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Aarav pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside, finally letting the noise of the world settle. The corridor behind him still carried faint traces of laughter from his teammates, but within these four walls, there was only stillness—the comforting kind that existed after a long, fulfilling day.
He tossed his training bag onto the chair near the window and loosened his shoulders. A part of him wanted to collapse into bed straight away, but another part reminded him that he hadn't spoken to his parents yet. They would be waiting, probably preparing a barrage of questions, comments, and unsolicited advice in pure Sharma-family fashion.
He dialed home.
His mother answered on the first ring."Aarav! At least tell me you've eaten properly today."
That had become her trademark greeting since he joined the national team.
Aarav chuckled, the fatigue in his muscles easing a little. "Yes, Ma. I ate. Twice."
His father appeared in the background. "Haan beta, play well tomorrow. Pressure mat lena. And remember—footwork is God."
Aarav smiled. "I know, Papa. I'll do my best."
Then came the voice he had been expecting, softer but bright with mischief.
"So, Mr. Superstar… settled in?" Shradha asked.
Just hearing her made something warm spread through his chest. "Trying to. You?"
"Jetlagged from studying, not flying," she said dramatically. "But I saw that clip of you walking out of the airport. The British press is already obsessed."
"They're obsessed with trolling," Aarav corrected. "You should see the latest headline. Apparently, Anderson and Broad are going to make biryani out of me."
She burst into laughter. "Let them try. They'll end up giving you more TRP."
Her confidence in him always struck deep, reminding him of why he fought so hard, why he pushed every limit. They talked a little more—nothing too serious, nothing too romantic, just the kind of light, grounding conversation that steadied him. By the time he hung up, the room felt warmer.
He lay back on the bed, the sheets cool against his skin. His mind drifted through clouds of anticipation, nerves, motivation… then finally, slowly, to sleep.
The first light of dawn slid quietly into the room, a thin gold line stretching across the carpet like a brushstroke. Nottingham mornings carried a certain softness—cool, pale, almost shy. When the sunlight touched his closed eyelids, Aarav stirred.
6:00 AM.
He blinked awake, feeling oddly refreshed. The air smelled faintly of mist and clean hotel linen. Outside, he could hear the distant hum of early traffic and the faint cooing of pigeons perched near the windowsill.
He sat up, stretched, and felt the pleasant pull of well-used muscles. "Good day to train," he murmured to himself.
After a quick shower and freshening up, he tied his shoes, grabbed his water bottle, and headed to the gym on the basement floor.
The gym lights were bright, warm, humming with energy. A few treadmills were already occupied by morning joggers who weren't part of the team. Aarav nodded politely and headed toward the weight area.
He began with stretches—slow, deliberate, mindful. Then warm-up sets: deadlifts, squats, shoulder mobility, explosive core rotations. His breath synced with his movements, and sweat warmed his skin.
Ten minutes later, the door creaked open.
"Already started?" Virat stepped in, a towel slung around his neck.
"Couldn't sleep longer," Aarav replied.
"Happens before big tours. Good. Let's work."
Soon Gill joined them, earbuds in, humming to some Punjabi track. Bumrah walked in next, quiet as always but offering a quick smile. Shami arrived yawning, KL Rahul adjusting his hoodie, Rohit with a lazy grin that did nothing to hide the focus in his eyes.
One by one, the squad formed a quiet circle of intensity.
It wasn't a competitive atmosphere—more like a shared mission, each player pushing the other without needing to speak.
Virat spotted Aarav during bench presses."Keep the form. Control the weight. Don't rush. Control is everything."
"Yessir," Aarav replied with a playful salute.
Gill laughed. "Captain mode starts early in the morning."
It felt good. The camaraderie, the unspoken trust—they wrapped around Aarav like armor.
By the end of the session, sweat dripped from his forehead, his limbs thrummed with strength, and the blood in his veins felt electric.
They finished with stretches and protein shakes before heading out together.
