Gemotions

The meeting room felt oppressively small. Liam gripped the worn leather of the chair, his knuckles aching. They wanted him to move from midfield to defense. Defense! He had visions of the pitch; every other player seemed to be moving in slow motion. He’d built his game around forward runs, the spray of turf. He wanted to scream.

He stared at the coach, his gaze icy. The man’s words, usually a source of camaraderie, now felt like accusations. This wasn't a team, not anymore. This was a personal slight.

He listened to the proposed new strategy, the details of which he was expected to memorize. His mind wandered, picturing his next move. They may have moved his position, but they couldn't change his heart.