CHAPTER 42: THE SEVENTEENTH MAN

Chapter 42: The Seventeenth Man

Raghav’s walk home from the field was a stark contrast to the previous day’s. His arm, which had been a numb, useless appendage, was now a single, throbbing beacon of pain.

He had pushed it too far, and the Iron Grip skill didn’t stop the underlying protest of muscles and tendons that had been torn, rebuilt, and then immediately brutalized.

He felt exhausted, a deep, bone-weary fatigue that the 12-year-old body was not equipped to handle.

He entered his house. It was quiet. His father was at work. His mother was in the kitchen, but the suffocating tension from yesterday was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting sounds of chopping.

Nirmala looked up as he entered. She saw his face, pale and slick with sweat.

She saw the way he was cradling his right arm with his left.

Her face, which had been calm, creased with immediate, maternal concern.

"You’ve hurt it again," she said. It was not a question. Her voice was sharp with worry.

"No, Mother," Raghav said, his voice quiet. He couldn’t lie, not completely. "It’s just... tired. From the exercise."

Nirmala’s hands stilled on the knife. She looked at his arm, then at his face. She saw the deep, adult weariness in his eyes.

"This... ’game’ of yours," she said, her voice soft, but with an edge of fear. "It is going to break you, isn’t it?"

Raghav, the 42-year-old, heard what she was really asking. It is going to break you, like it broke your father’s spirit yesterday?

He just looked at her. "It’s just work, Mother. I’m fine."

He walked past her to his room, leaving her in a cloud of unspoken fear.

He sat on his bed, the throbbing in his arm so loud it was all he could hear.

’This is not sustainable,’ he thought. His 42-year-old mind, the analyst, took over. ’I have one trick. A trick that relies on a semi-healed arm. I beat Rohan because he was arrogant. I beat Rajat because he was stupid. But Rishi... Rishi ’solved’ me in one over. I’m not a weapon. I’m a gimmick. And the gimmick is fading.’

His arm gave a vicious, sharp pulse of pain.

He needed to be stronger. He needed to be better. He wasn’t just here to be a net bowler. He was here to play.

He looked at the blue, translucent screen that only he could see.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]

[A new HIDDEN QUEST has been discovered.]

[HIDDEN QUEST: ’More Than a Reserve’]

[Objective: You have taken the 17th spot. This is the spot of a reserve, a water boy, a practice dummy. This is not the spot of a player. You must prove you are an All-rounder, worthy of the ’Playing Eleven.’]

[Goal: Be selected in the ’Playing Eleven’ for the first match of the District Tournament.]

[Reward: 1x [Super Healing Potion], 1000 SP, +2 Bowling Skill, +3 Fielding Skill]

Raghav’s pulse quickened. He stared at the rewards.

+2 Bowling, +3 Fielding... these were massive, permanent boosts.

But it was the potion that held his gaze.

[Super Healing Potion: Can heal any wound or broken bone instantly.]

He thought of his father. He remembered the future timeline from his first life. The tragic accident. The man who had been broken by his brother’s visit, who would one day be broken by something far worse.

’I can save him,’ the thought was a sudden, sharp, emotional spike that cut through his cold analysis. ’With that... I can fix anything. I can save him.’

The quest wasn’t just about cricket anymore. It was about life and death.

He had to get in that playing eleven.

_________________

The next morning, at 5:45 AM, Raghav was back at the Shanti Vidya Mandir field.

The air was thick with a new kind of tension.

The district team was already there, assembled in a quiet, sullen group.

The casual, aristocratic arrogance from the first day was gone.

Raghav walked past them, his kit bag in his left hand.

Nobody smirked.

Nobody called him "water boy."

Rajat, the fast bowler, was there, his ankle heavily strapped. He was showing his anger. His eyes, dark and furious, were fixed on Raghav. He didn’t say a word. He just... stared.

Rohan Sharma, the captain, was standing apart from the team, his arms crossed. He was showing his analytical nature. He wasn’t angry. He was just watching. He was observing the anomaly, trying to deconstruct it.

Rishi, the vice-captain, just nodded at Raghav. A short, curt nod of acknowledgement. ’I see you.’

"Alright!" Sarma’s voice boomed. "Yesterday was a disaster. Today, we become a team. Warm-ups. Laps. All of you."

He pointed at Raghav. "That includes you, Roi. You’re not staff anymore. You’re a player. Run with them."

It was the first small step up.

Raghav fell in at the back of the pack. As they ran, he felt the hostility. No one would run next to him. They left a small, empty bubble of space around him, the 17th man.

After the warm-ups, Sarma gathered them.

"Nets are for individual skill," Sarma growled. "But this is a team game. We are going to have a match simulation. Center wicket. Ten overs. Batsmen versus bowlers."

He pointed at Rohan. "Captain. You and Rishi. You’re batting. Aakash, you’re keeping."

He then looked at his bowlers. "Rajat, you’re injured. Utpal, Sahil, you’re on. You bowl five overs each."

Utpal, a tall, wiry leg-spinner, and Sahil, a short, bustling in-swinger, nodded.

