The notice board outside the pavilion had never drawn such a crowd.
Players from both camps—Vijay Hazare and Syed Ali—stood shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks, pushing gently, whispering names. But more than anything, they searched for one thing: their own.
The final list was pinned at the center. Seven names from each camp. No extras. No alternates. Just fourteen futures.
Nikhil arrived late, Veer tucked under his arm. He didn't rush. He didn't speak. He simply joined the crowd and began reading.
The header read: Vijay Hazare Trophy – Final Selected Players
He scanned the list line by line:
Mayank Rawat
Divakar Singh
Vivek Agnihotri
Siddharth Rao
Ravi Teja
Karan Bhagat
Raghav Mehta
He paused.
Then read again.
Line by line.
His name wasn't there.
He checked again, thinking maybe the crowd had blocked his view. Maybe he'd missed it in the shuffle. But no—his name was nowhere to be found.
Around him, reactions rippled.
The seven selected players were smiling, hugging, some even laughing through disbelief. Others stood frozen. A few walked away slowly. One boy sat on the steps and sobbed into his palms.
Nikhil didn't cry.
Not yet.
He turned and walked back to his dormitory, each step heavier than the last.
On the Other Side – Syed Ali Trophy
At the Syed Ali camp, the list had also gone up.
Arav stood near the front, eyes scanning quickly. His name was there—Arav Mishra, fourth on the list.
He grinned, fists clenched in triumph. Around him, the other selected players celebrated:
Faizan Qureshi
Rishabh Noorani
Mohsin Ali
Arav Mishra
Zeeshan Pathan
Samarjit Singh
Ankit Bansal
It was a strong list. Balanced. Tactical.
Arav, still smiling, jogged over to the Vijay Hazare board to check on Nikhil.
He scanned the names.
No Nikhil.
His smile faded.
He didn't say anything. Just stood there for a moment, then whispered to himself, "He'll bounce back. He always does."
The Field of Solitude
Back in Room 101, Nikhil sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. Veer lay beside him, silent.
He tried to hold the tears.
He failed.
They came slowly at first, then all at once. His cheeks were wet, his throat tight, his breath shallow.
He didn't reach for his notebook.
He reached for his bat.
And walked to the nets.
No coaches. No cones. No drills.
Just him.
He trained brutally—sweeping, driving, bowling, running. His shirt clung to his back. His palms blistered. His breath grew ragged.
But the tears didn't stop.
And by the end, no one could tell the difference between his sweat and his sorrow.