The floodlights at the academy had a reputation. They never flickered on before their scheduled time, and they never dimmed a second late. Precision was the rule here—on the field, in the nets, and even in the shadows.
It was a rest day.
The dorms were silent, the corridors still. Most players were deep in sleep, dreaming of boundaries struck, wickets taken, and praise earned. But in Room 101, the alarm buzzed at 4:00 AM.
Nikhil sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and stepped into the cold October air. Winter had begun to whisper its arrival in Uttar Pradesh. A thin veil of fog clung to the ground, curling around the floodlight poles like breath held in suspense.
He didn't hesitate.
By 4:15 AM, his name was the first inked into the gym register.
Morning Grind
He began with a slow jog on the treadmill, letting his body wake up. Then, without warning—even to himself—he surged into a sprint. Thirty seconds of fire. Back to a jog. Then again. A rhythm of rotation: endurance and explosion.
For an hour, he ran.
At 5:30, he dropped to the mat for planks—one minute, then ninety seconds, then two. His arms trembled. His breath shortened. But he didn't stop.
Push-ups. Pull-ups. Core holds. Sweat soaked through his shirt, dripping onto the mat like clockwork.
By 6:00 AM, he was drenched.
That's when Raina and Kaif entered the gym, chatting casually, expecting an empty hall. They paused at the register.
One name. Nikhil Sharma – 4:15 AM
They exchanged a glance.
Then they saw him—alone in the corner, shirt clinging to his back, arms shaking, breath uneven. His form was slower now, but his focus hadn't wavered. He was still in it. Still pushing.
Kaif watched in silence. Raina didn't say a word.
They didn't interrupt.
At 7:00, Nikhil finally stopped. He wiped his face, nodded to the empty room, and walked back to his dorm.
Breakfast & Deflection
At breakfast, the dining hall was lively. Players discussed their plans—markets, monuments, food joints. Deepak, seated beside Nikhil, nudged him.
"Where you heading today? Everyone's going out. Finally, a break."
Nikhil smiled faintly. "Not feeling great. Might just rest."
Deepak shrugged. "Your call. Don't burn out, yaar."
Nikhil nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere.
Cold Nets, Warm Fire
By 9:00 AM, while the others boarded cabs and autos, Nikhil stepped onto the field. The fog still lingered. The sun was a pale disc behind a curtain of clouds. The pitch was damp, the grass cold underfoot.
But the nets were open.
He set up the bowling machine again, adjusted the speed, and placed cones like fielders—deep cover, long-on, backward point. He imagined the match scenario: 12 overs left, 90 to chase, wickets in hand.
He played each ball with intent—some overs fast-paced, others slow and tactical. He called out imaginary field changes, switched ends, and even paused to "consult" with his invisible vice-captain.
He was the captain. The batter. The bowler. The strategist.
He was the match.
And as the cold wind swept across the empty stands, Nikhil stayed in the nets—alone, but never aimless.