(already done five chapters this week so don't be surprised if you have to wait for the next one)
The golden sun filtered through the curtains of the Martin family's new home in Kaloor, Kochi, illuminating the quiet hum of a life beginning again. It had only been two months since the Martins had packed up their life in Idukki — the house Prince was reborn into, the winding hill roads, the misty mornings and old neighbours — and made the move to the city. It had been a quick, decisive decision following Prince's request to join Century Cricket Academy. The family wasted no time.
The transition had been smooth but packed. Bibin arranged for a house in a quiet lane just ten minutes from the central office and even closer to the stadium. A modest two-storey bungalow with an open terrace, mango tree in the front yard, and enough space for Prince to run drills, shadow bat, or simply sit with his books.
Maria took charge of setting up the home. She handpicked the curtains, the kitchenware, even the garden plants. Every evening the three of them would sit together — unpacking, setting up, cooking simple meals, and talking. It was not the loud chaotic life of their old one. It was softer, slower, more aware.
During these two months, Prince trained every morning and evening. He started with basic fitness — running laps around the house, timing his sprints, building stamina. Then came reflex drills — catching balls off the wall, quick bat-taps, studying footage of professional batsmen online. Bibin helped too — throwing him balls, adjusting his grip, giving him pointers. But mostly, Prince trained alone. His focus was razor sharp. He wasn't just trying to become good. He wanted to be excellent.
His cricket gear was slowly becoming worn in — the gloves had his palm sweat etched into the leather, the pads were scuffed at the edges, and his new bat, a gift from his parents on his birthday, already had a few ball marks, signs of relentless backyard training. There was a purpose to everything now. Every repetition, every lap, every late night spent watching matches — it was all preparation for the next big step.
School had started as well. A prestigious English-medium CBSE school with clean classrooms, science labs, and a large ground. The students were nice, polite, but no one had quite filled the hole Benny left behind. Still, Prince tried. He answered questions in class, helped classmates with homework, and even played a few friendly football matches during lunch breaks.
One evening, a week before the tryout, Prince sat under the mango tree with his red Nokia phone in hand. He hesitated, then clicked Benny's number.
It rang.
Once. Twice. Then —
"DAAA PRINCE!"
Prince couldn't help but laugh.
"Benny, you moron, calm down."
"I MISS YOU, YOU LIVING LEGEND! How's Kochi? How's the academy? Wait, you joined already??"
"Not yet," Prince said, still smiling. "Tryouts are next week. Been training every morning."
"Serious ah?" Benny whistled. "You're gonna be a killer, man. The net bowlers better wear helmets."
"Shut up," Prince chuckled. "How's school?"
"Lame. Boring. New kid joined, but he doesn't even like cricket. I told him to change schools."
Prince burst out laughing.
"Do you remember the time you tried to bowl a bouncer and hit the principal's car?"
"I still say it swung," Benny said gravely. "Huge inswinger. Unplayable."
The boys laughed so hard Prince had to wipe his eyes.
Then there was a pause.
"Hey da," Benny said softly. "You'll call me, right? After the tryouts?"
"Promise."
"And send photos. I wanna see your kit."
"You got it."
"I'll miss you during the Onam matches."
"I'll be back for the holidays. We'll play together. We'll destroy them."
"Deal."
They didn't say goodbye. Just let the silence say it.
After the call, Prince sat on the steps a while longer. The streetlights flickered on one by one. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, humming an old tune as she stirred something fragrant. His father was speaking on the phone in the living room, probably with someone from the central office. Yet, the house didn't feel busy. It felt full. It felt like home.
Dinner that night was Amma's special Rice and Lentil Curry with Popodoms and achar on the sides.
"This is really good, Amma," he said sincerely.
Maria smiled, touched by her son's growing thoughtfulness.
"You're going to make me cook it every week now, aren't you?"
"Maybe," Prince said, licking a bit of stew off his finger. "But only if you promise to make the halwa too."
Bibin chuckled. "Now we're talking."
After dinner, they sat together on the terrace. Bibin pointed out the stadium lights visible in the distance.
"Century is right next to that. You'll be training there soon."
Prince nodded. "I'll give it everything."
"You already are, mon," Bibin said. "That's what makes me proud. Not the runs. Not the wickets. The effort."
Prince swallowed the lump in his throat.
That night, he slept early. He dreamed of bowling machines, leather balls, and deafening stadium applause.
The next morning, Prince stood outside the gates of Century Cricket Academy.
The sprawling campus beside the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium was a monument to cricketing dreams. The grass was a perfect green, the practice nets taut and ready, the air thick with anticipation.
Bibin, standing beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You've earned this. Be calm, be sharp."
Prince nodded. His cricket whites were pristine. His gear was strapped, and his bag hung comfortably on his back. He could feel the weight of his preparation in his limbs, not as a burden, but as readiness.
Inside the admin office, Bibin signed the final forms. A coach came out to receive them — tall, stocky, clipboard in hand, a whistle around his neck.
"Prince Martin?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come. Pad up. We'll start with one net over. Let's see what you've got."
The academy ground opened up like a stadium. Grass trimmed, lanes set, cones placed. Around him, other hopefuls were warming up — stretching, tossing balls, swinging bats.
Prince walked toward the prep bench and began his routine. Shin guards. Pads. Gloves. Helmet.
And then — the System stirred.
MATCH MODE: INITIATED
Performance Metrics: Activated
Batting Focus: Boosted Reflex Sync: Engaged Motor Read: Online
His mind felt clearer. His vision sharper. He could hear the stitching on the ball as someone bowled a net over nearby.
He stood. Took the bat in hand. The weight was familiar now, his grip natural.
Ready?
The coach motioned to the bowler.
The sun glared off the pitch.
The bowler ran in.
Prince lowered into stance.
And the first ball of his new life hurtled toward him.