the jersey as if seeing something through it, something buried, "Now I have too much to lose. Too much to protect, old man. And… I'm not sure if I can do both." His voice dropped even lower, "And still get what I want." He didn't say what that was. He didn't have to.
Nidou's throat bobbed once. He swallowed. He had no right to say what he wanted to say but he said it anyway, "Then play."
Alan blinked. The word hit like a soft punch.
"Play with everything you've got," Nidou continued, voice firm but quiet, more like a promise than a command. "Don't think about the rest. You shouldn't be the one to think about it." He looked past Alan, as though speaking to the ghosts that clung to both of them. "
The eyes. The whispers. The silence that follows you. You've been through it before. Did you ever care?" He looked back at him, "So don't care now."
He didn't say the rest. That he'll be there for her. To take care of all of it for her. That no matter how much she resents it, he'll stay. Just like he always had.
Alan looked up slowly. There was confusion in his eyes not because he didn't understand, but because he did. And it was… overwhelming. Like he wanted to say something, like his mouth almost moved but he caught himself.
His gaze narrowed. Controlled again. Emotion locked down behind the usual calm. He folded the jersey carefully and placed it over his gear bag. Then he picked up the ball once more, "You're right." "If that's all…" he said, stepping toward the net again, "...I've got practice to finish."
Nidou said nothing. He just stood and stepped back. "The match is tomorrow," he said softly, "Sleep early."
Alan didn't reply. His focus returned to the crease. He took position. Bowled. The sound of the ball slicing through the air and striking the stump rang out again.
Like it always had. Like he had never stopped.
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