The team bus rolled toward Trent Bridge under a high, brightening sky. The morning chill shifted to warmth as the sun began asserting itself over the city.
By 9 AM, the ground was theirs.
Grass freshly mowed. Pitch covered with light moisture. Nets arranged neatly. Coaches moving like clockwork.
The session began with fielding drills: slip catches, ground-fielding sprints, high balls cutting through the cold air. Aarav felt sharp—alert, reactive, grounded.
Then bowling machines.Short balls.Lengths.Out-swingers.In-swingers.Inswinging yorkers.The full buffet.
The machine operators kept pushing the pace to replicate Anderson and Broad's typical lines.
Ball after ball thudded into the net or cracked off his bat.
At 11 AM came a short break, then red-ball nets. This time with actual bowlers.
Shami ran in and delivered a wicked out-swinger that clipped the edge of Aarav's bat.
"Bhai, yeh England hai," Shami grinned. "Ball will talk more than us."
"Let it talk. I'll reply straight drive mein," Aarav shot back.
Bumrah bowled with icy precision, testing Aarav with tight lines around off.Gill batted in the next net, KL Rahul in the one beside him.Virat watched for a while, arms folded, offering occasional advice—short, precise, surgical.
By 1 PM, everyone was drenched, tired, hungry, and happy.
Then came the small-media interactions.
Not official press—just YouTubers, freelance journalists, small networks who camped near the practice area hoping for a quote or two.
Most players waved politely and walked past.
Aarav paused.
Because he recognized a familiar face.
"Vimalwa ji?" Aarav grinned.
Vimal Kumar—cheerful, sharp, endlessly energetic—turned with surprise. "Hey! Pathak ji! Champion! You stopped?"
"How would I not stopped? You interviewed me back when half the world didn't know my name."
Vimal laughed loudly and shook his hand. "Beta, now the whole worlds knows you. And England is very… very interested."
"Interested in watching me get destroyed by Anderson, apparently."
Vimal smirked. "So? Ready for them?"
Aarav shrugged with a sly grin. "If they bowl well, I'll applaud. If they bowl badly, I'll punish. Simple cricket math."
Some English freelancers overheard.
One of them chuckled. "Confident lad, are you ready for the swinging devil?"
Aarav flashed a calm smile. "Swinging devil? Sounds like a nickname you'd give someone you fear."
They erupted in surprised laughter.
"That'll be a quote for tomorrow," someone whispered.
Aarav just shook his head, amused.
These interactions weren't formal, but they created a buzz—exactly what the English press thrived on. He didn't mind. Cricket wasn't just a sport; it was theatre.
By 3 PM the team wrapped up, sore and satisfied. They boarded the bus, sank into their seats, and let the hum of the engine lull their tired minds.
Nottingham whirred past the windows—brick houses, leafy roads, old shops, cyclists gliding along with backpacks. The city looked peaceful, as if unaware of the storm brewing at Trent Bridge.
At the hotel, the players dispersed to freshen up before the meeting.
Aarav took a cool shower, changed into casuals, and headed down to the conference hall.
When he entered, the room was already bustling.
Ravi Shastri stood near the projector screen, speaking to one of the analysts. Bharat Arun arranged notes. Fielding coach R. Sridhar moved chairs to create a semicircle.
Players trickled in—Rohit sipping coffee, Pant munching chips, Bumrah sitting quietly, Siraj juggling a stress ball, KL checking his phone.
Then Virat walked in.
Everything settled instantly.
He didn't need to call for silence; his presence brought it automatically.
"Alright, boys. Let's begin," he said, voice carrying weight and warmth.
Lights dimmed slightly, and Ravi switched on the projector.
The first slide wasn't a tactic board.
It was a newspaper photo.
Aarav's photo.
Taken at the airport the previous day—him stepping out in his training kit, a slight smile, sunglasses perched on his head.
