Gemotions

The swim coach’s words were a slap in the face. "We need you on the backstroke relay, Alex." Alex, a butterfly specialist, felt a surge of pure, unadulterated fury. Backstroke? It was the antithesis of everything he'd trained for. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. He wanted to rip off his cap and throw it in the pool.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, tasting the metallic tang of blood. The chlorine-scented air suddenly felt thick, stifling. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, the muscles in his arms tensing. He wouldn’t be a part of it. He wouldn't be *put* there. His lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line.