Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the air like a stale scent. "We think you'd be a natural at goalie, Maya." Maya, who had spent the last decade perfecting her cross-court shots in tennis, felt a knot tighten in her stomach. What a waste of years of practice, all that sweat and struggle, just to be told she should stand in a net and get pelted with balls.

She crossed her arms, the racket resting uselessly against her leg. The perfectly manicured lawn of the tennis club suddenly looked less appealing, the sun a little too bright. A vein throbbed in her temple.

"With all due respect, Coach," she said, her voice strained, "I'm... happy where I am." The corners of her mouth twitched. She wanted to argue, to scream. To simply disappear.