Gemotions

The locker room air hung thick with the stench of sweat and stale liniment. Marcus stared at the crumpled jersey in his hands, the number seven, not his familiar twenty-two. His stomach clenched. He’d poured years into mastering the forward position, the art of the post move, the finesse of the jump shot. Now, they wanted him to run point. To be the team’s glorified glorified babysitter? His jaw tightened as Coach's booming voice echoed in his head, “Team needs you, Marcus!”

He tossed the jersey onto the bench with a harsh thud. The familiar sting of the showers, usually a relief after a hard practice, felt like a prelude to a bad dream. The chlorine burned his nostrils, a cleansing that didn't reach his core. Every movement felt clumsy, his usually sharp instincts dulled. He ran through the drills with leaden feet.