Zaid glanced at the mirror in the sports store, still adjusting to the feeling of the Nike Air Zoom Cricket Spikes on his feet.
They were light. Sturdy. Comfortable.
A far cry from the torn sneakers he had been playing in.
Zoha sat beside him, scrolling through her phone, waiting for his reaction. "Well?"
Zaid shifted his weight, testing them out. The grip was incredible. "They feel… different."
Zoha smirked. "That's because they're actually made for cricket."
She stood up, walking over to another aisle. "Alright, next—your bat."
Zaid followed hesitantly, watching as she pulled out a Gray-Nicolls Legend bat from the rack. The polished willow gleamed under the store lights.
He ran his fingers over the grip, his heart pounding. This was the kind of bat professional players used.
Zoha watched him. "You like it?"
Zaid swallowed. "It's amazing… but it's too much."
She rolled her eyes. "We've been over this. Just take it."
Before he could argue, she had already called over the store clerk, instructing him to pack the bat.
Zaid sighed in defeat.
At the counter, Zoha casually pulled out her black Amex card, handing it over without a second thought.
Zaid looked away.
He had never seen so much money spent so effortlessly.
As they left the store, he adjusted the bag on his shoulder, the weight of the new gear settling in.
He wasn't just dreaming about becoming a cricketer anymore.
He was stepping into that world.
And this time, he had no excuses.
Zaid sat in the backseat of Zoha's BMW 7 Series, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. The soft hum of the car's engine was almost too quiet—a world apart from the rickety auto-rickshaws he was used to.
Zoha sat beside him, casually scrolling through her iPhone. "You okay?"
Zaid nodded, but his grip tightened around the bag holding his new gear.
It felt surreal.
Just this morning, he was practicing in his torn shoes, using an old bat borrowed from a neighborhood friend. Now, he had some of the best equipment money could buy.
Did he really deserve all this?
Zoha noticed his silence. "You're overthinking again, aren't you?"
Zaid exhaled. "It's just… all of this is too much."
She smirked. "You say that now, but wait till you start hitting sixes with that bat. Then you'll love it."
Zaid chuckled, shaking his head.
The car slowed as they approached his neighborhood. The contrast was jarring.
The luxury sedan, sleek and polished, felt almost out of place among the narrow lanes and modest houses.
As the driver pulled up, Zaid hesitated. Would people talk again?
Zoha must've read his mind. "Ignore them."
Easier said than done.
Still, he stepped out, gripping his bags tightly. The weight on his shoulders felt heavier than just cricket gear.
It was responsibility.
A promise—to himself, to Zoha, to everyone who believed in him.
He wouldn't waste this chance
Zaid stepped into his home, the dim glow of a single bulb flickering in the small living room. His mother sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through lentils with tired hands. She looked up as he entered, her eyes immediately landing on the heavy sports bag slung over his shoulder.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice cautious.
Zaid hesitated, placing the bag down gently. "Cricket gear."
Her brows furrowed. "Where did you get the money for this?"
Before Zaid could answer, a deep voice cut through the room.
"Did you steal it?"
Zaid stiffened. His father.
Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his father's dark eyes bore into him. Kalim Khan was a man of sharp angles—his jaw, his expectations, his disapproval.
Zaid swallowed. "No, Abbu. Zoha… she bought it for me."
His father's expression didn't change. "That rich girl again?"
Zaid nodded. "She believes in me."
His father scoffed. "Belief doesn't pay bills."
Zaid clenched his fists. "Cricket will."
Silence stretched between them. His mother glanced between them nervously.
His father sighed, walking past him to sit on the worn-out sofa. "And what about your studies?"
Zaid looked down. There were no studies anymore.
His father exhaled sharply. "You threw away your education for a bat and ball?"
Zaid met his gaze, determination burning in his eyes. "I didn't throw it away. I had no choice."
His father studied him for a moment before shaking his head. "One day, you'll realize dreams don't fill stomachs."
Zaid didn't respond. He simply picked up his bag and walked to his room.
One day, he'd prove him wrong.