---
The next fixture was critical — a tight turnaround against Jamshedpur FC, a team known for its physical style.
Arjun had been in perfect rhythm. His passes crisp, vision sharp. But he felt the fatigue creeping in. Not from overtraining — from weight. The weight of expectation. Of pressure. Of having something to lose again.
Coach Sameer rotated the squad lightly, but Arjun stayed on. Too valuable. Too important. He never asked for a rest. He couldn't.
He didn't want to risk being forgotten again.
---
Midway through the first half, Arjun chased a loose ball in midfield. A fraction too late, he stretched—just as a Jamshedpur midfielder lunged in.
Studs met turf.
Turf met ankle.
Pain exploded through his leg.
He went down hard, clutching the same ankle from his past life — the one that shattered everything.
Time slowed. Noise dimmed.
All he could hear was the ghost of that other life.
> Cold MRI rooms. Tears in silence. Agents who stopped calling. The end of a dream before it began.
---
The stretcher came.
Kochi's Yellow Wall hushed for the first time in the season.
Kalyani watched on her phone, live from her vanity van on set.
She covered her mouth in horror as the commentator shouted, "That's Arjun Dev on the ground!"
He was taken straight to the medical room under the stadium.
The physio peeled off the sock and started testing movement. Arjun gritted his teeth, trying not to panic.
"Pain?" the physio asked.
"Yes… but not like last time," he muttered.
X-rays were ordered immediately. Coach Sameer arrived, jaw clenched.
"Don't think. Just breathe," he said quietly, placing a hand on Arjun's shoulder.
Arjun stared at the ceiling, every inch of him bracing for fate to repeat itself.
---
That evening, the scan results came in.
No fracture.
Just a sprain.
Two weeks rest.
He was safe.
The wave of relief made him dizzy.
He sat alone outside the clinic, staring at the sky, ankle elevated, eyes filled with exhausted gratitude.
> "Not this time," he whispered. "Not again."
---
When he returned to the team hotel, he found a box at his door.
Inside was a packet of turmeric pain balm, a tiny cartoon sketch of him limping — and a handwritten note.
> "You owe me a rooftop conversation."
—K
He laughed for the first time that day.
---
Kalyani came to see him that night. Not in a hurry. Not in secret.
They sat on the hostel rooftop again, city lights flickering beneath them.
"You scared me," she admitted.
"I scared myself," he said.
"You were gripping that leg like it was life or death."
"It was, once," he said softly.
She waited.
So he told her. Everything.
About the life before. The injury. The obscurity. The guilt. The desperation.
Not in detail — but in weight.
She didn't interrupt once.
When he finished, she said only this:
"Then maybe this time, you were reborn to finish what was stolen."
That line stayed with him.
All night.
---
Meanwhile, Faizan watched the match replay at home.
When Arjun went down, he paused the screen.
He stared at the expression on Arjun's face — the raw, silent fear.
He remembered feeling that himself once, years ago, when a shin injury almost cost him his academy scholarship.
In that moment, Faizan didn't see a rival.
He saw a reflection.
And he didn't like what stared back.
He picked up his phone. Opened a message.
Paused.
Then deleted it.
---
Back at Blasters training, Coach Sameer adjusted drills.
"You train as if he's not returning next match," he barked.
The team responded with renewed energy.
But there was an unspoken void.
Faizan ran more. Pressed harder. Shouted louder.
And when the media asked him, "Do you miss Arjun on the pitch?" — he simply said, "He'll be back stronger."
It was the first time he'd said Arjun's name in an interview.
---
Two matches passed.
One draw. One win.
Solid, but not dominant.
And then… Arjun returned to training.
Slower at first. Careful. But composed.
More grounded. More grateful.
And the players saw it.
Even Faizan.
During a water break, Faizan tossed him a bottle and said, "Don't get soft on us now."
Arjun grinned. "I'll try."
---
In the next match, Arjun was on the bench.
But when the team needed control, Coach signaled him.
Minute 70.
As he stood by the sideline, armband wrapped tight, fans chanted his name.
He stepped on the pitch and passed the ball with intent — every touch reminding the world, he was back.
The final whistle blew.
They'd won again.
And the headlines didn't call it a comeback.
They called it a return.
---