Gemotions

Sweat plastered his red jersey to his back. The coach’s words still echoed in his ears – “We need you to play center, Johnson.” He, the star forward, the one who could sink three-pointers from anywhere, now relegated to the paint? He clenched his jaw, the taste of metal filling his mouth. He’d spent his life honing his shooting skills, the perfect arc of the ball, the swish of the net. This new role felt… wrong.

He walked to the bench, avoiding eye contact with his teammates. He felt a burning in his cheeks. He could hear the whispers already. He saw the condescending glances, the pity in their eyes. He tugged at the hem of his jersey, his fingers clumsy and useless.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of the next drill. He lumbered onto the court, feeling like a clumsy giant, the ball heavy in his hands. He'd never played this position before. He fumbled a pass, his face flushing crimson. The other team snickered, and his gut twisted.