The Rising Pune Supergiants camp was a different world altogether. The training ground outside Pune was buzzing with fresh arrivals—domestic hopefuls, seasoned internationals, coaches, physios, and analysts setting up cameras around every net lane. The air smelled of grass, liniment, and anticipation.
Aarav wheeled his kit bag across the turf, the familiar nerves returning. Last season, he had come here as just another net bowler—curious, raw, wide-eyed. This time was different. He had a Ranji season behind him, scars of long spells, and the self-belief that came from outlasting some of India's toughest batting lineups. Yet, he wasn't here as a star. He was still a fringe player. Still fighting to matter.
He scanned the nets. Ben Stokes was already loosening up, joking with Steve Smith. Ravichandran Ashwin was deep in conversation with a spin coach, running fingers across the seam of the ball as though deciphering a code. Jaydev Unadkat stretched quietly at the corner. And then there were the fresh faces—local pacers hoping for a breakthrough, academy batsmen itching for a chance to impress.
It was overwhelming, but Aarav felt oddly calm. Arjun's scolding still echoed in his head, a reminder that he couldn't afford to drift. He had chosen cricket above everything else. Now was the time to prove it.
When the nets opened, Aarav was slotted with a group of fast bowlers. The bowling coach gave him a curt nod. "Welcome back. Let's see where you are."
The first few deliveries were rusty, too full, drifting into pads. But then Aarav locked into rhythm. His run-up smoothed out, his wrist aligned, and the seam began to bite. He hit a consistent channel outside off, drawing edges and defensive prods from a young domestic opener. His pace wasn't the fastest in camp, but his relentlessness—the way he kept hammering the same spot—drew attention.
Ashwin, watching from the side, strolled up between overs. "Good length, boss," he said casually. "Now try this—angle one across, then follow it with one jagging in. Make the batter second-guess his footwork. You don't always need magic balls. Just questions."
Aarav nodded eagerly, filing the advice away.
Later in the session, Steve Smith padded up. Facing him was surreal. Smith moved restlessly at the crease, fidgeting, tapping, twitching. Aarav took a breath, ran in, and stuck to his plan: hard length, outside off. Smith blocked one, let one go, clipped another to midwicket. No fireworks, but no freebies either. Aarav didn't get him out, but he earned a quick word from Smith afterward.
"Good discipline, mate," Smith said, patting his back. "That's how you build pressure. Keep at it."
By the end of the day, Aarav was drenched in sweat, shoulders aching, lungs burning—but his heart felt alive. He had bowled well, asked questions, learned more in one day than weeks of solitary training.
At dinner that evening, he found himself sitting with Deepak Chahar and Jaydev Unadkat. They traded stories about variations, workloads, and IPL pressure. Aarav listened more than he spoke, scribbling notes later in his journal.
It was clear to him now: this camp wasn't just practice. It was an education, a chance to sharpen every edge of his craft. And he was determined to leave no stone unturned.
The season hadn't even begun, but one thing was certain—Aarav Reddy was back in the arena, and this time, he was ready to fight for a place in it.