Deva POV
It was 5:00 AM, and the city of Hyderabad was a soft, grey-blue, still tucked in sleep. The garlands at the entrance to our colony, now wilted and browning, were the only evidence that the chaotic, emotional parade had even happened.
My 17-year-old body, despite the S-Rank Stamina, was craving the familiar burn of a workout. The parties, the praise, the tears of joy—it was all wonderful, but it was noise. The only place I ever felt truly sane, truly in control, was in the twin sanctuaries of the 22-yard pitch and the 200-square-foot gym.
I pulled my hoodie over my head, slipped my keys from the hook, and stepped out into the pre-dawn cool.
"First Men's Gym & Fitness" was not the NCA. It was not a state-of-the-art facility. It was a local, old-school joint on the second floor of a commercial building, smelling permanently of chalk, aging rubber mats, and rust. It was perfect.
I'd been working out here since I was 15. After feeling that routine workout had to be changed, I have been coming here since then. It was here I had built the athletic body I now possess—the lean, dense muscle forged by a plan that was part-template, part-trauma of career-ending injury, part-science.
"Arey, champion!"
Ramesh bhai, a man in his forties who owned the gym and whose biceps were a testament to a lifetime of single-minded dedication, was already there. "World Cup winner needs to work out so early?"
"Muscle doesn't know it's a holiday, Ramesh bhai," I grinned, signing the register.
A few regulars were already scattered around. "Sameer," a local bodybuilder who was perennially in a bulking phase, was loading an obscene number of plates onto a barbell for his 5:30 AM squats.
"Siddu! Arrey, hero!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the quiet gym. "Looking sharp! They fed you well in Malaysia, eh?"
"They tried," I laughed. "Need a spot?"
"Always!"
This was my routine. This was my sanity.
My workout plan was a hybrid, a creature of my own design. My AB template required explosive agility, while the Brett Lee template demanded raw, kinetic power. My Stamina and Endurance meant I could do it all, back-to-back, without breaking.
Warm-up / Activation (The Treadmill): (15 minutes)
I didn't just jog. I started with a 5-minute light run, then hit the intervals.
Two minutes: Level 12 speed.
One minute: Level 5 walk.
Two minutes: Level 14 speed.
One minute: Level 5 walk.
One minute: Level 17 speed. A full-on, gut-busting sprint.
I stepped off the treadmill, hoodie discarded, my body humming, a light sheen of sweat on my skin. The regulars were used to it. I got a few "crazy bastard" looks from the new members, but I just called it efficiency.
Power & Explosiveness : (30 minutes)
This was about generating force.
Box Jumps: 5 sets of 8, on the highest box they had.
Plyometric Push-ups: 4 sets, clapping, explosive, pushing the floor away.
Medicine Ball Slams: 4 sets of 15, trying to break the floor.
Agility & Core : (20 minutes)
Bosu Ball Squats: One-legged, for balance.
Dynamic Planks: Rolling, side-to-side, and spider-man crunches.
Ladder Drills: My Dancing Skills made my feet a blur on the agility ladder.
Strength : (30 minutes)
"Mind if I work in?" I asked Surya, who was on the bench press.
"All yours, champ," he panted, moving aside.
He was trying to lift 120kg, but his form was terrible, elbows flared, all shoulder.
"Tuck your elbows, bhai," I said, gently adjusting his grip. "Think about pulling the bar apart, not just pushing it up. Protects the shoulder."
He tried it. The bar moved cleaner. " My turn."
I did my sets—clean, deep, controlled.
An hour and a half later, I was a satisfied, aching, sweat-drenched mess. I finished with 10 minutes of deep, painful, necessary stretching. I said my goodbyes, the easy, comfortable banter of the gym cleansing my palate. I was no one's "World Cup Hero" here. I was just Siddu, the kid who trained too hard.
I walked home as the city was waking up, the smell of diesel fumes and fresh idli batter in the air. I showered, the hot water a blessed relief. My newly-grown, slightly patchy beard and mustache—a 17-year-old's attempt at manhood—was scratchy. I needed to deal with that.
But first, breakfast.
