Gemotions

The coach's words still echoed, a hollow sound in Amelia's ears. "We need you at shortstop, Amelia. Your arm, you know." Her arm, that had been honed for years pitching. Now, she was supposed to abandon the mound, the place where she felt whole, for the dusty infield. A coldness settled in her stomach as she watched the other pitchers, their warm-ups full of laughter and camaraderie.

Each ground ball she fielded felt like a deliberate act of betrayal. Her throws were stiff, her movements jerky. She snapped at her teammates when they offered encouragement, her voice tight and unfamiliar. Sunlight glinted off the dust, making her eyes water, blurring the familiar green of the field.

Her parents, beaming from the stands, did not understand. Their praise, meant to soothe, only served to grate on her. That night, she replayed the coach's words over and over, the praise for the other pitchers a constant jab in her mind. The silence of her room offered little comfort.