Coach Sharma stood completely frozen, staring down at the splintered wooden stump sitting near his dusty sneakers. For two years, he had operated St. Peter’s cricket program with an iron, politically driven fist. Talent mattered less than elite academy credentials and wealthy family donations.
And now, a fifteen-year-old kid in faded trousers had just shattered that illusion in front of fifty screaming students.
"Roy..." Coach Sharma choked out, his voice missing its usual harsh booming edge. He picked up his clipboard, his fingers visibly trembling. "You... you go clean up the equipment. We will discuss the starting eleven for the Zonal Inter-School Tournament tomorrow."
He didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten suspension. He didn’t even mention the broken stump. He simply turned around and walked briskly toward his office, avoiding the gazes of the students who were watching him lose his grip on the team.
Aryan Singhania hadn’t moved an inch. He sat on the bench near the nets, his head buried in his gloved hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, burning humiliation. His golden-boy narrative had been torn to shreds in three deliveries.
Kabir threw his arm around Rohan’s shoulders, nearly pulling him over. "Bro! Did you see Sharma’s face?! He looked like he saw a ghost! And Aryan—man, I thought he was going to cry!"
"Keep it down, Kabir," Rohan said, though he couldn’t stop the small smirk from touching his lips.
As he walked toward the boundary rope to collect his school bag, the crowd parted for him. Kids who had never spoken a word to him—who had routinely stepped over his bag in the hallway or ordered him to fetch water—were suddenly staring at him with a mix of awe and newfound fear.
A glowing blue notification chimed in his mind, persistent and vibrant.
[Reputation System Unlocked!]
Current Standing (St. Peter’s High School):Emerging Legend (Tier 2)
Impact: School authority figures are hesitant to suppress you. Classmates view you with respect. Opponents suffer a -5% Confidence penalty when facing your bowling in official matches.
A passive debuff on opponents? Rohan thought, his eyes widening slightly. The System really thinks of everything.
"Hey, Pace Demon."
Rohan paused and looked up. Ananya Sharma was standing by the equipment shed, holding her heavy school bag over one shoulder. Her usual strict, academic posture was relaxed, a genuine, unreserved smile on her face.
"I guess I owe Kabir an apology," she said, leaning against the wooden pillar. "I thought he was exaggerating about Sunday. But seeing you uproot a stump with a leather ball... that was actually insane, Rohan."
"Insane?" Rohan zipped up his kit bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "I thought you’d call it reckless. I risked getting banned from the team, remember?"
"It was reckless," Ananya countered instantly, her sharp hazel eyes glittering with amusement. "And completely uncalculated. But..." She stepped closer, lowering her voice so the lingering crowd wouldn’t hear. "...it was also the most satisfying thing I’ve ever seen happen on that pitch. Aryan has been acting like he owns this school since eighth grade."
Rohan looked at her, noticing for the first time how her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled naturally. "Thanks, Ananya. For the notes, too. I actually think I aced that quadratic equations test."
"Don’t get ahead of yourself," she laughed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "If you beat my score, I’ll buy you a cold coffee from the canteen. If I win, you owe me a full explanation of how you suddenly gained 20 kilometers an hour in three weeks."
Rohan felt a quick pulse of panic, but kept his expression smooth. "Deal."
"See you tomorrow, Roy," she said with a quick wave before turning to walk toward the school gates, her ponytail swinging with every step.
Kabir nudged Rohan viciously in the ribs with his elbow. "Cold coffee, huh? The school topper is making bets with you, bro. You’re living in a movie."
"Shut up and walk, Kabir," Rohan muttered, though his heart was racing for reasons completely unrelated to bowling fast.
The sun was setting by the time Rohan reached his neighborhood. The narrow lanes of his colony were filled with the usual sights: street vendors selling fried samosas, old men sitting on plastic chairs arguing about politics, and kids playing rubber-ball cricket in the dusty alleys.
As Rohan turned the corner near his house, he spotted a familiar, hulking figure leaning against a rusted scooter.
Monu Bhaiya was twirling an apple in his hand, a wide grin spreading across his rugged face as soon as he saw Rohan.
"Word travels fast, kid," Monu said, tossing the apple to Rohan, who caught it smoothly. "My guy Vikas was at St. Peter’s picking up his younger brother. He told me you snapped a leather-ball stump in half right in front of your coach."
Rohan took a bite of the crisp apple. "Aryan was running his mouth about street cricket. I had to set the record straight."
Monu laughed, a deep, booming sound that made a passing stray dog jump. "Good! That’s what fast bowling is about! It’s not just about speed, Rohan. It’s about presence. You have to make the batsman feel like the pitch is a dangerous place to be."
Monu’s expression softened, growing unusually serious. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn, black leather grip and a small slip of paper.
"Take this," Monu said, handing them to Rohan.
Rohan looked at the paper. It was a phone number and an address for a local gym near the metro station—a proper strength and conditioning center, not the neighborhood push-up dens.
"The owner is an old friend of mine," Monu explained, crossing his thick arms. "He played Under-19 state cricket before a knee injury ruined his career. I talked to him today. He’s going to let you train there for free during their off-peak hours. You need real weights, Rohan. Your action is clean now, but if you want to push past 125 km/h without breaking your back, you need core strength and powerful legs."
Rohan stared at the address, a lump forming in his throat. In a world where everyone either ignored him or wanted to pull him down, Monu Bhaiya had consistently backed him with everything he had—from turf shoes to cash, and now this.
"Monu Bhaiya... I don’t know what to say," Rohan murmured.
"Don’t say anything," Monu snapped playfully, flicking Rohan’s forehead. "Just make sure when you play for India one day, you give me VIP match tickets. Deal?"
Rohan looked at his mentor, his jaw setting with absolute resolve. He extended his hand.
"Deal."
They shook hands—a firm, binding promise between two boys from the same dusty colony.
Later that night, lying in his small room with the moonlight streaming through the window, Rohan pulled up his System status panel.
[Rohan Roy - Player Profile]
• Age: 15
• Role: Fast-Bowling All-Rounder
• Base Pace: 105 km/h (Peak: 122 km/h with Adrenaline Overdrive)
• Physique: 16/100
• Stamina: 16/100
• Line & Length: 12/100
• System Points (SP): 38
• Reputation: Emerging Legend (St. Peter’s High School)
Thirty-eight System Points. A gym pass. A clean bowling action. The respect of his peers, and the official Zonal Inter-School Tournament just around the corner.
Rohan closed his eyes, a feeling of deep, unshakeable power settling over him.
The bench-warmer was gone forever. The reign of Rohan Roy had officially begun.