(Yesterday — Multan Training Grounds & Lodgings)
Sneaky shafts of sunlight slipped through the gaps in drifting clouds, half-hiding, half-glinting as they fell across the practice grounds. The air was warm and heavy with exertion, filled with the echo of shouted fielding positions, names being called, and the dull thud of leather meeting willow.
The Multan squad was scattered across the field, spread thin like pieces on a chessboard. The fourteenth over of their third practice match had just wrapped up, and for a fleeting moment, the boys allowed themselves to breathe.
Leon bent forward slightly, hands braced against his knees, sweat clinging to his hairline. "Sigh—what a day," he muttered, "It's almost evening and we've barely had a proper break. I'm starving."
Raza passed by and ruffled Leon's hair without slowing. "Just a bit more," he said calmly, "Once this match ends, we'll wrap it up."
From a little further down the field, a frustrated voice cut through the lull. "I am so tired of seeing Kian on the batting line!" Daniil complained, dragging a towel across his neck as he wiped away sweat, "Someone just take his wicket already. What even is this boy? Sometimes he's gone on the first ball, and other times he sticks like a bone in your throat."
Nouis chuckled, folding his arms with quiet pride, "He's improved a lot. That's a good thing. When he sticks to the pitch like glue in a real match, let's see how loudly you'll be cheering."
Daniil shot Kian a glance as he grinned proudly, "You'd better make sure it happens, kid."
Kian stuck his tongue out at him, playful as ever, "Don't worry—just be ready to cheer for me till your lungs give out."
Daniil answered with a soft scoff.
Nearby, Galleous scanned the ground, eyes narrowing slightly. "Captain Haitam's taking his last over next, right?" he asked.
"Yeah," David replied, slipping his wicketkeeping gloves back on, "He's ready."
Galleous's gaze drifted instinctively toward the pitch—and found Haitam. He stood alone, tossing the ball into the air and catching it again with rhythmic precision. His eyes never left the white blur as it rose and fell into his palm. Even without bowling, there was something unnervingly intense about him—as though the sheer force of his focus could topple the bails on its own.
"Haitam's struggling," Raza said quietly, drawing closer.
Galleous turned his head slightly, "You noticed."
Raza smirked faintly, "How could I not?" "He's working on a new delivery," he continued, "Says it's potent. Dangerous. But he needs time to master it—and our match with Karachi is tomorrow."
"Yeah," Lucas added from the side, "He keeps saying that if he rushes it, he'll lose the essence. That's why he's been… not quite at his best."
Galleous laughed softly, shaking his head, "Not quite at his best?"
Raza and Lucas both looked at him.
"Even if Captain Haitam doesn't take a single wicket today too," Galleous went on, eyes still on the pitch, "he's the top player in my eyes. Lowest run rate. The way he starves batsmen of extras. The number of dot balls he forces. If he's doing all that while expanding his bowling range—" He smiled, "That's fearsomely fantastic."
Maaz, who had suddenly thrown his arms around Galleous, nodded with exaggerated reverence, "Yup! That's just who Captain Haitam is—the world's best!"
Galleous couldn't help but return the smile, soft and fond.
The youngest soon let go, dashing toward the ground as he called out, "Alright!" Maaz clapped his hands loudly, "Let's wrap it up, everyone!"
The rest soon followed.
Kirill, who had been watching quietly, turned his gaze toward the coaches' stand. His eyes found Yara immediately. Under his breath, he murmured, "I just hope she understands that soon."
Up in the stands, Yara and Yasir watched the practice match unfold while the other instructors quietly discussed player statistics around them. On the surface, everything seemed fine.
Yet, throughout Haitam's over, Yara's brows remained tightly knit, her eyes narrowed. Unease and irritation clung to her posture, unrelenting, simmering. It wasn't until the final ball was delivered—and Haitam still stood without a single wicket—that her patience finally snapped.
"Tch!" She stood abruptly, chair scraping against concrete as she turned and headed down the steps.
