29th July, 2023
BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm beeped at 5:00 a.m.
Felix opened his eyes and remained still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. His body felt a little heavier than usual—not weak, not injured, just aware.
Yesterday's hours at the shop lingered in his muscles, a quiet reminder rather than a warning.
He sat up.
His shoulders tightened briefly, then loosened as he rolled them once. His calves felt stiff but steady.
"In these two days," he murmured, "I almost forgot how tiring it is to work in the shop."
In the past, this was where negotiations began.
Silent ones.Reasonable ones.
You trained yesterday.
You worked late.
Missing one session won't matter.
Felix stood up.
The floor was cold beneath his feet—solid, real.
"It matters," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
He washed up, changed into his tracksuit, and stepped outside. The sky was still dark, but the air carried that early-morning sharpness that woke the lungs instantly. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. A milk truck rattled down the street.
Felix started walking toward the park, letting his body wake gradually.
His steps were measured. No rushing. No forcing. His legs resisted at first, but not aggressively. It felt like stretching a rope coiled too tightly overnight.
At the park, he stopped near the familiar path and began warming up.
Slow stretches.
Ankles first.Then knees.Hips.Shoulders.
He remembered how often he had skipped this part before—treating warm-ups like an inconvenience instead of preparation.
Not today.
Only when his breathing settled did he begin jogging.
The pace was light. Controlled. Enough to raise his heart rate, not enough to drain him. His arms moved naturally at his sides, steps short and even. The soreness stayed in the background—noticeable, but quiet.
By the time the sky began to lighten, Felix felt properly awake.
And ready.
By 6:30 a.m. sharp, Felix was already on campus.
The grounds were alive.
Not just badminton players—volleyball teams practiced near the net, basketballs echoed against concrete courts, and runners moved steadily along their usual routes. Every sport had claimed its space, every athlete chasing their own discipline.
The badminton court lights were on, casting bright white patches across the polished floor. A few players had arrived early, stretching in silence or quietly testing their rackets.
Felix tightened the grip tape on his racket and stepped inside.
The space smelled faintly of sweat and floor polish—familiar and grounding.
Coach David Brown arrived a few minutes later, coffee in hand, whistle hanging loosely around his neck.
"Morning," he said flatly. "Warm up properly. We start in ten."
No motivational speech. No drama.
Felix appreciated that.
The interschool competition was scheduled for Tuesday, 1st August.
Only two days remained.
The warm-up drills were structured and precise.
Footwork first—short bursts forward and back, lateral shuffles, sudden stops. Felix's legs responded a fraction slower than usual at first, but he adjusted quickly, staying light on his feet.
"Don't drag," David called out once. "Lift your heels."
Felix corrected immediately.
Next came shadow swings.
Felix focused on form rather than speed. Smooth follow-through. Controlled wrist movement. No wasted motion.
Sweat gathered at his temples, trickling down slowly.
By the time they moved to shuttle drills, his body had settled into rhythm.
Rallies began.
Felix paired with a junior initially, keeping the pace moderate. He guided the shuttle instead of attacking, placing shots deliberately and watching angles. The junior struggled to keep up, but Felix didn't press too hard.
This wasn't about domination.
It was about consistency.
When rotations happened, Felix found himself facing stronger players. The intensity rose naturally.
Fast exchanges on the net. Sharp clears to the backcourt. Sudden smashes that demanded instant reaction.
His arm burned slightly near the shoulder—not pain, just fatigue building. Felix adjusted his swing, relying more on timing than force.
Across the court, Kunal Yadav was also practicing.
Warming up. Stretching.
But also watching.
Felix noticed him without acknowledging it.
Today wasn't about rivals.
It was about endurance.
David blew the whistle sharply. "Hydrate. Two minutes."
Felix grabbed his bottle, taking slow, controlled sips. His breathing steadied quickly.
Nikhil dropped onto the bench beside him, catching him off guard.
"How's it going?" Nikhil asked.
Felix smirked faintly. "What are you doing here this early?"
"Well," Nikhil said, stretching his legs, "if you forgot, I also have football practice sometimes. Today's a practice match between our school and Elite Lions."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here?"
"Taking a break," Nikhil grinned. "And to inform you that you must be at the ground to see me win."
"Of course," Felix said dryly. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
The final session was a match simulation.
Felix stepped onto the court again, facing a senior known for an aggressive playstyle. The first rally was fast and chaotic. Felix lost the point quickly.
He didn't react.
He adjusted.
The next rally stretched longer. Felix anticipated earlier, stayed low, and returned shots instead of forcing winners. When the shuttle finally dropped on the opponent's side, Felix exhaled slowly.
Not relief.
Focus.
The rallies grew longer. Harder.
Fatigue crept in now—not sharp, not overwhelming, but persistent. His legs trembled slightly during longer exchanges. He compensated with positioning, reading shots earlier instead of chasing late.
David's whistle cut through the air.
"Good recovery," he said, watching Felix. "You're thinking. Keep that."
Felix nodded once.
The final points were played under pressure. Sweat dripped from his jawline. His grip tightened, then relaxed as he reminded himself not to over-hold the racket.
When the last shuttle hit the floor, Felix straightened slowly, chest rising and falling steadily.
David checked his watch.
09:30 a.m.
WHISTLE.
"Practice ends for today," he announced. "Pack up."
Players groaned quietly but complied.
David's gaze swept the group. "This is the level. Those who show up like this every morning stay. Those who don't—don't."
His eyes lingered briefly on Felix.
Not approval.
Acknowledgment.
Felix wiped his face with a towel and looked around the court one last time.
Sweat. Noise. Fatigue.
And beneath it all—
Purpose.
As he slung his bag over his shoulder, the clock on the wall ticked over to 9:30 a.m.
Practice was over.
Somewhere on the other side of campus, Nikhil's practice match had already begun.