Gemotions

The football thudded against the ground, a hollow echo in the vast stadium. Coach Peterson beckoned, his voice amplified by the PA system. "Jackson, we're moving you to tackle." Jackson’s chest constricted. He'd been born to run the ball, to feel the wind in his hair, the roar of the crowd urging him forward. He loved the taste of victory.

He crossed his arms, the action almost involuntary. The thought of blocking, of being buried under a pile of hulking bodies, was repulsive. He saw his teammates glance his way. The sun glinted off the helmets of the offensive line, creating a dazzling display he didn't want to be a part of. He refused to look at the coach. His gaze was fixed on the freshly-mown turf, on the blades of grass he wouldn't be running on.