CHAPTER 48: THE BLUFF

Chapter 48: The Bluff

The 9 PM curfew plunged Room 304 into a thick, oppressive darkness. The only light was the thin, yellow blade of moonlight cutting through the gap in the cheap curtains.

Aakash, in his bed, was a still, silent lump, breathing the deep, even breaths of a disciplined sleeper.

Raghav was not sleeping. He was staring at the cracked ceiling, his right arm lying on top of the thin hotel blanket, a useless, throbbing weight.

The pain was no longer a sharp fire. It had settled into a deep, foundational ache, a bass note of agony that pulsed with his heart.

He had lived this before, in his previous life. He’d felt this exact injury after a foolish, over-ambitious throw in a corporate league match. It wasn’t a "sore muscle." It was a tear. A partial tear of the rotator cuff.

He knew, with the cold certainty of adult experience, that this was a six-week injury.

And he had to play tomorrow.

He had made his choice. The glowing purple vial, the Super Healing Potion, was locked in his system’s inventory. It was for his father. It was for a day when "six weeks" wasn’t an option.

Which meant this... this pain... was the price.

’So,’ his mind raced, cold and analytical, ’I can’t bowl.’

The thought was a small, hard stone in his gut.

’My one trick. My only weapon. The thing that got me on this team... it’s gone.’

He had to play. The quest, [MoreThan a Reserve], demanded he be in the Playing Eleven.

If he told Sarma he was injured, he was out. Chinmoy, the resentful all-rounder, would be brought in. The quest would fail. He would lose the next potential potion.

He was trapped.

’It’s not about logic,’ he had told Aakash.

And now, alone in the dark, he realized the terrifying truth: ’It’s not about logic, because it’s a gamble I’ve already lost.’

He couldn’t bowl.

He couldn’t not bowl.

He lay there, motionless, for hours. He didn’t just feel the pain; he listened to it. He analyzed its borders, its depth. He was a prisoner, studying the walls of his new cell.

’I can’t throw,’ he concluded, ’but I can still bat. My Iron Grip is in my hand, not my shoulder. I can hold a bat. I can... I can be a wall, like Ajit.’

The path was set. He would have to lie.

He would have to bluff his way through the match, praying to God that his turn to bowl never came.

The 7 AM bus ride to the new stadium was tense. The "first match" energy was gone. This was now Day Two of the grind.

Raghav sat in his usual spot, alone, at the back. His face was pale. He had "slept" for maybe an hour, a shallow, painful, feverish drift.

He showed his exhaustion.

Rajat, his ankle still taped but his eyes sharp, watched him. He saw Raghav’s paleness, the way he protected his arm. Rajat nudged Chinmoy, a small, vindictive smile playing on his lips.

’One-over wonder,’ his expression screamed.

’He’s broken.’

Raghav just stared out the window.

The ground for the match against Goalpara was a step down.

It wasn’t the grand, concrete bowl of Nehru Stadium. It was a simple club ground, the outfield bumpy and the pitch a dry, dusty, unpredictable strip of brown.

Coach Sarma gathered them.

"This is a ’scrapper’s’ pitch," he barked, kicking the turf. "The ball will do everything. It will kick. It will stay low. Do not... do not... trust the bounce. This match will be ugly. We win it with grit, not with pretty shots."

He looked at Rohan. "Captain. Toss."

Rohan and the Goalpara captain, a short, muscular, tough-looking boy, walked to the center.

Raghav watched, his heart a cold knot.

’Please,’ he thought, his mind a quiet, desperate plea. ’Let them bat. Let us bat second. Let the target be small. Let me... just let me hide.’

The coin went up.

Rohan called.

The umpire’s finger pointed... at Rohan.

Kamrup had won the toss.

A small, relieved cheer went up from the team.

Rohan walked back, his face set in a look of calm, professional focus.

"What is it, Captain?" Rishi asked.

Rohan looked at the dry, cracked pitch. "It’s a minefield," he said, tapping the dust with his bat. "It’s only going to get worse. We bat first. We put a score on the board. Then... we let them chase on this."

It was the "textbook" call. The smart call.

And for Raghav, it was a reprieve.

’Yes,’ he thought, his knees weak with relief. ’Yes. I bat. I bat at seven. I probably won’t even be needed. I can just... hide. Survive.’

Sarma nodded, agreeing with his captain.

"Good call," he said. "The ’Playing Eleven’ is unchanged from yesterday. You know your jobs. Rohan, Rishi, you open. Pad up. Let’s go."

The team broke. Raghav, his quest still active, his secret still safe, let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He was in.

He sat on the bench, his bag at his feet. His job today was to look like a cricketer.

Rajat scowled, his chance for revenge postponed. Chinmoy looked at the pitch, then at Sarma, his face a mask of bitter confusion. ’You’re playing a one-armed boy over me?’

Raghav just sat, his arm throbbing, and waited.

The start was... shaky.

Coach Sarma was right. The pitch was a minefield.

[Ball 0.1]

The Goalpara opening bowler, a tall, raw-boned pacer, ran in.

His first ball pitched on a Good Length.

And it stayed low. It skidded, never getting more than six inches off the ground.

Rohan, expecting a normal bounce, was beaten all-ends-up. The ball zipped, harmlessly, under his bat.