And the headline:
"THE GOLDEN BOY WHO WILL BE CARVED UP BY ANDERSON & BROAD."
A few players scoffed.
"Typical British tabloids," Bumrah muttered.
Pant burst out laughing. "Carved up? Kya yaar… Are we meat?"
Virat didn't smile. Instead, he stepped forward and pointed at the screen.
"This," he said, "is why we're here."
The room fell silent.
"This is how they talk about us. Not just Aarav. Us. Indian cricket. Every tour, every series, every generation. They wait to see us break."
He turned, eyes blazing with conviction.
"But we don't break. We dominate."
Shastri nodded. "England loves writing stories before the match even begins. Our job is to rewrite them."
Virat continued, "They think Aarav is youngest and is in hot form coming from WTC finals. They think he'll fall to swing. They think Anderson and Broad will intimidate him."
Aarav sat straight, jaw tight but calm.
Virat looked directly at Aarav.
"Handle it? He's going to embarrass them."
A slow grin spread across the room.
"Because he's not just a young talent. He's one of us. And we fight together. When one of us is targeted, it becomes everyone's battle."
Aarav felt something shift inside him. Not pressure. Not fear.
Belonging.
A rare, priceless sense that he was part of a brotherhood larger than himself.
Virat clicked to the next slide—bowling plans, field placements, pitch predictions. Discussion began. Debates rose. Ideas clashed. Strategies sharpened.
But every now and then, Aarav caught someone glancing at him—not with doubt, but with expectation, trust, belief.
He carried it like armour.
The meeting went on for nearly an hour before wrapping up with a final note from Virat.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we don't walk in as players. We walk in as soldiers. They'll write headlines again. Let's make sure the story is ours this time."
Everyone nodded.
Aarav stood up slowly, feeling the weight of purpose settle in his chest like a steady heartbeat.
As the players dispersed, Aarav remained seated for a few seconds longer.
The lights brightened. Coaches talked in the background. Someone cracked a joke. Someone else gathered water bottles.
But Aarav felt a calm intensity rise within him.
Tomorrow was his test.
His moment.
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The morning of the first Test at Nottingham carried an electricity of its own—different from any training session, any media buzz, any internal team meeting. This was match day. Trent Bridge shimmered beneath clear English skies, the sun floating above the stadium as if granting permission for the drama that was about to unfold.
For Aarav, the atmosphere thrummed against his skin long before he stepped out of the Indian dressing room. Outside, the crowd's hum rolled like distant thunder—expectant, sharp, loud, ready.
Inside, silence ruled.
Virat Kohli tugged on his blazer, checking the sleeves, the fit, the collar with the familiarity of a man who'd worn this uniform enough times to know its weight. Yet today, even he looked sharpened by anticipation.
"You ready?" Virat asked as Aarav finished buttoning his own blazer.
"More than ready," Aarav replied with a calm that surprised even himself.
"Good," Virat said with a short nod. "Stay switched on. This Test… will define the tone of the tour."
Aarav understood. The buzz outside wasn't only for cricket. It was for the rivalry—one of the greatest in the game.
And for him.
The golden boy who would be carved up by Anderson and Broad.
He inhaled slowly, letting that headline burn in the back of his mind. Fuel.
Trent Bridge looked majestic under sunlight. The boundary ropes were clean white arcs, the stands brimming with English flags, blue jerseys, older fans with newspaper hats, kids with miniature plastic bats, and the unmistakable chorus of beer-fueled chants.
Nasser Hussain adjusted his tie, waiting for the camera cue.
"Good morning all," he began, voice crisp with British confidence. "Welcome to the height of the English summer. England versus India. The first Test of this much-anticipated series. A full house here at Nottingham… and two magnificent sides ready to go head-to-head."
Sir Alastair Cook nodded beside him. "Conditions look excellent. Bit of early movement perhaps, but the sun is out. Should be a proper Test match wicket."
