It was the match everyone had been waiting for—the long-anticipated face-off between Arjun and Vikrant. The school ground pulsed with energy, every corner filled with cheers, whispers, and the thumping of hearts. This wasn't just a game. It was pride, strength, and something personal.
Arjun, wearing his Blue Team jersey, stood quietly at the center of the school ground. The sky above was cloudy, the wind gentle, but inside him was a storm. He looked at his team—stretching, laughing, tightening their shoelaces—and whispered to himself,
"This is it... our moment."
He clenched his fists, eyes moving from one teammate to another.
"They trust me. I can't let them down today."
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the jersey on his back.
"We've trained, we've fought, we've fallen... and we've risen. No matter what happens, we fight till the last whistle."
His gaze slowly shifted across the field, locking eyes with Vikrant for a moment. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Vikrant... let's see who writes their story today."
On the other side, Vikrant stood tall in his Red Team jersey, arms crossed, boots pressed into the dirt. The wind tugged at his sleeves, but his mind was still. He watched his teammates getting ready—smiling, focused, eager.
His eyes found Arjun across the field.
"There he is..." Vikrant thought, narrowing his gaze.
"Quick on his feet. Sharp in his mind. But today, he meets me head-on."
He took a slow step forward, then stopped. His breath steady. His heart firm.
"This isn't just another match. This is the one they'll talk about. I'll give it everything I've got. No mistakes. No fear."
His hand tightened into a fist as he whispered in his thoughts,
"Let's see, Arjun... who leads, and who follows."
The crowd roared louder, the school ground now a boiling pot of cheers, hopes, and unspoken tension. Flags waved, drums beat, and excitement sparked in every corner. It wasn't just a match—it was the match. Arjun versus Vikrant. Blue versus Red. Speed versus Strength.
At the center stage stood Principal Meenakshi Ma'am, regal in her calm. Her sharp eyes moved from one team to the other—Blue Team to the left, Red Team to the right. Her hands folded behind her back, her sari crisp and spotless. Her face was unreadable, but inside her mind was clear.
"No matter who wins, this match will show me who deserves to be in the ZP squad," she thought, her gaze narrowing. "The district-level tournament is around the corner. This school's name must shine. We need warriors, not just players."
She scanned Arjun, noticed his agility. Then her eyes shifted to Vikrant, noticing his focus.
"Good... both are determined. But I want more than spirit. I want results. This school must top the ZP charts this year. No compromises. The best will rise today."
Behind her, a group of teachers whispered among themselves, careful not to let her hear.
"I tell you, Prashant Sir has trained them like soldiers," said Mr. Rao, eyes locked on the Red Team.
"Soldiers, yes... but Sidharth Sir has the brain of a tactician," replied Ms. Reema.
"Did you see the way Arjun moves? That boy is fast. Very fast," added Ms. Latha, sipping her tea.
"Vikrant though... he stands like a rock. I wouldn't want to be up against him."
Meanwhile, Prashant Sir, coach of the Red Team, stood with his arms crossed, his expression fierce but proud.
Sidharth Sir, coach of the Blue Team, moved among his boys like a calm storm—quiet but alert, fixing last-minute strategies with a soft but sharp tone.
In the stands, students were buzzing with excitement.
"Bro, look at Arjun! He's locked in!"
"But Vikrant's face? That guy means business!"
"Yaar, this is going to be a proper war!"
"If Blue wins, I'm getting samosas for everyone!"
"If Red wins, it's jalebi party from me!"
Every student leaned forward. Every teacher stopped blinking. Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath.
And at the very heart of it all, Meenakshi Ma'am's gaze stayed cold and calculating.
"Today, I don't want drama. I want excellence. Let them fight. Let the best rise. My school will not settle for second place."
Just then, the referee stepped forward and raised his whistle.
The match was about to begin.
The scoreboard blinked:
RED TEAM vs BLUE TEAM | 0 – 0 | TIME: 00:00
Both coaches, Prashant Sir for the Red Team and Sidharth Sir for the Blue Team, stood at opposite sidelines of the school ground. Their expressions were calm, but their eyes held the fire of competition. Their players tightened their gear, adjusted their jerseys, and took their final positions. Every whistle blown, every drill run, every extra hour spent after school had led to this moment.
Prashant Sir, hands on his hips, took a deep breath.
"We've trained for this. Vikrant knows what to do. My boys just need to keep their heads cool and play like they practice. No showing off, no silly mistakes. Let's make this a clean win."
