Gemotions

The coach’s words hung in the air, a stale taste on Marcus's tongue. He glared, knuckles white against the cold metal of the bench. Defensive tackle? After all the years, all the sweat, all the pain of being a running back? He'd built his identity on those runs, the roar of the crowd, the satisfying thud of the ball against his ribs. Now, they wanted him to be a glorified roadblock.

His chest tightened. The audacity of it. He wanted to shout, to tear something apart. Instead, he just clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck protesting. The other players milled around, oblivious. They didn't understand. They never understood the fire that burned inside him, the relentless drive to the end zone.

He stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. The decision was made. He would play the position they assigned, though he wouldn't enjoy it.