The locker room buzzed with energy. Word had spread like wildfire—senior team scouts would be watching the upcoming intrasquad match. Every player in the Mumbai United U-21 squad felt it in their bones.
A once-in-a-season opportunity.
Karan sat quietly in his corner locker, hands steady on the laces. But every tug felt heavier, like each knot was tying down a rising wave in his chest. He'd dreamed of this moment a thousand times. Now that it was real, it pressed down on him like weight in the air.
Three days to the match.
Training intensified.
Coach Singh made it clear—this wasn't just a routine internal game. The scouts weren't here to observe—they were here to recruit. The senior team needed a midfielder. Someone ready to step into INL-level football and hold their own.
"Karan," Coach said during the tactics session, pointer tapping the magnetic board, "you'll be in the white team. Central midfield. You'll be the link. The tempo. Make your decisions quick. No time for three touches."
Karan nodded. He memorized every word.
That evening, in the cafeteria, a few boys huddled around dinner plates piled with grilled chicken, brown rice, and boiled eggs.
"So, Sharma," said Ishan, a sharp-tongued striker from Delhi, grinning wide, "you gonna steal the show and jump to the big boys?"
Karan smiled faintly. "I'm just trying to survive the week."
"You're better than that," said Abeer, lean and tireless, one of the most consistent players in the squad. "Your passing? Best in the squad. Trust it. Don't overthink."
Karan appreciated their support. The competition was fierce, but respect ran deep. The grind had shaped bonds that didn't break under pressure.
Two days to the match.
Practice shifted fully into match scenarios—full-pressure pressing drills, transition plays, and set-piece rehearsals. Karan stayed behind after sessions, combing through Mumbai United's tactical philosophy—quick vertical transitions, intelligent positioning, and sharp off-ball movement.
He worked extra with the strength coach too—weighted squats, push-ups, resistance sprints. He knew he didn't have the raw strength yet—but if he could out-think the others, he wouldn't need to.
Nights were restless. He'd lie in bed visualizing himself receiving the ball under pressure, spinning away, releasing the pass before the press arrived. He'd picture the scouts—arms folded, sunglasses hiding sharp, critical eyes.
One day to the match.
Tension hung thick in the air.
After the final drill, Coach Singh called Karan aside.
"You've got vision, Karan," he said. "You see things a half-second early. Use that. Don't chase the spotlight—let the game flow through you."
Karan nodded, quiet but focused. He absorbed those words like gospel.
---
Match Day
The Mumbai sun was sharp and blinding, hanging high over the training ground. On the far side of the pitch, a small set of bleachers held three figures in dark polos—two senior scouts, and beside them, Ravi Mehra, eyes shielded behind dark lenses.
Karan's heart thudded in his chest.
White Team: Karan, Ishan, Abeer, and the younger lot.
Blue Team: hardened U-21 veterans—big, physical, and vocal.
The whistle blew.
Karan stepped into the center circle.
He told himself just one thing:
> Don't play for the scouts. Play for the game.
The opening ten minutes were cagey. Blue Team pressed high and fast. Abeer zipped a pass into Karan's feet—tight angle, two players closing. Karan turned on instinct, letting the ball roll across his body before laying it off in one touch to the overlapping right-back. Clean. Gone before pressure arrived.
Moments later, he intercepted a stray pass near midfield. In one fluid motion, he opened his hips and fired a diagonal ball into Ishan's path. Ishan controlled, burst forward, and drew a foul at the edge of the box.
The coaches nodded.
The scouts scribbled something down.
The game opened up. White Team began to control the rhythm. Karan was everywhere—dropping deep, receiving under pressure, swiveling, distributing. Not flashy. Just efficient. Precise. Constant.
Then—the moment.
Abeer lofted a pass toward Ishan on the left. He cut inside, two defenders closing on him fast. Karan had already started his run—sliding into the half-space just outside the box. Ishan flicked it backward, no-look.
Karan didn't hesitate.
The ball rolled into his path. One stride. One swing.
His shot skimmed the grass, low and true—bottom corner. The keeper stretched, fingertips grazing nothing.
1–0.
The sidelines erupted. White Team players roared from the bench.
Karan didn't celebrate. He jogged back slowly, calmly.
But inside, something bloomed. Quiet, fiery joy.
The match ended 2–1 in White's favor. Karan played all 90 minutes. Barely a misplaced pass. A goal, a near assist, a masterclass in tempo.
As the players filed off, Coach Singh clapped Karan on the shoulder.
"Well played, Sharma."
Then came Ravi Mehra—expression unreadable.
"Not bad," he said, tone cool. "Not bad at all."
---
Back in the locker room, the mood was light. Laughter echoed. Music played. Towel slaps and banter flew.
Karan sat by his locker, silent. He wasn't here for noise.
He wiped sweat from his brow and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
He knew this wasn't the finish line. It wasn't even a checkpoint.
It was just a chance.
---
That night, in the quiet of his dorm room, the fan spinning above him, Karan's phone buzzed on the table.
He picked it up.
> Ravi Mehra: Report to Senior Team training at 9 AM tomorrow. Congratulations.
Karan stared at the screen. Once. Then again.
He didn't move. Didn't shout.
Just slowly leaned back on the pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
A small smile crept across his face.