The rain fell in steady sheets, soaking the practice ground as Ruhaan Sharma faced the ball machine. His drenched jersey clung to his body, and water dripped from his hair, but he didn’t care. Each ball that shot out of the machine was met with the resounding crack of his bat. Every swing carried his frustration, his anger, his desperation. 

He had thrown himself into domestic cricket with an intensity that scared even him. Match after match, he had been unstoppable, his performances drawing praise from commentators and fans alike. His name was everywhere—highlight reels, social media, expert panels. People demanded to know why he wasn’t in the national side. 

But the selectors stayed silent. 

Series after series, his name didn’t appear. He kept telling himself that patience was the key. That his hard work would eventually pay off. 

But today, as the squad for the upcoming series against Pakistan was being announced, something inside him snapped. 

The entire unit was at the practice ground when the announcement time neared. Laughter and chatter filled the room as players gathered around phones and laptops to hear the squad reveal. Even the rain outside couldn’t dampen their spirits. 

But Ruhaan stayed behind, his focus trained on the ball machine. He didn’t want to be in that room. He didn’t want to see the disappointment on his seniors’ faces when his name didn’t come up again. 

From the doorway, Ishaan called out, “Ruhaan! Announcement shuru hone waali hai. Chal na!” 

Ruhaan didn’t look back. He reset the ball machine, adjusting the speed and angle. “You go ahead,” he said, his voice barely audible over the rain and the machine’s hum. 

Ishaan hesitated, sensing something was off, but eventually left, joining the others inside. 

As the squad announcement played out on the screen, the tension in the room was palpable. Name after name was called, cheers erupting as players found their spots on the roster. 

When the last reserve player was announced, the room erupted into a mix of celebration and commiseration. Players hugged and congratulated each other, excitement filling the air. 

But Rohit and Virat weren’t celebrating. 

Their faces were clouded with worry as they exchanged a glance, both of them thinking the same thing. 

Ruhaan’s name wasn’t there. 

Once again, he had been overlooked. 

Rohit’s gaze shifted to the window, where Ruhaan was still practicing in the rain, his silhouette a solitary figure against the gray sky. Virat followed his line of sight, his jaw tightening at the sight. 

“Yeh theek nahi hai,” Rohit muttered under his breath. 

Virat nodded, his expression grim. “Let’s go talk to him.” 

The two stepped outside, the rain immediately soaking them to the bone. Rohit called out, his voice cutting through the sound of the downpour. “Ruhaan!” 

Ruhaan didn’t stop. He swung his bat with relentless force, the ball sailing into the net before bouncing back into the wet grass. 

“Ruhaan, stop!” Virat’s voice was firmer this time, carrying the authority of a captain. 

Finally, Ruhaan paused, lowering his bat and turning to face them. His face was unreadable, his eyes cold and distant. 

“What is it?” he asked, his voice flat. 

Rohit stepped closer, concern etched across his face. “Tu announcement sunne kyun nahi aaya?” 

Ruhaan’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Kya farak padta hai, Rohit bhai? Mera naam toh wahan hota hi nahi.” 

“Don’t talk like that,” Virat said sharply. “You’re one of the best players in this country. Everyone knows it.” 

Ruhaan let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Everyone except the selectors, apparently.” 

Rohit placed a hand on Ruhaan’s shoulder, his grip firm. “Dekho, mujhe pata hai ki yeh sab kitna unfair lag raha hoga. Lekin tu iss tarah apne aap ko mat tod.” 

“Todne ke liye kuch bacha hi kaha hai, bhai?” Ruhaan’s voice cracked, and he looked away, blinking against the rain. “Main domestic mein apni jaan daal raha hoon. Har match mein perform kar raha hoon. Phir bhi kuch nahi badal raha.” 

“Ruhaan,” Virat said softly, stepping closer. “You have every right to be angry. But don’t let them break your spirit. Yeh ladayi ab teri sirf cricket ke liye nahi hai. Yeh uss system ke against hai jo galat kar raha hai.” 

Ruhaan’s hands tightened around his bat, his knuckles white. “Aur kitni der tak ladna padega, Virat bhai? Kitni der tak prove karna padega ki main iss team ka hissa banne layak hoon?” 

“As long as it takes,” Rohit said firmly. “Tujhe harna nahi hai, samjha? Yeh game tujhse koi nahi chheen sakta. Na Vivek Agarwal, na koi aur.” 

Ruhaan looked at them, his eyes glistening—not from the rain, but from the emotions threatening to spill over. 

“You really think I can fight this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“We don’t think,” Virat said, his voice steady. “We know. And we’ll fight with you. Chahe system ho ya politics, tu akela nahi hai.” 

Rohit nodded. “Aur ek baat yaad rakh—jo ladte hain, wahi jeet te hain. Yeh sirf waqt ki baat hai. Tera time aayega.” 

Ruhaan’s chest felt heavy, but their words lit a small flame within him. It wasn’t hope—not yet. But it was something to hold on to. 

He nodded slowly, his voice trembling. “Theek hai. Main ladunga.” 

Rohit smiled, clapping him on the back. “Yahi sunna tha.” 

As the three of them walked back inside, the rain began to lighten, the clouds slowly giving way to slivers of sunlight. Ruhaan didn’t know what the future held, but for now, he had something he hadn’t felt in a long time: belief.