Chapter 25: New Assistant Coach?
The small living room was suffocatingly silent. The only sound was the low hum of the ceiling fan, wobbling on its axis.
Nirmala stood frozen by the kitchen, her hand still over her mouth, her eyes wide with a fear that went beyond the injury..
Umesh Roi, his face a mask of cold disappointment, did not move. His quiet, level voice was a thousand times more terrifying than a shout.
"How," he repeated, "do you plan to write them?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and absolute. This was the checkmate his father had been warning him about since the beginning.
Raghav, with his old mind, knew that any emotional outburst, any plea, any mention of the "win," would be a fatal mistake. His father wasn't angry about the injury; he was angry about the consequence.
Raghav took a slow breath, his left hand gripping the edge of the table. "I can't," he said, his voice quiet.
Nirmala let out a small sob.
"No," Raghav said, looking at his mother, then back to his father.
"I can't write. But I can dictate. I will need a scribe. For the exams."
Umesh's eyebrows rose. It was a practical, mature answer. It was not the response of a 12-year-old.
"A scribe," Umesh repeated. "And who, exactly, will do this? Will you ask your teachers? Will you ask me, to take time off from the job that pays for this cricket? Or perhaps your mother, who has the house to run?"
"I'll ask Priya," Raghav said, his voice steady, though it cost him.
Priya, who had been standing in the doorway to her room, her own school books in hand, flinched as if she'd been struck.
"Me?" she almost shrieked. "I have my own exams, Raghav! I can't be your personal secretary!"
"Priya, please—" Nirmala started.
"No, Ma! It's not fair! He's the one who was being stupid, and I have to pay for it?"
"Priya," Umesh said. His voice was sharp. Priya went quiet.
He turned his gaze back to Raghav.
"You see? Your... game... does not just affect you. It is a stone tossed in a small pond. The ripples break on every shore. You have broken your hand for a match, and now you ask your sister to risk her grades to fix your problem."
Raghav bowed his head. He had no defense.
"I know. It is my fault. But... I cannot fail. I will not fail. I will study. I just need... a hand. I'll make it up to her."
Umesh stared at his son for a long, agonizing minute.
He saw the genuine, weary intelligence in his eyes, the absence of childish excuses. He saw the filthy, grass-stained uniform. He saw the monstrous white cast.
He sighed, a deep, rattling sound that seemed to pull the energy from the room.
"Fine," Umesh said.
Priya looked betrayed. "Papa!"
"Fine," Umesh repeated, holding up a hand. "You will get your scribe. Priya will help you. And you will pass your exams. But we are adding a new rule to our agreement."
He leaned forward.
"This," he said, tapping one finger on Raghav's white plaster cast, "is the end. Not for eight weeks....The end. When this comes off, you are done. Your bat is to be locked away. You have proven my point. This hobby is too expensive. It costs time, it costs health, and now it costs the focus of this entire family. Your 'win' today has cost you your cricket."
"Do you understand me?"
Raghav felt a cold spike of panic. The end? But his journey had just begun!
He looked at his father's unflinching, iron-willed expression. He was trapped. A 12-year-old could not argue this. Not now. Not when he was this vulnerable.
He had to bend. He had to survive.
"...Yes, Papa," Raghav said, the words like ash in his mouth. "I understand."
The next three days were a new kind of hell.
The pain in his hand was a constant, throbbing drumbeat. Sleep was difficult. But the humiliation was worse.
He, a 42-year-mature man, had to be helped to dress by his mother. He couldn't tie his own shoes.
And at school, he was a living spectacle.
The entire school was buzzing about the match.
He was a legend. The "Hero of Don Bosco," the "Wall of Jalukbari." Boys he'd never spoken to slapped his good shoulder.
Girls whispered and pointed as he walked by, his arm in a sling.
Abhinav was the worst, walking beside him like a proud bodyguard.
"You saw it, right? He just... stopped it! With his hand! And Thomas, Thomas, clapped for him! My best friend is a hero!"
Raghav just smiled, but it felt hollow.
In class, he sat, his right arm useless.
Priya, her face set in a permanent scowl, sat next to him, scribbling his notes as he dictated. It was slow, awkward, and frustrating for them both.
He was a hero to everyone, but a burden to his family.
That night, alone in his room, he stared at the ceiling. The 235 SP in his system felt useless.
