Three days. That was all that remained before the final list would be revealed—seven names from the Vijay Hazare camp, seven from the Syed Ali camp. Fourteen spots. Dozens of dreams. And the weight of uncertainty pressing down on every shoulder.
The matches were done. The drills had stopped. The mentors had retreated into their offices, reviewing sheets, footage, and medical reports. The players were left to themselves, suspended in a strange silence that felt heavier than any simulation.
For most, the waiting was unbearable. Some paced the dorm corridors. Others sat in the mess hall, staring at untouched plates. Conversations were clipped, laughter rare. Even the nets, once buzzing with energy, felt subdued.
Nikhil was no exception. The tension curled around him like smoke. But instead of letting it choke him, he chose motion. He trained harder than ever—not for selection, but for sanity. He batted until his palms stung, bowled until his shoulders ached, and ran until the ache in his legs drowned out the noise in his head.
On the second day, he approached Siddharth Rao, the senior off-spinner who had quietly mentored many in the camp.
"Can we work on flight and release?" Nikhil asked.
Siddharth didn't hesitate. They spent hours under the sun, adjusting grip, experimenting with loop, and discussing the subtle art of deception. It wasn't about mastering anything overnight. It was about feeling the shift—one delivery at a time.
By the third day, the camp was a quiet storm. Everyone knew what was coming. No one knew how to prepare for it.
At exactly four in the afternoon, the mentors emerged from the strategy room. Rameshwar held a single sheet of paper. Kaif and Raina flanked him, their expressions unreadable. They walked to the main notice board outside the pavilion and pinned the list without a word.
No announcement. No ceremony. Just a list.
Within minutes, the corridor filled. Players rushed, walked, hesitated. Some stood back, afraid to look. Others pushed forward, eyes scanning, breath held.
The reactions came in waves.
One player dropped his kit and screamed in joy. Another stared blankly, then turned and walked away. A few hugged. A few cried. A few just stood still, as if frozen in time.
Nikhil arrived with Veer tucked under his arm. He didn't push through the crowd. He stood at the edge, watching faces, listening to silence, feeling the pulse of the moment.
It wasn't chaos.
It was reverence.
The list had spoken.
And tomorrow, everything would change.
CHAPTER 55: THE LIST