Siddanth's rotation was up again. He moved from Net 3 to Net 2. Waiting there, his stance a picture of lazy, fluid elegance, was Rohit Sharma.
This was a different challenge. Silva was an experienced international, but Rohit was a fellow prodigy, a T20 World Cup winner who possessed a supernatural gift for timing. He was one of the few batsmen on Earth who feasted on pace.
Siddanth took his mark. He felt the eyes of Laxman and Gilchrist, who had stopped their own chat to watch this particular duel.
He wouldn't start with raw pace.
He ran in, a smooth 15-step approach, and let loose the wobble-seam. It was 145kph, angled in, and designed to jag away.
Rohit, who had been expecting a thunderbolt, simply waited. He didn't lunge, he didn't guess. He just waited. At the last possible nanosecond, his hands, with that famously languid whip, just guided the ball. He used Siddanth's own pace against him, deflecting it with an open face past the imaginary gully for a "run" he didn't even bother to acknowledge.
Siddanth felt a jolt of pure, professional respect. He has more time than anyone else.
Okay, no more tricks. Time for the cannon.
Siddanth went back to his full, 17-step run-up. He exploded through the crease, his action a blur.
152kph. It was full, straight, and aimed at the base of the middle stump. A perfect yorker.
Rohit's bat, which had been resting on his toe, came down with impossible, casual speed. It wasn't a drive, it wasn't a block; it was a stop. The bat shuddered in his hands, but the ball was dead, rolling to a halt at his feet. He looked up at Siddanth and gave a small, almost bored, nod.
He ran in again, full power, and dug it in. 150kph. A bouncer aimed right at the grille.
Rohit didn't sway. He didn't duck.
He hooked.
It was the signature Rohit Sharma shot, a lazy, horizontal bat-swivel, all grace and timing. The ball cracked off the middle of the bat and smashed into the very top of the chain-link netting, a hundred yards away. It was a shot of pure, contemptuous dominance.
Siddanth, at the end of his follow-through, just stopped and stared. His best, most hostile delivery had just been dispatched for six.
"Good shot," he muttered, acknowledging the class.
"Good ball," Rohit replied, a tiny smirk playing on his lips.
---
After the bowlers had completed their rotations, Robin Singh blew his whistle. "Batsmen, pad up! Gilchrist, VVS, you're first. Deva, you're in the next rotation with Rao and Styris."
For the next twenty minutes, Siddanth just watched. He stood next to Rohit, a silent, unspoken truce between them, and observed the masters.
Adam Gilchrist was first. He was a force of nature. Gilly wasn't just batting; he was attacking. His feet were a blur, and his bat speed was terrifying. He was all fast-twitch muscle and brutal, fast hands.
Then, VVS Laxman. It was like switching from a heavy metal concert to a classical sonata. Laxman didn't hit the ball; he caressed it. He faced RP Singh, who was bowling genuine pace, and just... deflected him. He played shots with his wrists that defied the laws of physics.
Siddanth's mind downloaded the data. Gilchrist was power. Laxman was grace. And he was a hybrid of both, but with a 360-degree element they didn't possess.
My goal here, he decided, is not to be them. It's to show them I'm reliable.
"Deva! You're in Net 2!"
He walked in, his heart rate steady. He was facing RP Singh, who was warmed up.
He took his guard.
"Watch the hair, kid!" RP joked, but his eyes were serious. He ran in, all long hair and gangly aggression.
Ball 1: A 140kph inswinger, aimed at the pads.
Siddanth met it with a high elbow, a straight bat, and a classical, textbook forward defense. Thud. The ball dropped dead at his feet.
RP stared.
Ball 2: RP, annoyed, dug it in short. A bouncer.
Siddanth, his Acrobatic Instincts and A+ Agility making the movement fluid, swayed back, his head and bat moving as one, letting the ball pass harmlessly. He didn't flinch.
Ball 3: RP went full, looking for the drive. A 138kph half-volley outside off.
Siddanth's mind screamed DRIVE. He didn't slog. He played a shot. A classical, straight-bat cover drive. But the power from his Power Hitting (Lv. 3) and the timing from his A+ Hand-Eye stats were anything but normal.
The ball rocketed off the bat. It was a blur, screaming past RP's left ear before the bowler had even completed his follow-through.
"Shot," RP grunted, impressed.
The leg-spinner came on. He tossed his first ball up, a tempting, looping delivery.
Siddanth's feet moved. He didn't charge wildly. He glided. He didn't try to hit it for six. He just punched it, a firm, straight-bat drive that went like a tracer bullet past mid-on.
The spinner, nervous, dragged the next one short.
Siddanth, his reflexes impossibly fast, rocked back and cut it. The shot was all wrist, all timing, and it, too, found the back of the net.