"Rest of you," Sarma barked at the remaining players, including Raghav. "Fielding. Take your positions. This is not a drill. Anything that gets past you, you will run for. I want to see intent."

This was the next test.

Raghav, his heart sinking slightly, trotted out. His fielding was his worst stat.

[Fielding: 8]

He was clumsy. He knew it.

He deliberately placed himself at Deep Square Leg, a "safe" position, far from the action, where he could hopefully do the least damage.

Sarma, standing by the stumps, saw it.

"Roi!" he bellowed.

Raghav froze.

"What are you doing in the outfield? Get in here."

Sarma pointed.

He pointed at a spot on the Off-Side, just inside the 30-yard circle.

He was pointing at Cover.

It was one of the "hot" positions on the field, where the ball was hit fastest and most often. It was a position for the team’s best, most athletic fielders.

Rohan Sharma, padding up, looked at Sarma, his eyebrows raised. He was showing his surprise.

"Coach," Rohan said, his voice hesitant. "That’s... that’s Pawan’s spot. He’s our best."

"Pawan is at Mid-Off," Sarma said, his voice final. "I want to see what the new boy is made of. Roi. Cover. Now."

A cold dread filled Raghav. This was not a test. This was a sacrifice. Sarma was deliberately exposing his weakness.

The team knew it. They were showing their anticipation. They wanted to see him fail.

Raghav jogged to the Cover position. He felt naked. He felt slow.

Rohan and Rishi took their places. Utpal, the leg-spinner, had the ball.

"Play!" Sarma yelled.

[Ball 0.1] Utpal tossed his first ball up. A beautiful, looping Leg-Break. Rohan, all elegance, leaned into it and played a graceful Cover Drive.

He hit it firmly, but not at full power. It was a "placement" shot, aimed right into the Cover gap.

It was aimed directly at Raghav.

Raghav saw the ball. His 42-year-old mind knew what to do. But his 12-year-old body, with its ’8’ in fielding, was slow.

He stumbled as he changed direction. He was clumsy. He dove, not with athletic grace, but with a desperate, falling lunge.

He was too slow. The ball beat his dive, racing past him for an easy two runs.

From Mid-Off, Pawan, the man whose spot he had taken, let out a loud, frustrated groan. "Come on, man! That’s a routine stop!"

Raghav picked himself up, his knees and elbows stinging, and threw the ball back. His face was hot with humiliation.

[Ball 0.4] Utpal bowled to Rishi. Rishi, the survivor, rocked back and cut the ball hard.

It was aimed wide of Raghav, to his left.

He moved, again, too slow. He had to stop, change direction, and chase it. Another two runs.

He was a liability. The team saw it. The pressure was mounting.

"Useless!" he heard Rajat mutter from the sideline.

Raghav clenched his jaw. He got back in position.

[Ball 1.2] Utpal bowled to Rohan again. Rohan, seeing the weakness, was going to exploit it.

He saw the Full ball and played another Cover Drive. This one was not a placement. This one was power.

The ball screamed off the bat. It was a white blur, aimed a foot to Raghav’s right, and it was traveling like a rocket.

There was no time to think. No time to be clumsy.

Raghav just reacted.

He threw his right hand out. His "Iron Grip" hand.

He was not trying to catch it. He was not trying to be a hero. He was just... a wall.

THWACK!

The ball, traveling at over 100 kilometers per hour, slammed into his open palm.

The sound of the impact was terrifying.

The shock, the raw, kinetic energy, exploded up his arm. It was a force that would have broken a normal 12-year-old’s wrist. It would have sent the ball flying.

But Raghav showed his new power.

His Iron Grip engaged. His hand, his wrist, his forearm—they held. The muscles, forged in a night of agony, absorbed the impact.

The ball didn’t pop out.

It just... stopped.

Dead.

It stuck in his palm as if it were glued there.

The entire field went silent.

Rohan Sharma, who had already taken a step for a certain boundary, just... stared.

Raghav looked at the ball in his hand. He couldn’t believe it.

The team couldn’t believe it.

"How..." Pawan whispered from Mid-Off.

Raghav, his hand numb and ringing like a bell, underarmed the ball back to the bowler.

Sarma, at the stumps, just nodded. ’Good. That’s one.’

But the test wasn’t over.

After ten overs, the batsmen were done.

[Score: 68/1. A good session for the batsmen.]

Sarma blew his whistle. "Alright! Batsmen, pad off. Bowlers, good work. Roi, Pawan, Aakash! Pad up. You’re batting next."

This was it. The other half of the "All-rounder" test.

The team’s eyes were on Raghav again.

’He can bowl. He can... apparently... field. But can he bat?’

Raghav walked to the kit bag. He pulled out his old, worn-out Shanti Vidya Mandir pads. They were cracked. The white was yellowed.

He strapped them on, a stark contrast to the new, blue-and-white pads of the district team.

He picked up his old bat. The grip was worn.

He walked out, the 17th man, to the center wicket.

Rohan and Rishi, pads off, stood on the sideline, watching.

"Who’s bowling?" Sarma barked.

"I will," a voice growled.

It was Rajat.

He was still limping, his ankle taped, but his eyes were pure venom.

