Thrissur had never seen a post-match celebration like this.
The school wasn't even used to winning district matches, let alone reaching the finals. Local papers ran blurry photos of Arjun's volley across WhatsApp groups. Aunties from church who never followed football asked Amma if he was "that boy in the photo."
But none of it reached Arjun's heart the way it should have.
He stood on the back porch of his house, scraping dried mud off his boots, eyes lost in the evening haze. The noise in his mind drowned out the noise outside.
---
> "You should smile more, you know."
Kalyani's voice cut through his thoughts.
She leaned against the side of the porch, dressed in a plain blue kurta, sunglasses tucked into her hair.
"What are you doing here?" Arjun asked, half-smiling but clearly startled.
"Amma told me you never came to school today. I thought maybe the hero of the match needed a reminder that classes still exist."
He shook his head and looked back at his boots.
"I'm not a hero."
She walked closer. "You scored the winning goal. You got scouted. Everyone's talking about you."
"Yeah. But no one talks about why I play."
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she sat on the step beside him, her fingers brushing against the loose gravel.
"Is it because of your father?"
Arjun's jaw tightened. He didn't answer.
Kalyani continued gently. "My dad told me he was a legend in local circuits. That he could've gone further."
"He could've," Arjun said, voice low. "But life got in the way. Responsibilities. Injuries. Poverty. He died before he could see anything."
Kalyani was quiet, listening. Letting the space between words breathe.
"I made a promise at his funeral," Arjun whispered. "That I'd finish the story he never could."
She turned to him. "Then you're not just playing for yourself."
"No. I never have."
---
That night, Arjun dreamed again.
This time, it was clearer than ever.
A stadium. Foreign. Cold. Floodlights brighter than the sun. He was older—mid-twenties maybe—and dressed in a blue-and-white kit with a crest he didn't recognize.
He ran across the field, ball at his feet, and then... silence.
A whistle. A crash. And pain.
He saw his own leg twisting unnaturally. The world tilting sideways. Fans screaming. Then darkness.
He woke up gasping, the sheets around his body soaked in sweat.
"Again," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "The same dream…"
---
The next morning, Sahadevan Master called.
"Put on a clean pair of boots, Arjun. Someone's coming to see you train."
Arjun blinked. "Who?"
"You'll see."
---
The school pitch felt different that day. Cleaner. Tighter. Even the mud had dried up under the sun's quiet heat.
A man in a Kerala Blasters polo shirt stood with arms crossed, sunglasses hiding his eyes, clipboard under his arm.
Arjun's chest pounded.
The drill began.
One-touch passing. Close control. Sprint-swerve-finish. It was nothing new. But Arjun played like he was chasing something.
A shadow.
A past version of himself.
Every strike of the ball echoed with memory — not just of his father, but of that dream. That other self. The one who had failed.
> "This time, I won't."
He didn't say it aloud, but the words burned behind his teeth.
---
After practice, the man walked over.
"You're Arjun Dev."
Arjun nodded.
"I'm Ramachandran. Youth scout for Kerala Blasters."
The boy swallowed hard.
"We've had our eyes on you for a while. That match you played… you have vision. Ball sense. Not something we can teach."
Arjun's fingers clenched unconsciously around his father's wristband.
"I want to invite you to our U18 selection camp in Kochi. This weekend. Three-day trial. Full scholarship if you make it."
Everything stopped.
The sounds. The smells. Even the sun seemed to hesitate.
"I… I'll be there," Arjun finally said.
"Good," Ramachandran said, scribbling something into his pad. "Bring the same fire."
As the man walked away, Arjun stood motionless for a long time.
---
That night, he didn't tell anyone.
Not yet.
He just walked up to the old steel cupboard in his room, pulled out a tin box filled with photos — his father's jersey, a yellowing newspaper clipping, a folded team list from 1999.
And a photo of his father lifting Arjun on his shoulders after a local tournament.
> "One day, the crowd will cheer for you."
He touched the photo gently and whispered, "Appa… it's starting."
---