'System,' he thought, 'the potion is 500 SP. I can't get it. I'm useless. I can't even do my physical quests.'.
A long pause.
Ding~
[The Host's primary objective (God of Cricket) is currently blocked by a secondary, real-world objective (Academics).]
[The Host's father has issued an ultimatum. The Host must overcome this social/familial obstacle.]
[New Quest Issued: The Scholar's Duty]
[Quest: Your father's faith is broken. Your academic path is your only route to rebuilding trust. You must not only pass your final exams, you must excel.
[Objective: Achieve an 'A' Grade (or 85%+) average across all subjects.]
[Reward: 100 SP, +0.5 Cricket IQ.]
[Failure: The 'Parental Trust' variable will collapse, permanently locking all cricket-related quests until age 18.]
Raghav's blood ran cold. The system had just confirmed his father's ultimatum.
He had to pass.
'Okay,' he thought, his jaw tightening. 'Okay. If I can't train my body, I'll train my mind.'
He looked at his 235 SP. 'System Store.'
He scrolled past the mocking healing potion..
[New Item Available (Academic):]
[Minor Intelligence Boost (1 Hour): Sharpens focus, increases memory recall, and accelerates comprehension. Ideal for study sessions.]
[Cost: 10 SP]
Raghav almost laughed. The system had a tool for everything.
'Buy one,' he commanded.
[SP: 225]
A cool, minty sensation flooded his brain. The throbbing in his hand faded to the background. His thoughts became crystal clear.
He opened his Physics textbook. For the first time, the dense paragraphs on light and motion weren't just words. They were clear, logical systems.
He was going to ace this exam.
_______________________________________
A week later, his team was on the field. Raghav was on the sideline.
His exams were finished. Thanks to a grueling, potion-fueled week of study, he felt confident he had met the quest's objective.
Priya had even given him a grudging nod of respect. "You actually studied. I thought I'd be writing gibberish."
But now, he was back at the ground, his heavy cast a reminder of his new, useless status.
The team was practicing, but the energy was gone. The high of beating SLS had faded, replaced by a sullen, nervous dread.
They were a team of followers who had lost their leader.
Vikram was trying his best, but he was a blunt instrument, not a motivator.
"Come on, Gourav! That was a lazy shot! My grandmother could have hit that!"
"Shut up, Vikram! You're not the coach!"
"Boys!"
Coach Sarma's voice cut through the bickering. The team gathered, their heads low. Raghav walked over, standing on the edge of the circle, an outsider.
"Alright, listen up," Sarma said. "The semi-finals are this Saturday. I just got the fixture. We are playing Spring Dale International."
A collective, audible groan went through the team.
"Sir, not them!"
"They're the champions!"
"My cousin plays for them. He said their bats cost more than my father's scooter."
"They beat Cotton Collegiate 150 to 0. They didn't lose a single wicket."
Sarma let the panic bubble for a moment before silencing it with a look.
"Yes. They are the champions. And unlike SLS, they are not a one-man-army. They are a team...They have the best facilities, the best gear, and the smartest captain in this tournament."
He paused for a momument and continue
"They don't just beat you; they find your one weakness and they break you with it. They will not be arrogant. They will not be reckless. They will be perfect."
The team looked utterly defeated. They had performed a miracle to get here, and their reward was an execution.
Then, Coach Sarma turned his gaze to Raghav.
The team went quiet.
"Roi," Sarma said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Yes, Coach?"
"You're out. Your hand is broken. You are not a player on this team anymore."
Raghav nodded, his stomach tightening. "I know, Coach."
"But," Sarma continued, a rare, thin smile playing on his lips, "your brain isn't. And that brain, as foolish as it is, read a googly that no one else saw. It saw a run-out that no one else dreamed of. You can't be my player."
He tossed a clipboard to Vikram, who fumbled it and passed it to Raghav's good left hand..
"You're my new Assistant Coach. I want you at my side. I want you to watch every practice. I want you to find me a weakness in the 'perfect' team. You got us this far, Roi. Now, you're going to get us through it."
Raghav looked down at the clipboard in his left hand.
He looked at the 14 exhausted, terrified faces of his teammates. And for the first time since his father's ultimatum, he felt the fire return.
His Cricket IQ, now 26.1, felt like it was humming.
'They have the best gear. They have the best facilities. They have the perfect team,' he thought.
'But they don't have me.'
(To be Continued)