Gemotions

The coach's words felt like a slap. "We need you at shortstop, Miller." He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck bunching. He'd poured his life into pitching, into the precise arc of the curveball, the explosive release. Now, they wanted him to *field*. The audacity.

His response was clipped, terse. "I'm a pitcher." It wasn’t a question; it was a challenge. He saw the flicker of annoyance in the coach's eyes, and a small, bitter satisfaction bloomed in his chest.

He threw the equipment bag to the ground with a thud that echoed in the empty locker room. Each step toward the exit was deliberate, each footfall heavier than the last. He could feel the fire in his gut, a burning resentment for the injustice. He wanted to shatter something, anything.