For the next twenty minutes, Siddanth Deva was a machine. He didn't play a single ramp. He didn't attempt one scoop. He didn't even try a reverse-sweep.
It was all "normal" cricket: textbook drives, sharp cuts, solid blocks, and intelligent leaves.
But it was "normal" cricket played with the power of a heavyweight, the reflexes of a fighter jet pilot, and the unerring wisdom of shot selection.
He didn't get out. He didn't look flustered. He just... batted.
When his 20 minutes were up, he walked out, his pads under his arm.
Laxman, who had been watching, gave him a small, respectful nod. Technique.
Robin Singh, who had also been watching, gave him a nod. Consistency.
Siddanth had shown them he wasn't just the flashy 17-year-old kid. He was a professional.
The sun was climbing, its heat now a merciless white hammer on the Uppal ground. The batting nets were wrapped up.
"Alright, on the field! Now!" Robin Singh's whistle cut through the air. "Fielding! This is what wins T20s!"
This... this was Robin Singh's domain. He, a legendary fielder, was going to break them.
The next hour was brutal.
High catches, the ball a white speck in the blazing sun. Flat catches, hit with a tennis racket, designed to sting the hands.
And finally, the "chaos drill." Robin stood at home plate, hitting balls into the outfield, screaming commands. "DEVA! To your left! DIVE! GILLCHRIST! Back him up! RP! Throw to the keeper's end!"
It was a test of agility, stamina, and communication.
The team, sweating and exhausted, was holding its own. Gilchrist was still a spring, even at 36. Symonds moved like a panther.
Then, Robin Singh hit a ball that was a "punishment."
He smashed it, a low, flat, screaming line drive, into the gap between deep extra-cover and long-off. It was a certain, lazy boundary. No one was there.
"No one's ball!" Robin roared.
Siddanth was at long-off. He was 30 yards from the ball's trajectory.
He didn't even think. He just reacted.
He took off.
His acceleration was terrifying. The team watched him, a blue-and-gold blur, eating up the ground.
He wasn't going to get there. It was impossible.
The ball was dipping, about to hit the grass.
Siddanth launched.
It was the World Cup catch all over again. A full-length, horizontal, one-handed dive. His Acrobatic Instincts took over, his body perfectly parallel to the ground, his left hand extended.
His fingers snagged the ball just as it was a centimeter from the grass.
But he was moving too fast.
Instead of crashing, his Parkour skill kicked in. He didn't just land; he rolled. In one seamless, fluid motion, he tucked his shoulder, hit the grass, performed a perfect combat roll, and sprang back to his feet.
He was standing, the ball held high in his left hand.
Silence.
The entire team—Gilchrist, Laxman, Symonds, Rohit—just... stopped. They were staring.
Robin Singh, his bat still in his hands, had his mouth open.
Andrew Symonds was the first to react. He just started to laugh, a low, booming, Australian cackle.
"Bloody hell, kid!" Symonds roared, pulling his zinc-covered mouth into a grin. "You're a freak! A proper freak!"
Adam Gilchrist just shook his head, whistling. "You're not 17, mate. No 17-year-old moves like that."
Siddanth just smiled. He wasn't even breathing hard. His S-Rank Stamina had barely noticed the effort.
He just jogged back to his position.
Robin Singh watched him, a dark, intense look on his face. He finally blew his whistle.
"Alright! Bring it in! Bring it in!"
The team huddled around him, sweaty, panting, and all glancing at Siddanth with a new level of awe.
"That," Robin said, jabbing a finger at Siddanth, "is the standard. That is 100%. That's what I want from all of you."
He looked up at the sky. The sun was directly overhead, a merciless, blinding white.
"Good first day. We saw some power," he nodded at Siddanth and Gilly. "We saw some sloppiness," he glanced at Siddanth's earlier wide and Rohit's lazy dismissal. "We're not here to be highlight reels. We're here to be consistent. Tomorrow, we do it again. But better. Practice is over for today. Ice baths for the quicks. Everyone else, re-hydrate."
The locker room was a noisy, steamy, happy chaos. The hiss of showers, the smell of soap and new-team sweat, the snap of towels. The ice was broken.
He showered, changed back into his casuals, and packed his bag.
The bus ride back to the Park Hyatt was different. It was lighter. With practice, they all got to know each other.
Siddanth just smiled, put in his (old-school, 2008) headphones, and looked out the window.
He'd shown them his pace. He'd shown them his brain. He'd shown them his athleticism.
He'd also shown them he could make a mistake.
It was, his mind concluded, a perfect first day. He wasn't just a prodigy. He was human. And that made him, paradoxically, even more dangerous.