He glanced at Vikrant briefly—his captain stood firm, focused, strong.
"This is your time, Vikrant. Don't hold back."
On the other side, Sidharth Sir kept a soft smile on his face, but his mind was busy scanning the field.
"Red Team will try to use power. But Arjun is faster, lighter, sharper. If he uses his brain more than his feet, we've got this."
He clapped a hand gently on Arjun's shoulder as he passed by, then looked out at his whole team.
"I believe in you, boys. Let them chase. Let them tire. We play smart. We play together. And we win with dignity."
The two coaches shared a respectful nod across the field.
They both knew—only one team would leave this ground with their heads held high.
And neither was ready to lose.
The quiet before the storm was filled with unspoken promises, challenges, and dreams. This match was not just about points or tackles—it was about pride and the desire to win. Arjun and Vikrant had long been respected by their teams, and now, their skills would be put to the ultimate test.
A deep silence fell over the field as everyone waited for the referee's whistle. Then, with one sharp blast, the game began. The long-anticipated battle between Arjun and Vikrant had officially started, and every heart on the ground beat in unison with excitement, ready to see who would come out on top.
[A sharp whistle cuts through the air.]
The match had begun.
"And there it is! The whistle blows!" shouted the first commentator, his voice bursting through the speakers across the school ground.
"The most awaited match of the year is underway! Red Team wins the toss and chooses to raid first," added the second, excitement crackling in his voice. "Hold onto your seats, folks—this is going to be a storm!"
Cheers erupted from both sides of the audience as players took their positions on the mat, the tension thick as fog. Teachers, students, and even the support staff leaned forward, eyes locked on the center of the field.
As the whistle sliced through the air, time seemed to slow. All eyes turned to the mat where Raghav from the Red Team stepped forward, the sunlight catching the fierce gleam in his eyes. His breath was calm, but his aura crackled—focused, sharp, electric. The ground beneath his feet felt like fire, but he moved with the grace of a storm cloud ready to burst.
He crossed the midline like a warrior stepping onto a battlefield, whispering the rhythmic "kabaddi, kabaddi" like a battle chant, each syllable syncing with the pounding of the audience's hearts. With a swift feint to the left, he danced past the first defender, fingers brushing past jerseys—just inches from scoring. A collective gasp rippled through the stands.
---
Raghav's thoughts burned as he surged in:
"This is it. The first strike sets the tone. They'll flinch, and I'll slip through. Tag two. Maybe three. Let's see Vikrant smirk after this."
His eyes scanned the Blue line, zeroing in.
"There—Lalit hesitates when I rush left. Mohit's too wide. Just one step more and I'm through—"
But in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
---
Lalit moved—not like a player, but like a predator.
He lunged low, a blur of muscle and timing, wrapping around Raghav's ankle like a coiled serpent.
Lalit's mind surged:
"No more waiting. You're not crossing our line, Red star. Arjun believes in me. I won't fail him."
"This isn't defense. This is judgment."
---
Raghav twisted in shock:
"No—already? My foot—he's locked it!"
A flicker of panic lit his eyes, just as Mohit stormed in.
---
Mohit's mind blazed as he struck:
"He's trapped. Lalit set it up—I end it."
"No mercy. No gaps. We are the wall."
His body slammed into Raghav's chest like a battering ram, driving him to the mat.
---
Raghav's chest hit the ground. Air shot from his lungs.
"No… this wasn't the plan… I didn't see—"
Dust kicked up as he lay stunned, heart racing, head tilted toward the sky.
---
From the sidelines, Vikrant, Red Team captain, watched with narrowed eyes.
"They read him. Perfectly. Lalit and Mohit—coordinated like hunters. Hmph."
"This isn't just defense. This is a warning."
His knuckles clenched.
"So it begins…"
---
On the Blue Team's end, Arjun, calm as ever, stood with arms crossed.
"No call needed. They knew. Trusted instinct. That's how you break a rhythm."
He watched Raghav rise from the mat.
"You felt that, Vikrant? That's what we bring. You want war? Welcome to it."
---
The stadium held its breath.
And then—thunder.
A roar of cheers erupted as Raghav fell, pinned by two titans. The scoreboard flickered. The dust settled.
Raghav, breathing heavy, got to his knees. His chest rose and fell like waves crashing against rocks. For a moment, he stared at the sky above, then slowly rose, nodding with quiet respect toward the defenders.
He walked back to the pavilion—not defeated, but ignited.
The match had begun—and it wasn't going to be gentle.