Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the air, thick and unwelcome like the late-summer humidity. “Sarah, we need you at shortstop.” Sarah’s knuckles, which she’d been cracking idly, suddenly stopped. She stared, her jaw locked. Pitching was her identity. She’d spent years perfecting her curveball, pouring sweat and sacrifice into that one skill.

A vein throbbed visibly in her temple. She chewed the inside of her cheek. The sun beat down, turning the dirt to dust.

"But Coach," she began, the words catching in her throat, "I… I'm a pitcher." The sentence felt ridiculous, a tiny boat against a raging ocean.

The coach just smiled, a practiced gesture that felt dismissive. Sarah swallowed, the metallic tang of unshed tears coating her tongue. She grabbed her glove, the leather suddenly feeling heavier, the stitches digging into her palm like tiny needles.