The tension in the Kochi camp was thick enough to taste. Kerala Blasters had come so far — from a team with more heart than headlines to a legitimate contender on the Asian stage. But now, with the AFC Champions League group stages looming, cracks began to show.
Not in the game. But in the soul.
Arjun sat alone in the players' dormitory after training. His hands were wrapped in bandages from a recent knock. The physio said it was minor. Arjun didn't feel the pain — at least not physically.
He was watching an old clip on his phone. Grainy footage of a dusty field in Thrissur. He was ten. His father, barefoot, passed him a ball and said:
> "Never play for the crowd. Play for the silence before the cheer. That's yours."
Arjun didn't know why, but the memory stabbed deeper tonight. Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was the storm that was brewing — on the field, and off.
The dorm buzzed faintly with voices outside. Faizan's laughter echoed briefly before fading into footsteps. Arjun stayed where he was.
---
Earlier that day, training had been ruthless.
Sameer had ramped up the tempo. The drills were intense. Press-and-sprint. One-touch rondos. Position drills. A simulation of what they'd face against Ulsan Hyundai.
Faizan misjudged a pass. Arjun sprinted to recover. Then again. And again.
Until Faizan snapped.
"We're not machines, Arjun!" he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You expect us to chase shadows and get kicked in the ribs every match like you do? Some of us have limits!"
Arjun didn't reply.
Because part of him agreed.
But another part — the part shaped by the grief of losing his father, by the soil of Thrissur, by the long bus rides and late-night jogs — couldn't let go.
Not now.
Sameer blew the whistle and ended the session early. The players left in silence, sweat-soaked and frustrated.
---
Coach Sameer watched from the top tier of the stands that evening. He sat alone. His eyes scanned the field as groundsmen began watering the pitch.
"This isn't about fitness," he muttered to himself. "It's about fire."
He opened his notepad. Scribbled just one line:
> Arjun is the axis. But even elephants need rest.
He tore out the page, folded it, and tucked it into his coat.
---
That evening, Arjun wandered up to the rooftop of the training center. The sky was clear. The lights of Kochi shimmered like stars below. Faizan was already there.
He didn't turn when Arjun sat next to him.
"Sorry," Faizan said after a long silence. "I'm tired. I'm scared."
"So am I," Arjun admitted. "But we don't stop."
Faizan looked at him. "Why do you keep pushing like this?"
Arjun's voice dropped. "Because my father never got to see what this could be. Because if I stop now, he stays a dream that never came true."
Faizan didn't speak. But he didn't leave either.
They sat together for a long time.
---
Elsewhere, in a film set in Pollachi, Kalyani stared at her phone.
She had watched every highlight. Read every article. Every time Arjun's face appeared on her screen, something inside her stilled.
He was playing with something more than ambition.
He was playing with grief. With hunger. With destiny.
Her fingers hovered over the screen before she finally typed:
> "I'll be watching tomorrow."
She hit send.
And waited.
---
That night, Arjun packed his matchday bag slowly. Boots polished. Shin guards lined. The yellow jersey folded perfectly.
Before turning in, he placed his boots beside his bed — just like he used to do before school tournaments.
A small ritual.
A private prayer.
To the boy he used to be.
And the man he was becoming.
---
Down the hall, Faizan couldn't sleep either.
He sat by the window, watching the streetlights dance. He opened his notebook and began writing something he hadn't shared with anyone.
A chant.
A song.
A gift for the crowd.
And for Arjun