Shaun Pollock folded his arms, observing the pitch carefully. "I like the balance here. Batting might get easier as the day goes on. Whichever captain wins the toss has a big decision."
At the centre, positioned elegantly for the cameras, stood:Joe Root and Virat Kohli, blazers crisp, expression steady. Match referee Chris Broad, dignified as always. And Nasser Hussain, holding the microphone with the flair of a man who loved this stage.
"Virat has the coin…" Nasser announced.
The coin flicked upward, catching a glint of sunlight before landing.
Joe Root smiled. "We'll bat first."
A roar erupted from the English crowd.
Nasser beamed. "No surprises there. England backing their batting lineup to set the tone."
Virat shook hands, offered polite congratulations, and then—expression unchanging—walked back toward the dressing room.
The moment he stepped inside, every conversation halted. Virat spoke in a clear, even, decisive tone.
"We're bowling first."
A few heads nodded. Others straightened in their seats.
"Bumrah starts," Virat confirmed. "Aarav takes the second over. We go hard. Early wickets. Ruthless discipline."
Aarav felt a pulse of fire.
This was his chance—his very first Test over against England, at their home, under the hardest conditions, with the world watching.
The players emerged from the dressing room tunnel to a deafening roar. Blue jerseys scattered across the stands erupted into cheers, flags waving. English supporters dangled banners reading:
"Root's Revenge""Make the Indians Dance to Swing""Anderson > Everyone"
The noise was overwhelming—but energizing.
Aarav stepped onto the lush green, and the cool breeze brushed against his neck. The scent of fresh grass mixed with the tang of English ale from the stands. His heartbeat steadied, falling into the familiar rhythm of the battlefield.
Virat gave a last-minute instruction while adjusting the field with Rahane.
"Covers for you," he told Aarav. "Stay aggressive. Stay loud."
Aarav nodded.
At the Centre, Bumrah stood at the top of his mark, ball gleaming like the day's first weapon drawn.
England's openers strode out:Dom Sibley Rory Burns
The anticipation buzzed like electricity in the air.
The stadium fell into a charged silence.
11:00 AM.
Nasser's voice cut through the airwaves."And we are off! Bumrah with the new ball. Three slips and a gully… India attacking early."
Sibley tapped his bat, eyes locked.
Bumrah begins.
Ball 1:A sharp inswinger. Sibley plays from the crease, pushing slightly late. The ball curls, kisses the pad, and trickles away.
Muted appeal. Not out.
Ball 2:Another inswinger. Sibley tries to defend, the bat face closing early. Pant sprawls to collect.
"He's shaping it beautifully," Pollock commented.
Ball 3:Inswing again. Sibley misses completely. Pant takes cleanly.
Nasser chuckles. "This is a catching practice between Bumrah and Pant! Sibley hasn't picked him yet."
Ball 4:Inswinger. Tighter line. Sibley just about gets the middle on it.
Ball 5:Inswing again. Play-and-miss.
Ball 6:This time Bumrah surprises him—outswinger.Sibley pokes. Misses. Crowd groans.
Gavaskar murmurs, "Testing him both ways… classic Bumrah."
Aarav clapped loudly at cover, adrenaline surging.
Score: 0/0 after 1 overEngland already rattled.
Virat nodded toward Aarav.
"Your turn."
Sir Alastair Cook said, "This young man has a big job ahead."
Nasser added with thinly veiled bias, "Well, he's up against Rory Burns first. Let's see how long he lasts."
Aarav pressed the ball into his palm.
0.1 — Aarav to Burns, no run
Length ball, slanting across just a shade wider than off. Burns lets it sail.
Calm. Controlled.
0.2 — Aarav to Burns, no run
Full, slanting across to finish close to off stump, defended with soft hands towards pointull. Angling away. Burns defends soft, dropping it toward point.
Cook noted, "Good shape. He's using the angle well."
