Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the air, a silence broken only by the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on the polished court. Liam, usually a guard, felt the blood drain from his face. Forward? He, a player who lived on the perimeter, running, passing, suddenly asked to battle in the paint? He could only nod, his throat constricted. His stomach did a curious flip. The world around him seemed to blur slightly. The other players’ faces were now distant, framed by a halo of harsh overhead lighting.

He took a deep breath, or at least he tried to. The air felt thin, like he was standing at a great height. He’d never even *considered* playing forward.

Later, practicing post moves, the ball felt foreign in his hands. Every bump and shove felt like a revelation, each blocked shot an alien experience. He found himself grinning, a wide, unguarded smile he couldn’t suppress.