It came without a warning—like many of the turning points in Aarav's life.
Coach Fleming, called him over just after warm-ups. The sun was still climbing, casting long shadows across the practice square, and the nets were buzzing with routine drills. But the whiteboard tucked beside the dugout wasn't part of the usual setup.
"You've been working hard," the coach began, clipboard in hand. "Asking smart questions, listening better than most rookies. You've earned a shot."
He turned the board to face Aarav.
There, scribbled beneath the names of familiar stars and rising domestic players, was his own.
Reddy - 2 overs (middle overs, Team B)
Aarav's eyes lingered on it. His name, not just among net bowlers, but on a proper squad list. He wasn't shadowing anymore. He wasn't bowling filler overs to warm up tired pros. He was in the XI—for an intra-squad practice match, yes, but still: this was real.
Coach smiled, reading his reaction. "Middle overs. No cushion. Just pressure. The way we like to test character."
Aarav nodded, adrenaline already coursing. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet," He grinned. "This is where it starts."
The warm-up passed in a blur. He didn't remember much of the stretches, the jogs, or the brief team huddle before play. His mind was inside the game already. He kept replaying match-ups. Who might be batting when he got his chance? How should he set a field if the left-hander was on strike? What if they attacked from ball one?
He forced himself to breathe.
You're not here to prove anything.
You're here to learn.
The match began under a cloudless sky, the outfield fast and crisp. The dugouts weren't crowded, but coaches, analysts, and trainers lined the ropes, whispering into mics and scribbling into tablets. Every movement was being recorded.
Aarav sat on the bench, helmet beside him, tape still wrapped around his fingers. Dhoni stood beside the scorer's table with arms folded, occasionally offering short instructions to the younger keeper. The presence of Mahi bhai—even in a "quiet" practice game—turned everything up a notch.
Team A batted first. It was a strong top order: a capped T20 international at the top, a domestic run-machine at three, and a seasoned IPL finisher floating at five.
By the time the 9th over rolled in, Aarav's moment had arrived.
Coach tapped his shoulder. "Loosen up. You're bowling after this over. Take the wind off that end."
He nodded, heart thudding but face calm. He grabbed his ball, polished it on his thigh, and began walking to his mark.
Over 10 - First Spell
The batter at strike had just reached 31 off 22—crisp footwork, sharp wrists. Dangerous. But Aarav had watched from the sidelines. He'd seen his movement across the stumps, his tendency to shuffle and flick anything on the pads.
First ball: back of a length, off-stump channel.
Dot.
Second ball: same line, just a bit fuller. The batter leaned, played and missed.
A flicker in the dugout. coach murmured something into the analyst's mic.
Third ball: same angle—but this time, Aarav held the seam scrambled and released a slower one. The batter lunged, too early, and got an inside edge that narrowly missed the stumps.
Dot.
Fourth ball: short of a length, this time climbing toward the batter's ribs. A hurried pull, half-controlled, and it dropped just short of midwicket.
Dot.
He finished the over giving away just a single.
As he walked back, Deepak Chahar clapped from the sidelines. "Don't get cute," he called. "Keep playing the long game."
Aarav nodded, sweat dripping, breath even.
Over 12 - Second Spell
This time, the batter at the crease was set. Known for his ability to accelerate, he was already 41 off 29 and had just stepped down to loft a six the previous over.
First ball: slower one, off-stump. Flicked for a single. Smart rotation.
Second ball: hard length, off-cutter. Beaten.
Third ball: back of a length, angling across. The batter opened the face, looking for the gap—edge!—low to slip.
Taken.
A sharp catch. Clean. Loud cheer from the inner circle.
Aarav didn't celebrate much. Just a calm nod and a glance toward Coach, who gave the smallest of smiles.
Fourth ball: new batter. Full, straight. Blocked.
Fifth ball: same again, but with a tiny pause in action—a subtle deception in release. The ball dipped late. A leading edge popped but fell short.
Dot.
Sixth ball: short, well-directed. The batter ducked.
Over done. One run, one wicket.
As Aarav walked off at the end of his spell, the voices around him were no longer hushed. Analysts spoke into recorders. Coaches leaned toward each other. Not because he had taken a key wicket—but because he had executed a plan.
He sat under the shade, unwrapping his tape, when Dhoni walked past and stopped beside him.
"You made them play," Dhoni said, sipping water. "That's the whole game."
Aarav didn't say anything. He just nodded.
That night, Aarav sat in his room, reviewing the footage. He wasn't admiring the wicket. He was watching his release, noting how his wrist position changed subtly on the slower one. He texted Deepak Chahar:
"Can we try knuckleball grips tomorrow after nets?"
The reply was quick: "7 AM. Bring tape."
He didn't feel like a net bowler anymore.
He felt like a cricketer among cricketers.
And now, he belonged.