0.3 — Aarav to Burns, no run
Aarav to Burns, no run full on off stump, big angle across from wide of the crease, defended to short extra-cover. No orthodox mid-off in place
But Aarav wasn't aiming for technique.He was constructing a trap.
0.4 — Aarav to Burns, no run
A dream delivery.
Length pitching middle-leg, seaming away late. Burns presses forward and misses everything.
Sunil Gavaskar hummed appreciatively. "That's beautiful. The angle, the release, the seam—this is top-class."
Aarav inhaled slowly.
Next ball.
He knew Burns was now guessing: should he follow the away movement or defend straight?
0.5 — WICKET
Aarav to Burns, OUT huge appeal, and it's given! It seemed to be full enough to be pitching in line with the stumps and hitting them too, but Burns has reviewed it... On the fuller side of a length, pitching in line with leg stump or maybe just outside, and straightening in to beat the inside edge as Burns defends without a big stride forward. It's pitched just in line with leg stump, and Hawkeye has it clipping the top of middle stump, so Burns will have to walk back. Aarav's struck in the second over of the series! The previous ball left Burns from a similar spot and beat his outside edge. This one's held its line and beaten the inside edge. Top, top bowling.
The stadium split between cheers and groans. Aarav pumped his fist, teammates rushing toward him.
Virat wrapped an arm briefly around his shoulder."Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Gavaskar: "That's brilliant bowling. The previous ball went away; this one held its line. Classic setup."
Nasser—clearly annoyed—exhaled sharply. "Well… England lose Rory Burns for a duck."
Cook offered fairness. "That was an excellent plan from the youngster."
Zak Crawley walked in, confidence hiding nerves.
Three slips. One gully. No mid-off.
0.6 — Aarav to Crawley, no run
Wide and full. Left alone.
England: 0/1 after 2 overs
Trent Bridge buzzed. Sporting theatre had begun.
Nasser: "India off to a good start, yes… but long way to go. The ball will move for Anderson and Broad too. Let's not forget that."
Cook: "Sure, but early wickets always shift momentum."
Gavaskar: "And Aarav showing he can adapt to conditions quickly."
Pollock: "What impressed me was the angle. That's not an easy delivery to control."
Aarav heard none of it.He only felt the blood in his veins hammer with purpose.
Sibley walked up to Crawley, whispering something that sounded like:
"Just play straight. Don't follow the ball."
But the Indian players were circling like wolves.
Rahane adjusted slip positions. Pant teased loudly. Virat prowled behind the bowler, gaze predatory.
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Virat's voice cut through the noise with crisp certainty, "Intensity. No freebies. Let them feel the pressure every ball."
Aarav nodded, heart steady, mind sharp. His first over had brought Burns' wicket. But the day was far from over. England still had Sibley, Crawley, and the biggest prize of all: Joe Root.
And in Kohli's eyes, that wicket was already circled in red.
Bumrah took the third over, smooth and precise, his action a familiar whip that troubled Sibley again. Aarav walked to mid-off between deliveries, exchanging notes with him.
"Keep that inswing loaded," Bumrah whispered. "He's not reading it."
"You keep squeezing him," Aarav replied. "I'll keep squeezing Crawley."
And so the pattern emerged.
Over 3: Bumrah to Sibley
Inswing. Inswing. Inswing. A probing out-swinger.A strangled inside-edge.Pant and the slips shouting in anticipation.
The crowd murmured anxiously.
Nasser Hussain, almost triumphant, tried to downplay India's dominance."Well, England won't mind this. They're used to leaving a lot early."
Cook smiled. "They won't mind until a wicket falls."
Gavaskar laughed. "And India look quite interested in that happening."
Over 4: Aarav to Crawley
Aarav started where he left off—fuller lengths, angling the ball away, forcing Crawley to reach. In the slips, Rohit clapped slowly, rhythmically.
Ball after ball, Aarav tightened the channel.No freebies.No relief.
On the last ball, Crawley misjudged the bounce and nearly gloved it to Pant.