Amma was in the kitchen, already in high gear, pulling out the dosa batter. "Siddu! You're back! I was so worried, going out in the dark! I'll make you a nice big..."
"It's okay, Amma," I said, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll handle it. My turn to cook."
She looked confused. "But... but I..."
"You made kheer for me last night. Let me make breakfast for you. Go. Sit with Nanna. Read the paper."
She hesitated, then saw the look in my eye. It was the same look I used in a chase. She smiled and relented.
I entered my other sanctuary. My Advanced Cooking Skills (Lv. 2), the System's most absurd and wonderful gift, took over.
The Protein/Fat: A six-egg omelet. But it was my omelet. Five whites, one whole yolk for the healthy fats and choline. I whisked them in a cold pan, no color, French-style. As it set, I added a handful of fresh spinach, black beans, and a crumble of feta cheese. The cook in me knew this was a perfect, low-glycemic, high-protein vehicle.
The Carbs: Amma's dosa batter was all white rice. I left it. I pulled out the steel-cut oats I'd made my dad buy. A small, 100g bowl, cooked with water, and a pinch of salt.
The Micronutrients: A bowl of fruit. Not just a banana. It was a precise, antioxidant-rich mix: a cup of blueberries, a handful of pomegranate seeds, and a sprinkle of sliced almonds for the magnesium.
I plated it all. The omelet was a perfect, pale-yellow half-moon. The oats were arranged neatly. The fruit bowl was vibrant. I made a perfect, dark, strong filter coffee for myself, just like Nanna's, but without the sugar.
"Breakfast is served," I announced.
Nanna and Amma came to the table. They started to eat it; they already ate my cooking before, and they know how much of a health freak I am.
Sometimes I have my cheat meal when my mother prepares something for me, but after eating, I make sure I burn out the carbs the next day in the Gym
By 11 AM, I'd dealt with the beard. I say beard; it was more like a collection of awkward, straggly hairs. It was time for a professional.
The local barber shop was buzzing, the snip-snip-snip of scissors a backdrop to the chatter about the upcoming IPL.
"Ah, Siddu baba! Champion! Come, come!" my regular barber, Kishore, said, ushering me into the main chair.
"Just a trim?" Kishore asks.
"No," I said, looking at my reflection. The kid who'd left for Malaysia had a simple, school-boy cut. The man who'd come back needed something else.
"I want it short on the sides. A fade. And the top... leave it long, but messy. Textured. A... a quiff."
Kishore looked utterly baffled. "A... 'kiff'?"
"Just... trust me," I laughed.
He went to work, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he was done, he spun the chair around.
I looked... different.
The sharp, faded sides and the artfully messy top, combined with the neatly-lined, light-stubble beard, had done the impossible. I looked my age, but I also looked... professional. Dangerous. Like someone who belonged on a billboard.
"Perfect, Kishore. Absolutely perfect."
I got home just as Arjun was walking up the steps. He looked different, too. The lanky, awkward kid I'd grown up with was gone. The BBA program, or maybe just time, had filled him out. He still had that same sharp, intelligent spark in his eyes.
"Whoa," he said, stopping. "New hair. New beard. Look at you. World Cup hero becomes a movie star."
"Shut up, man," I laughed, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "Get inside. You're late."
"I was busy, unlike some of us who are just lazing around after winning tournaments," he teased, flopping onto the sofa in the living room. "So, what's it like?"
"It's tiring. And the paperwork is annoying."
"How's the BBA?" I ask.
"Brutal. Corporate finance is a nightmare. But... I think I'm good at it."
"I know you are," I said, a hidden meaning in my words. "You'll be the best."
"Yeah, yeah. So what's the plan? We're going to the nets? Or are you too famous to hit with your old friends?"
"I'll always have time to beat you," I said, grabbing the remote. "But not now. It's the final day. Let's see who's making money."
I flicked on the TV. It was the IPL auction. My heart, despite my foreknowledge, gave a hard thump. This was it. The next, massive, life-altering step.
The screen was a flurry of numbers. The anchors were breathless.
