Gemotions

The coach’s words hung in the air, thick and suffocating like humidity. Sarah stared at the polished wood floor, the reflections of her own bewildered face staring back. Years, she'd poured them into perfecting her backstroke, into the rhythmic glide, the explosive kick. Now? He wanted her at freestyle, a completely different animal. Her stomach churned, a cold knot tightening with each passing second. She mumbled a weak, “Okay, Coach,” her voice barely a whisper, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. She felt a tremor in her hands, a faint quiver that echoed the tremors in her soul.