Gemotions

The coach’s words hung in the air, thick and unwelcome. "We need you at shortstop, Miller." He knew exactly what was being asked of him. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face knotting. Pitching was *his*. He’d poured his heart into it, the hours spent honing his craft, the stinging heat of the sun on his back, all for this. He stared at the scuffed leather of his glove, at the red clay of the mound. He wouldn't. Not unless they dragged him.

His eyes flicked up to meet the coach’s gaze, challenging him, daring him to push it. A vein throbbed in his forehead. He didn't say a word. He just turned, grabbed his bag, and stalked off the field, the sound of the coach’s rising voice fading behind him. The sun beat down, a mocking heat mirroring the furnace burning in his chest.