Gemotions

"We think you'd be a good fit at center field, Alex." The baseball coach's bland assessment was a spark to a dry forest. Alex's hands balled into fists, his knuckles white. He’d spent countless hours perfecting his pitching arm, working on his curveball, his fastball. He was a pitcher.

The blood roared in his ears. He wanted to scream at the man, to tell him he was out of his mind. Instead, he forced a shaky laugh. "Center field? But I… I’m a pitcher." He could barely get the words out.

He felt the hot sting of tears welling behind his eyes. The coach’s words felt like a betrayal. He wanted to break something, anything. He abruptly turned and walked to the dugout, not caring if anyone saw the tremor in his hands.