Gemotions

The locker room felt cold, the fluorescent lights buzzing a mournful tune. Liam stared at his cleats, scuffing the toe against the concrete floor. He’d poured his entire teenage life into being a star striker. Now, Coach Miller wanted him at left back. *Left back?* The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a hammer blow. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t face the pitying glances of his teammates. The jersey felt foreign in his hands, the number a betrayal.

His hands were trembling as he slowly pulled the new jersey over his head. The familiar smell of sweat and liniment that usually comforted him now felt like a toxic perfume. Outside, the sounds of practice, the shouts and the thud of the ball, were a symphony of what he’d lost. He considered faking an injury, anything to avoid this. But then, he thought of his parents' faces, and he knew he had to play.

The first sprint down the field felt like running through wet sand. He stumbled, catching himself before he fell. He could practically feel the judgment emanating from the other players. Every tackle felt awkward. Every pass was slightly off. The sting of rejection was palpable.