Sarma looked at him. "You’re injured."

"It’s a bruise, Coach," Rajat sneered, using Sarma’s own words against him. "I can walk. I can bowl. I want... to bowl. At him."

The challenge was laid. This was not a drill. This was a duel.

Sarma nodded once. "Fine. Aakash, you keep. Utpal, you’re at Gully. Sahil, Short Leg. I want pressure."

He was setting a hostile, "kill" field.

Raghav, alone at the crease, watched them move. A Gully. A Short Leg. Two Slips.

They were hunting him.

Rajat, his face a mask of hate, picked up a new, cherry-red ball.

He stood at the top of his mark, a full twenty paces back.

"Ready, reserve?" he spat.

Raghav didn’t answer. He just settled into his stance. He wasn’t thinking about his ’12’ Batting Technique. He was thinking about his 42-year-old mind. He was thinking about his father.

Be a wall.

Rajat began his run-up. It was not a run-up. It was a charge. He was a wounded bull, thundering in, his limp forgotten, his face contorted in a mask of pure, violent effort.

He was not trying to bowl. He was trying to hurt.

He dug the ball in Short.

It was a Bouncer, a red blur, aimed not at the stumps, but at Raghav’s helmet.

The team gasped. This was too far.

"RAJAT!" Rohan yelled from the sideline.

Raghav saw it. The 42-year-old mind, which had analyzed thousands of hours of cricket, saw the bowler’s arm, saw the angle, saw the intent.

He did not panic. He did not flinch. He did not duck.

His feet, in a smooth, automatic, "textbook" motion, moved back and across.

His 12-year-old body was calm, his head still.

His bat, held with his Iron Grip, came up, vertically, in front of his face.

It was the Forward Defensive Block. The "dead bat."

THUD.

The ball, traveling at over 120km/h, slammed into the middle of his old, cracked bat.

And it just... stopped.

It dropped, harmlessly, at his feet.

The entire field, the entire team, went dead silent.

Rajat, who had been charging forward, stopped in his tracks, his mouth open.

He had just delivered his ultimate weapon. A "fear" ball. A "hospital" ball.

And the 12-year-old "water boy" hadn’t even blinked. He had just... blocked it. Perfectly. As if it were a medium-pace delivery in a school match.

Raghav didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at Rajat.

He just... adjusted his stance, ready for the next ball.

That single, quiet, perfect block was more humiliating to Rajat than the Yorker to his foot. He had thrown a bomb, and the boy had caught it.

Sarma, at the stumps, watched for a long, long second.

He saw the perfect technique. He saw the Iron Grip. He saw the absence of fear.

He had seen enough.

PHWEEEEEEEEET!

"STOP!" Sarma roared. "Practice is over. Everyone, in. NOW!"

The team was confused. "But... Coach..."

"I said, IN!"

The players all ran in, their minds reeling. What was happening?

They gathered. Sarma stood before them, a small, black notebook in his hand.

"The Inter-District Tournament starts in three days," Sarma said, his voice quiet, which made it even more terrifying. "Our first match is against the team from Nalbari. It is an elimination match. We lose, we go home."

He opened the notebook.

"I am announcing the ’Playing Eleven.’"

The team went rigid.

"Rohan Sharma, Captain."

Rohan nodded.

"Rishi, Vice-Captain, at number three."

Rishi nodded.

"Aakash, wicketkeeper."

"Pawan, Akhil, Bikash... batsmen, four, five, and six."

"Utpal, Sahil, bowlers."

He kept reading. He named his two fast bowlers. Ten names.

There was one spot left.

The number seven spot. The "All-rounder" spot.

Rajat was staring at Sarma, his face pale, pleading. He was the team’s enforcer.

The rest of the team was staring at Raghav.

Sarma looked at his notebook. He was showing them his deliberation.

He looked up, his eyes scanning the team.

"Number seven," he said.

He looked past Rajat. He looked past the other reserves.

His eyes locked with Raghav’s.

"Roi."

A jolt went through the entire team. Rohan’s head snapped up. Rajat showed his disbelief, his mouth falling open.

"Roi, you are at seven," Sarma continued, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You will be our first-change bowler. And you will bat."

He closed his notebook.

[HIDDEN QUEST COMPLETE: ’More Than a Reserve’]

[Rewards Issued... Verifying...]

[1x [Super Healing Potion] (Stored in Inventory)]

[1000 System Points (SP) Acquired. Total SP: 1300]

[+2.0 Bowling Skill (Permanent) Acquired. New Skill: 12.0]

[+3.0 Fielding Skill (Permanent) Acquired. New Skill: 11.0]

A warm, electric surge flooded Raghav’s body. The ache in his arm didn’t disappear, but it was overshadowed by a new, deep, solid strength.

His mind was clear. He had the potion.

He could save his father.

He had done it.

Sarma looked at his stunned, silent team.

"This is the eleven. The decision is final. For those of you not on the list, your job is to support them. For those of you on it... do not make me regret my choice."

He stared hard at Rajat, then at Rohan, and finally, at Raghav.

"Practice is over. Get in the school bus."

He turned and walked away.

(To be Continued)