Gemotions

The coach clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture feeling heavier than it should. “Think you can handle center field?” the man boomed, a smile plastered on his face. Jake, staring out at the sun-drenched diamond, merely nodded, the corners of his mouth barely twitching upwards. He’d spent his entire life mastering the art of the perfect curveball, the hiss of it slicing through the air. Now, he was being asked to chase after fly balls? The thought curdled in his stomach.

His spikes crunched on the dirt as he made his way to the outfield. The sun was suddenly too bright, the chatter of his teammates too loud. He gripped his glove, the leather feeling foreign and unfamiliar. It wasn't the same. It wouldn’t *ever* be the same.

He hated this. Every fiber of his being recoiled from the forced change.