"Yara—wait," Yasir called, startled. He cast a quick glance at the other mentors quickly rising to follow her, "What's wrong? Slow down—what happened?"
Yara didn't stop.
"Yara…" Yasir called again—only to be cut off before he could say more.
"Haitam Asher happened!" Yara snapped.
Yasir froze mid-step. So did everyone else. Her voice cut across the grounds—sharp, loud enough that players, instructors and rest of the staff alike faltered in their movements, heads turning instinctively toward the sound.
"That boy—" Yara's voice cut sharp through the air, frustration cracking at its edges, "—it's been two matches. Two. And he's been struggling like this throughout. What exactly is going on?" She threw her hands out in disbelief, "He's the captain, isn't he? Then why does he look so all over the place—as if he's forgotten how to play from scratch?!"
A short distance away, Haitam had been discussing his bowling grip with Milan and Mahd. The moment her words reached him, his fingers tightened around the ball in his palm until the leather creaked softly. He blinked once. Slowly. Honey-amber eyes—usually warm, composed—dimmed for just a fraction of a second.
Then, as if nothing had pierced him at all, he stepped forward. His stride was calm, measured. A soft almost habitual smile rested on his lips. But the high schoolers saw through it immediately. Their shoulders stiffened. Gazes sharpened. Guards raised. They knew this pattern far too well.
Yara was targeting Haitam—again.
Galleous's expression hardened, his usual easy smile vanishing as he cast her a sideways glare.
Nearby, Ishaq crouched low, exhaling through his teeth. "Augh… I hate her guts," he muttered, "No offense, Kirill—but your aunt is going to murder our happiness one day. Fair and square."
Kirill didn't argue. He didn't even look up. Maybe because, somewhere deep down, he was exhausted too.
"First Islamabad," Yara continued, voice climbing higher, sharper, "then Lahore. And thank him for not being in the lineup against Quetta—otherwise we would've lost that too!" The words grew more reckless, more cutting with every breath.
"That's enough, Yara," Yasir said firmly, his brow knitting as he stepped forward.
Yara scoffed, a hollow sound. Disappointment cracked her expression. "Enough? Already?" Her laugh was bitter, "For four years—four years—we've been struggling to even head toward the World Cup. Every time, we lose the chance. Every single time, Yasir. Karachi, Islamabad—even Lahore—they snatch this chance away like it's nothing," Her hands trembled as she spoke, "It feels like we're stuck on the same step, looping the same year again and again. We don't move forward. Not at all."
Yasir fell silent. There was no argument ready for that. No answer that could ease the weight of her words. All he could do was offer a strained, apologetic smile to the boys who had gathered around—though even he knew it did little.
A few steps behind Yara, Haitam came to a stop.
She wasn't wrong. It had been years since Multan Sultans last tasted true victory. The PSL title remained a memory. The World Cup—a distant dream. Every single one of them here carried that same hunger. This year was no less.
"Honestly, I think this is all our fault," Yara scoffed, a weak smile tugging at her lips. "If only we'd thrown them out of the base the moment they arrived and taken in real talents six years ago, this wouldn't be the picture we're facing now." Her glare cut sharply toward the high schoolers.
The words landed like a slap. Haitam. David. Pierre. Lucas. Milan. Raza. All stared at her, eyes widened in stunned disbelief. Beside them, the middle schoolers stood firm—shoulders squared, gazes unwavering. Not a single one stepped back.
Silence pooled heavily between them.
Then Haitam smiled again. It was faint this time. Fragile at the edges. "But it didn't happen…" he said gently, voice calm despite the storm around him, "Did it, Chief Counselor Yara?" His eyes lifted briefly.
"Perhaps you saw something in us that others didn't." He bowed his head slightly, "As for my struggling performance—I assure you, it's temporary. I just need a little more time. You'll surely enjoy the fruits of your patience."
"And there he goes again with his kindness," Pierre muttered under his breath, "Her skull's too thick to think rationally. He's wasting his energy."
"Oh?" Yara stepped closer, "And what about tomorrow's match?" Her eyes bored into Haitam, "Are we losing that too?"