Pollock leaned into the mic."This young man has something about him. The control… the consistency. That's impressive."
The overs went by like a measured assault.
Over 5: Bumrah
Beats Sibley twice.Hits him on the thigh once.Pant eggs him on loudly.
Over 6: Aarav
Nearly traps Crawley LBW with a nip-backer.Virat appeals full-throttle—denied.
"Close!" Virat bellowed. "That's close, Zak!"
The pressure built brick by brick.
By the 10th over, England were 18/1.
The tension in the stadium thickened, fans alternating between claps, groans, and shouts.
By the 15th over, after relentless, ruthless bowling from Aarav and Bumrah, England crawled to 29/1.
Rohit came up to Aarav at the end of his seventh consecutive over.
"You're holding the perfect line," he said, smiling.
Aarav shrugged, breathing hard. "They are too predictable."
DRINKS BREAK
Joe Root stood near the rope, shadow batting, studying the seam movement, eyes narrowed in focus.
Virat walked up to Aarav, arms crossed."Root is the pillar. We break him, we break their innings."
Aarav didn't need convincing. He had already begun mapping Root's rhythm, footwork, trigger movement.
"You want to start the plan after drinks?" Aarav asked.
Virat nodded slowly."Yes. We'll build him up, then bring him down."
After the drinks break, Kohli signaled for fresh legs.
"Siraj, fire up.""Shami, follow him."
Both nodded.
Over 16: Siraj
First ball: seams away.Second: cuts back in.Third: short jabbing ball.Fourth: hooping inswinger that thumps Sibley on the pad.
Pant screams. Siraj screams. Umpire says no.
Virat considers…"Should we?"Pant says, "Nope. Height."
They move on.
Over 17: Shami
Shami's rhythm was silk. His seam upright like a stitched razor.He beat Crawley twice.Forced him into a mistimed drive.
Pressure mounted again.
Cook shook his head in admiration."When Shami gets into that rhythm… you can't leave him, can't drive him, can't defend him properly."
Over 20: Siraj
Siraj's energy crackled through the ground. He bustled in—angry, intense, precise.
The tension peaked at 20.6.
A familiar Siraj delivery:Hard length.Slight nibble.Crawley tries to defend.Flicks pad, then thigh, then Pant catches.
Huge appeal.
Umpire says not out.
Virat looks furious but takes the review.
On the big screen—
SPIKE.A faint one, but enough.
Crowd gasps.England slump to 42/2.
Siraj thumps his chest.Pant jumps on him.Virat roars, "YESSSS!"
LUNCH
After lunch, Aarav and Bumrah returned.But the real story wasn't the bowling—it was the scheming.
Kohli and Aarav huddled in the dressing room corner before stepping out.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
It was surgical.
Kohli whispered, tracing imaginary lines in the air with his finger.
"He loves the across ball," Kohli said. "He trusts his judgment outside off."
"He leaves early," Aarav added. "He commits early to the angle."
"Exactly. We use that to build his expectations."
They both knew: Root was England's anchor, the castle wall. He didn't give it away. He had to be made to.
So the plan was simple but deadly:
Condition him.Frustrate him.Trap him.Finish him.
Plan Execution - Aarav Over 1 After Lunch
Aarav came around the wicket, starting wide of the crease.
Root left the first three balls.
Gavaskar: "He's letting Root settle."
Cook shook his head. "No… he's setting him up."
Balls 4–6 were slightly fuller.
Root defended two.Missed one.
The seeds were sown.
Over 2
Aarav shortened the angle.Bowled at the top of off.
Root prodded, uncertain.One wobble seam nearly kissed the edge.
Nasser:"Root looks… hmm… a bit stuck on the crease."
Cook: "Exactly what Aarav wants."
Over 3
Aarav bowled two balls across.
Root relaxed.
Then came the third: the slight in-shaper.
Root inside-edged it awkwardly into his pad.
