The stadium was empty now. Floodlights flickered like tired stars, dimming one by one. What had once been a cauldron of noise, adrenaline, and passion was now just concrete and silence.
Karan sat in the dressing room long after the others had gone. His boots lay at his feet, caked in dried grass and mud. His socks sagged around his ankles. His jersey clung to him—still soaked in sweat, effort, and regret. His body ached in places he didn't know existed, but the pain in his chest ran deeper. It wasn't just physical—it was the sting of a debut wrapped in brilliance… and defeat.
He had scored. He had assisted.
But they had lost.
And the name behind that loss was etched into his mind like a scar: Arnav Singh.
---
The Coach's Word
The heavy door creaked open. Footsteps echoed softly across the floor.
Coach Fernandes entered, clipboard in hand. He didn't speak at first. He just sat down across from Karan, the silence between them humming with unspoken understanding.
"You know what I liked about today?" he asked, voice low and steady.
Karan looked up, his eyes clouded with confusion and frustration.
"You didn't hide," the coach said. "You wanted the ball. You took risks. You made a difference."
Then his tone shifted. "And I saw you get beat."
Karan's jaw clenched, but he didn't look away. He accepted it. Arnav's goals had cut deep—not just into the scoreline, but into Karan's pride.
"That's fine," Fernandes continued. "Because that's how you grow. You played your first match like you belonged—and that matters more than stats or headlines."
The coach stood up, slung the clipboard under his arm, and headed for the door.
"Rest. Train hard. We'll talk Monday."
Just before leaving, he stopped and turned slightly.
"Oh—and Sharma…"
Karan straightened.
"Welcome to the first team."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Karan blinked. His chest tightened. Was that real?
He was in.
---
Media Madness
The next morning, reality hit like a lightning bolt.
His phone buzzed nonstop—notifications pouring in by the hundreds.
Instagram flooded with reels and tags:
> "Sharma's debut fireworks: goal + assist in 30 minutes!"
"The Eagle Eye takes flight."
One video looped his goal over and over again: the composure, the timing, the strike. Slow-motion edits made him look like a star already.
Twitter followed suit:
> "Karan Sharma showed flair and vision—but Arnav Singh stole the show."
"The birth of India's next great rivalry?"
The hashtag was everywhere:
#EagleVsFalcon
He scrolled through memes, analyses, reaction videos, and debates on sports shows. Overnight, he'd gone from academy talent to national discussion.
But not all the praise felt like comfort:
> "Karan had a great debut… but Arnav's Dive was unstoppable."
"Can Sharma handle pressure when it matters most?"
For every compliment, there was a challenge.
The spotlight had found him—and with it came the weight of expectation.
---
The Message
That evening, just before dinner, his phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Arnav Singh:
> "Great game. But next time, don't blink."
Karan stared at the screen.
He felt a rush of something—excitement, irritation, admiration. He wasn't sure which.
He opened the message window and typed a response:
Karan Sharma:
> "Next time, I won't."
But his thumb hesitated over the send button.
He didn't press it.
Instead, he saved it in drafts.
Words could wait.
This wasn't the time to talk. It was time to train.
---
New Routine, New Fire
Monday came like a new season. A clean slate. But the pressure was heavier now.
Karan reported to training—no longer as an academy hopeful or a benchwarmer. He was now part of the senior squad. Full-time.
The pace of the sessions was blistering. The intensity was relentless.
Every touch mattered. Every pass had to be perfect. Every mistake cost him something.
His teammates were veterans—some with national caps, others with years in the Indian National League. They weren't there to babysit him. They were there to win.
And if Karan wanted to stay, he had to earn it.
At first, he struggled.
Passes were intercepted. His movement was half a second too slow. His instincts were sharp—but not sharp enough.
During water breaks, Aditya pulled him aside.
"Don't always look for the killer ball," he said. "Sometimes, the smartest pass is backward. Control the tempo. Be the brain, not just the highlight."
Ruben, a grizzled centre-back with a calm demeanor, added:
"Use your Eagle Eye. But don't forget—football isn't just sight. It's feel. You need rhythm."
Karan listened. Absorbed. Adapted.
And when practice ended, he didn't go home. He stayed behind. Every day.
30 extra minutes.
Short passes. First-touch drills. Long balls. Tight-space decision-making.
He replayed every error from the debut in his mind, again and again, until he could fix them before they happened.
Because he knew—Arnav was working too.
And falcons don't sleep.
---
Late-Night Reflection
That night, Karan lay on his bed. No music. No distractions. Just him and his thoughts.
He stared at the ceiling as the game played back in his mind like a film reel.
His goal. The assist. The crowd roaring.
And then… the Dive.
Arnav hadn't just sprinted. He'd vanished and reappeared. He'd waited for his moment, struck like lightning, and disappeared into the night.
Karan's Eagle Eye gave him vision, awareness, structure.
But Arnav's Dive was chaos—sudden, savage, surgical.
It wasn't just a battle of players.
It was a battle of philosophies.
Karan turned onto his side, eyes sharp now.
He wasn't angry about the loss anymore.
He was thrilled.
Because for the first time in his life, someone had pushed him past his limits.
Someone had matched him.
No—someone had beaten him.
And now… there was something to chase.
He whispered into the quiet of his room:
> "Next time, Arnav… I'll be ready."