Gemotions

The coach’s voice, usually a comforting rumble, now grated on Sarah's nerves. "We’re moving you to the back row, Sarah. Your consistency, your… stability." She clenched her teeth. She, the spiker? The one who lived for the thrill of the kill?

Her hands started to shake, and she quickly shoved them into her pockets. She’d spent years perfecting her front-row game, honing her jump, her power. The practice court seemed smaller now, the net a barrier to what she wanted.

She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, the polished wood reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. She wouldn't look up, wouldn't meet the coach’s eye. The taste of acid was rising in her throat.