Virat grinned. Pant caught Aarav's eye.
"Perfect," Pant Shouted.
The next balls went back to the across angle. Root now had doubt in his front pad.
Over 4
Two short-of-a-length balls. Root defends late, surprised.
One chest-high rib ball. Root fends awkwardly to square leg.
A fuller one ends the over.
Root glances at the pitch… then at Aarav.He was unsettled.
And Aarav saw it.
Over 5
The air around Trent Bridge shifted.Something felt imminent.
Pant moved subtly wider.Rahane adjusted half a step.
Virat took two steps back, crouched low.
Aarav took a deep breath.Touched the ball seam with affection.
Ball 1: Away. Root leaves.Ball 2: Closer to off, Root plays tentatively.
Then—
BALL 3.THE STRIKE BALL.
Aarav delivered the perfect in-ducker.
Full.Starts outside off.Looks like another away-angle ball.Then—mid-flight—it curls.
Root plays the line he expects.Gate wide open.
The ball thunders into pad.
Aarav's appeal is not a shout.It's a roar that shakes the stadium.
Umpire's finger up instantly.
Root stares. Shocked. He thinks. Then shakes his head.
No review.
He knows.
He was trapped.
Trent Bridge falls silent for two whole seconds.
Then Indian fans erupt like a volcano.
Root LBW b Aarav
England: 67/3
Virat runs straight to Aarav, slams his hands on both his shoulders and jumps to Aarav and hold him like a Koala.
"THAT! That is how you take down a big player!"
After Root's dismissal, England never recovered.
Bumrah sliced through the lower middle order.Shami tormented Buttler and Lawrence.Siraj cleaned up the tail.
Aarav took Ollie Robinson with a similar angle trap.
At 65.4 overs, England were bowled out for 183.
Aarav 3Bumrah 3Shami 3Siraj 1
Kohli walked off like a general satisfied with a brutal, clinical attack.
THE INNINGS BREAK SHOW
Inside the broadcaster's studio at Trent Bridge, Alastair Cook stood beside a touchscreen graphic board, holding a red ball in the other.
"Now," he began, smiling, "let me walk you through how Aarav Pathak dismissed Joe Root. It is, in my opinion, one of the finest tactical overs by a young bowler in England."
The screen displayed a map of every ball Aarav bowled to Root.
Cook tapped the first cluster."These first six balls—everything angled away. Root left most of them. Aarav made Root believe this was the stock pattern."
He tapped the next."Then he tightened the line—top of off, wobble seam. Forced Root to defend. Root wasn't sure whether to come forward or stay back."
He marked the third section."A hint of inswing here—just one. Enough to plant doubt."
Fourth."Then he changed the length, mixing short-of-a-length into the ribs. Look here—Root's feet are confused."
Finally, Cook circled one delivery in red."This ball to Root—is the kill shot. Full, starting outside off, late seam movement in. Root plays the wrong line, beaten through the gate, trapped dead in front."
He placed the ball gently on the table.
"That is world-class planning from Virat and Aarav. Beautiful execution."
Even Nasser had to admit:"It was… annoyingly impressive."
Gavaskar's laugh echoed across the studio."England weren't beaten by pace. They were beaten by intelligence."
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Players freshened up, changed shirts, and sat down stretching sore legs.
Rohit and KL padded up calmly, their faces expressions of serene determination.Aarav tightened his thigh pad straps, preparing for his one-down role.
Virat walked by and tapped his helmet once.
"You broke their spine today," he said. "Now be ready. First innings is ours to dominate."
Aarav nodded.
He wasn't nervous. He wasn't overconfident. He was ready. He had taken three wickets. He had dismissed Root with a masterclass.And now?
Now it was time to bat.
As Rohit and KL walked through the tunnel, bats in hand, helmets gleaming, the stadium roared again. The sunlight sharpened, the pitch waited, and the crowd anticipated the next act of this Test's unfolding drama.
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