The next day, Zaid stood in the small backyard of his house, gripping his worn-out cricket bat. The same one he had been using for years, its handle wrapped in layers of tape to keep it from falling apart.
He took a deep breath and adjusted his stance.
His younger brother, Faizan, stood a few feet away, holding a scuffed tennis ball. It wasn't much, but it was all they had.
"Bhai, ready?" Faizan asked, a grin on his face.
Zaid nodded. "Bowl."
The ball came fast—too fast for an ordinary kid like Faizan. But Zaid wasn't ordinary.
He stepped forward, adjusted his balance, and—crack!
The bat met the ball perfectly, sending it soaring over the boundary wall and into the neighboring alley.
Faizan's eyes widened. "Whoa! Sixer!"
Zaid allowed himself a small smile. It wasn't enough.
He needed more than just backyard practice. He needed real matches, real training, real opportunities.
But where would they come from?
As he was lost in thought, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Zoha: Busy?
Zaid: Kinda. What's up?
Zoha: Come outside.
His heart skipped a beat. Again?
He dusted off his clothes and walked through the narrow passage toward the front gate.
And there it was. The white BMW.
The driver had just stepped out to open the door when Zoha waved him off, pushing the door open herself. She stepped out, her long black hair tied in a high ponytail, wearing a casual yet expensive-looking hoodie and jeans.
She didn't belong in this part of the city, yet here she was again.
Zaid crossed his arms. "You really don't care what people say, do you?"
She smirked. "Nope. And you need to stop caring too."
Before he could respond, she pulled something from her bag and tossed it at him.
Zaid barely caught it in time. A small, sleek box.
He frowned. "What's this?"
Zoha rolled her eyes. "Open it, genius."
Zaid peeled the wrapper and popped open the box.
A brand-new smartphone.
His breath caught.
He looked up at her. "Zoha… I can't take this."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"It's too expensive."
She scoffed. "Zaid, do you even know how hard it is to contact you? Your current phone looks like it survived a world war."
He swallowed. She wasn't wrong. His old phone barely worked.
"Still… this is too much."
Zoha stepped closer, her voice softer now. "I just want to help. Please."
Zaid stared at the phone in his hands, a strange warmth spreading through him.
He sighed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
She grinned. "And you're lucky to have me."
For once, Zaid didn't argue.
Because deep down, he knew it was true.
That night, Zaid sat on his bed, staring at the phone Zoha had given him. The sleek black screen reflected his face, showing the hesitation in his eyes.
He had never owned something this expensive before.
He turned it over in his hands, running his fingers over the smooth surface. It felt foreign, almost unreal.
His old phone—if it could even be called that—was lying beside him, its cracked screen barely holding together with tape.
A sigh escaped his lips.
Zoha had given this to him so easily, without a second thought.
Did she really not care about money at all?
He pressed the power button, and the screen lit up. A notification popped up almost instantly.
Zoha: Figured out how to use it yet? Or do you need a tutorial?
Zaid smirked, shaking his head.
Zaid: I'm not that clueless.
Zoha: Debatable.
His smirk grew.
He typed back. Zaid: Thanks… for this.
A few seconds passed before her reply came.
Zoha: You're welcome. But if you really wanna thank me, use it to chase your dream.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She always made it sound so simple.
But for him, nothing had ever been simple.
Still, as he sat there, a small part of him allowed himself to believe—maybe this was the first step toward something bigger.
The next morning, Zaid stepped out of his house, slipping the new phone into his pocket. It still felt strange carrying something so valuable.
As he walked through the familiar narrow streets, he noticed the curious stares from neighbors. Word had spread.
People in his area talked—especially when a luxury BMW kept showing up outside his house.
A few kids ran past him, whispering. "Did you see that big car yesterday? Who was that girl?"
Zaid ignored them and kept walking. He didn't owe anyone an explanation.
But the weight of their eyes lingered.
Later that day, he found himself in an unfamiliar setting—a high-end shopping mall.
Zoha had dragged him there, insisting he needed proper sports gear if he was serious about cricket.
"You can't play at a professional level wearing shoes that are falling apart," she had argued.
Now, as he followed her through the glossy floors and bright lights, he felt completely out of place. Everything here screamed wealth.
People walked past in branded clothes, carrying bags filled with items worth more than his entire monthly expenses.
Zoha, on the other hand, blended in perfectly.
She moved confidently, browsing through racks of cricket gear as if she had done this a hundred times before.
Zaid hesitated. "Zoha, I really don't need—"
She shot him a glare. "Don't even start."
Before he could protest, she shoved a pair of high-quality cricket shoes into his hands.
"Try these."
Zaid exhaled. There was no point arguing with her.
He sat down and slipped them on. They fit perfectly.
Zoha grinned. "See? You already look like a pro."
He shook his head, a small smile creeping onto his face. Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe it too.