"...and Andrew Symonds, what a buy for the Deccan Chargers! 6 crore! The most expensive foreign player!"
"...but the big story, of course, is Mahendra Singh Dhoni! 9.5 crore! The T20-winning captain goes to Chennai! A staggering, mind-boggling sum!"
Nanna and Amma, hearing the noise, came in and sat down, their faces a mix of curiosity and confusion.
"9.5... crore?" Nanna whispered, his lawyer's mind doing the math. "For... for one player?"
"It's the future, Nanna," I said, my eyes glued to the screen. I had, of course, already had the talk with the BCCI. My name was in the uncapped U-19 pool.
"And now," the auctioneer's voice boomed from the TV, "we move to the U-19 uncapped players."
Some uncapped players' names came. After a while, the auctioneer announced, "Virat Kohli."
Arjun leaned in. "This is it."
"Virat Kohli... base price 12 lakhs... Royal Challengers Bangalore, 12 lakhs! Going once... Sold! Virat Kohli goes to Bangalore!"
"12 lakhs," Arjun said. "Good for him. Good price."
A steal, I thought. They have no idea what they just bought.
More names went by. Jadeja. Tanmay. Then... my name flashed on the screen.
SIDDANTH DEVA. All-Rounder. Base Price: 12 Lakhs.
The living room went completely, utterly silent. Amma's hands went to her mouth. Nanna just... stopped breathing.
"And here we go," the auctioneer said. "Let's start the bidding..."
"Deccan Chargers! 12 lakhs!"
A paddle went up. My home team.
"Nanna," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Deccan Chargers."
He just nodded, his eyes wide.
"Delhi Daredevils! 13 lakhs!"
"Kolkata Knight Riders! 15 lakhs!"
"Deccan Chargers! 18 lakhs!"
"Delhi! 20!"
"This is crazy," Arjun breathed, his eyes darting between the paddles. "They're fighting!"
"Mumbai Indians! 25 lakhs!"
"Deccan Chargers! 30 lakhs!"
My mother grabbed my hand. "Siddu... what is happening?"
"They're... they want him," Nanna said, his voice strained.
"Deccan Chargers, at 30 lakhs... do I hear 35?"
"Rajasthan Royals! 35 lakhs!"
"Deccan Chargers! 40 lakhs!"
"40 LAKHS?!" Arjun yelled, jumping to his feet. "SIDDU! 40 LAKHS!"
"SIT DOWN!" I hissed, pulling him back.
"40 lakhs... 45! Delhi Daredevils! 45 lakhs!"
"50! Deccan Chargers!"
"55! Delhi!"
"60! Deccan!"
It wasn't an auction anymore; it was a duel. It was my home team versus the capital. The paddles were flying. 62. 65. 68. 70.
"Deccan Chargers, at 70 lakhs," the auctioneer said, his voice smoothing out the chaos.
"Delhi Daredevils... 71 lakhs."
The Delhi paddle went up.
"Deccan Chargers... 72 lakhs."
The Hyderabad paddle went up instantly.
"72 lakhs, to the Deccan Chargers," the auctioneer said. He looked at the Delhi table. "Do I hear 73?"
The Delhi team, the GMR group representatives, huddled. They shook their heads.
"No more? 72 lakhs... going once..."
I held my breath.
"Going twice..."
Amma's fingernails were digging into my arm.
"SOLD! To the Deccan Chargers! For 72 lakhs!"
The gavel slammed down.
The living room exploded.
Arjun didn't just tackle me; he practically threw me over the sofa, screaming "SEVENTY-TWO! SEVENTY-TWO!"
Amma was crying, just openly, happily weeping, chanting "72... 72..." as if it were a prayer.
Nanna... Nanna was pale. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. He stood up from his chair, his legs shaking. He walked over to the TV, staring at my face on the screen. He touched the screen, then turned to me.
He couldn't speak.
He just opened his arms.
I walked into them, and he crushed me in a hug, his whole body trembling. He whispered into my hair, his voice thick with a lifetime of pride. " 72 lakhs."
My stocks were already climbing. The IPL contract was signed. The future wasn't just coming.
It was here. And I was ready.