The Right Wrong Number✨

♡ Chapter - 40 ♡

He could feel the ball descending. The white blur spinning furiously, caught in its own chaotic spiral. Not a clean spiral either—it wobbled, flinched mid-air, as if it too was panicking, unsure of its final destination.

But Arjun wasn't.

He knew.

He knew in that strange sixth-sense sort of way—like the instinctive lean of a seasoned batsman who doesn't watch the ball but still knows where it'll pitch. His fingertips reached out before his mind fully processed it. Dirt exploded beneath him as his shoulder hit the ground, followed by his elbow, then his hip, his momentum dragging him along the grass like a skidding bullet.

And then—

Thump.

Palm. Ball. Contact.

The leather met flesh with a sound so soft it should've been missed, but it echoed in Arjun's chest louder than the wildest applause. For a split second, he wasn't sure. The ball had kissed the tip of his fingers, but did it stay?

The earth scraped against his skin. His wrist twisted slightly, but his hand remained tight. He rolled—just once—then went still. He lay flat, the ball clutched to his chest as if afraid even the wind might snatch it away.

Then—the roar.

"WICKET!"

"WICKETTTTT!!"

The umpire's finger rose—a single authoritative jab through the sky—and the stands erupted like a thousand soda bottles uncorked at once. Even from the stands, Dhruv leapt. In the pavilion, teammates cheered. At home his mother and Mira cheered too.

Arjun didn't rise immediately. He exhaled, finally, like someone who had been underwater for too long and found the surface. The grass beneath him smelled of dust and adrenaline. The crowd's chant reached his ears again, now louder, sharper, full of awe. Cameras turned toward him. Teammates bolted in, sprinting from different corners of the field.

He slowly stood up, brushing the bits of turf off his jersey. He raised the ball high for a second—just once—before slipping it into the hands of the bowler like it was a secret. His chest was heaving, but his eyes? Lit.

Because that wasn't just a catch.

It was a message.

That even from far, even when the odds felt stretched thinner than thread—he reached.

He caught.

He held on.

And he wasn't letting go.

The hours rolled by. Arjun never stopped blinking—every movement sharp, every ball chased with the precision of someone who had to prove something, not to the world, but to himself. 

He wasn't the fastest man on the field, but he was everywhere. His mind was alert, his body tuned, his focus unshakable. The grass burned against his knees, his calves ached from repeated sprints, but he didn't care. 

This was what he'd trained for in the silence of 4 a.m. dawns, when the world slept and his resolve stood awake.

He saved vital runs: slicing across the outfield to cut off a boundary that looked destined to kiss the rope. The crowd's breath held—then a collective exhale when he flicked it in at the last second, body twisting mid-air, the momentum dragging him an inch short of the rope. His jersey now stained, his breath short, but his eyes? Lit with fire. 

Applause broke out in pockets, and even those who had doubted couldn't deny the boy was here to play.

Another moment—different zone. A flicked glance off the bat that looked like it would race between midwicket and square leg.