THWACK.

The keeper took it by his ankles.

Rohan stared at the pitch. He showed his shock, his eyes wide.

[Score: 0/0. Overs: 0.1]

[Ball 0.2]

The bowler, grinning, ran in again.

This time, he dug it in Short.

The ball hit a crack.

It didn’t just "bounce." It exploded. It flew up, violently, at Rohan’s head.

Rohan just barely got his bat up, a panicked, reflexive block, as he fell backward onto the dirt.

"WHOA!" the Goalpara team roared.

[Score: 0/0. Overs: 0.2]

This was not cricket. This was survival.

Rohan and Rishi, the two "golden boys," were now just scrappers, like the Sivasagar team they had despised.

They had to throw away the textbook.

They blocked. They nudged. They got hit.

The score crawled.

[Score: 7/0. Overs: 3.0]

Rishi, trying to force a single, got an Inside Edge that just... just... missed his stumps.

[Score: 12/0. Overs: 5.0]

Then, the inevitable happened.

[Ball 5.3]

The fast bowler delivered. Rohan, his feet stuck, played for the skidder.

The ball hit a crack and stopped, jagging back in.

It beat his bat.

THWACK.

It hit his pad. Plumb in front.

The umpire’s finger went up.

[Score: 12/1. Overs: 5.3]

Rohan walked off, furious, not at himself, but at the pitch.

The number three, Akhil, walked in.

He lasted two balls.

[Ball 5.5]

He got a Good Length ball that kicked up, hit the shoulder of his bat, and looped, in slow motion, to the Gully fielder.

[Score: 12/2. Overs: 5.5]

A stunned silence fell over the Kamrup bench.

This was a disaster.

Pawan, the aggressive number four, came in. He survived the last ball.

Then... he did what he did best. He attacked.

He decided, correctly, that defense was useless. He just swung.

[Ball 6.1] He smashed a Full ball over Mid-Off for four.

[Ball 6.3] He got a Short ball and smashed it for four more.

He was playing "caveman" cricket.

And it was working.

He and Rishi built a small, desperate, ugly partnership.

[Score: 28/2. Overs: 9.0]

[Score: 41/2. Overs: 12.0]

Then, Pawan’s luck ran out.

[Ball 12.4]

A leg-spinner came on. He tossed a loopy ball. Pawan’s eyes lit up.

He swung for the hills.

He was too early. The ball dipped. He was Stumped by a mile.

[Score: 41/3. Overs: 12.4]

The Kamrup team was collapsing.

Bikash, the number five, came in... and went out.

[Ball 13.1] He was hit on the pads. LBW.

[Score: 41/4. Overs: 13.1]

The number six, a boy named Tarun, came in.

He and Rishi tried to rebuild.

They blocked. They survived.

They added ten, painful runs.

[Score: 51/4. Overs: 16.0]

Then, Rishi, the "problem-solver," who had been a rock... fell.

[Ball 16.2]

A ball stayed low. It skidded under his bat.

CLACK.

He was Bowled.

[Score: 51/5. Overs: 16.2]

A cold, sick feeling spread through the Kamrup bench.

And then, Coach Sarma’s voice, flat and cold, cut through the air.

"Roi. You’re in."

Raghav, who had been sitting, his arm throbbing, his mind a million miles away, froze.

’It’s... it’s my turn.’

He hadn’t expected this. He was the "bowler." He was the "gimmick."

Now... he was the batsman.

He fumbled with his pads, his hands shaking. He tried to strap them on.

His right arm wouldn’t obey.

The pain was so bad he couldn’t even lift it properly to tighten the buckle.

Aakash, his roommate, saw it.

Without a word, Aakash knelt. He grabbed the strap and, with a vicious, hard yank, buckled the pad for him.

"Don’t get out," Aakash whispered, his voice low and intense. "We need you."

Raghav stood up, his pads on. He grabbed his bat, his Iron Grip making his hand feel solid, even as his shoulder and arm screamed.

He walked out of the shade, into the blinding sun.

He was walking past Coach Sarma.

"Coach," Raghav said, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "My arm. I... I can’t bowl. I can’t bowl today."

It was a confession.

Sarma didn’t even look at him. He just stared, his eyes like ice, at the field.

"I know," Sarma said, his voice a growl.

Raghav stopped. "You... you knew?"

"I’m not a fool, Roi," Sarma said, his voice flat. "I saw you last night. I saw you this morning. You look like a ghost."

"But... you picked me," Raghav stammered. "You put me in the eleven."

Sarma finally turned. His eyes were cold, and they were furious.

"I picked you," Sarma said, "because Chinmoy is a coward. And Rajat is a bully. And you... you are a liar."

He jabbed a finger at Raghav’s chest.

"But you’re a liar who fights. You’re a liar who wins. I didn’t pick a bowler. I picked a bastard. I picked the 17th man who walked onto my field and broke my best players."

He looked at the collapsing scorecard.

"Now, you go out there. And you be a bastard."

He shoved him, hard, toward the field.

"Go. Win."

Raghav, his mind reeling, his arm on fire, walked out onto the dusty, unpredictable, treacherous pitch.

His quest was still alive.

But now, he had to survive.

(To be Continued)