It began with the sound of leather against mud — a familiar thud, followed by silence, and then the whistle.
The second whistle.
That was the one that always hit Arjun the hardest. It didn't start the match. It marked the moment when the world turned into something else. A battlefield. A stage. A mirror.
Standing at the edge of the dusty school ground in Thrissur, Arjun Dev exhaled slowly, stretching his neck toward the grey sky. The December sun filtered through the clouds, casting soft shadows on the pitch as the final whistle from the warm-up blew.
It was time.
Across from him, players from St. George's High ran in coordinated drills, their jerseys bright, their movements crisp.
"Arjun," his coach, Sahadevan Master, called. "Stay grounded. Remember what you're playing for."
Arjun nodded silently and looked down at his wrist — a frayed black band, half-faded from years of wear. It wasn't for style. It had once belonged to someone else.
> Appa.
---
Seven years earlier...
He was only nine when he saw it happen.
Devadasan, his father, collapsed right on the same ground. It was an ordinary Sunday. Just a friendly match among old players. Arjun had been collecting the cones when he heard someone shout.
By the time he ran over, his father's body lay still on the pitch. Chest heaving once… twice… then nothing.
The doctor said it was a heart attack. "Too much strain," they said. "Too many burdens," Amma added quietly.
He never saw his father with a football again. Only a garlanded photograph. But the wristband—sweaty, torn, and soaked in memories—was the only thing he kept.
---
Now, at sixteen, Arjun carried that memory like a flame inside his ribs.
This wasn't just a match. It was the district semifinals, and scouts from the Kerala Blasters youth program were rumored to be in the crowd. The thought made his stomach churn.
He walked to the center circle, ball in hand, and gazed at the crowd that wrapped around the small stadium. Hundreds of faces. Old uncles with paan stains on their shirts. Mothers holding umbrellas under the sun. And somewhere, seated behind the fence in sunglasses and a shawl—
Kalyani.
He tried not to stare. She wasn't even supposed to be here. Film schedules, camera crews — her life was miles away from mud and grass.
But she came.
---
Kick-off.
The first few minutes were a blur of boots, elbows, and lunging tackles. Arjun was marked tight, their defenders pressing like wolves.
But he remembered his father's words:
> "When the ball comes, don't rush. The ball has a heartbeat. Listen to it."
In the 14th minute, Arjun broke the midfield line, took two touches into space, and curled a pass through the gap.
Vishnu, the striker, latched onto it and slotted home.
1–0.
The crowd roared. But Arjun didn't celebrate.
He pointed to the sky.
---
"Half-time," Coach Sahadevan said, handing out glucose water.
"You're carrying the team," Vishnu whispered.
"No. I'm just finishing what Appa started."
The second half was bloodier. The opposition grew more physical. Arjun was fouled twice. Once hard enough to make him see stars. But he got up.
He always got up.
In the final minutes, as the game hung on a thread, a long ball came his way. He let it bounce, waited, then struck it on the volley.
Top corner.
2–0. Game. Over.
---
When the final whistle blew, Arjun didn't run. He knelt, kissed the grass, and let the sound of the crowd fall over him like rain.
From the stands, Sahadevan raised a thumb.
From the shadows, a man in a yellow blazer — with a Kerala Blasters logo on the pocket — scribbled something in a notebook.
---
Back home, Amma was waiting with a lamp lit at the doorstep. She didn't ask for details. She didn't need to. She saw it in his face.
She placed a warm hand on his head.
"Appa would've been proud."
Arjun closed his eyes.
"Amma… do you think I can do it? Really go pro?"
She smiled gently. "You're already halfway there, mone. You just have to keep running."
He nodded. In his mind, he could still see his father's feet on this very ground. And behind his eyelids, he heard the whistle again.
The second one.