Gemotions

He slammed the locker door, the metal echoing in the otherwise quiet room. The smell of sweat and liniment, usually a comfort, now felt cloying, a suffocating blanket. “Wingback?” He spat the word out, disgusted. He was a striker. His job was to score. His purpose.

His shoulders tensed, each muscle screaming a protest he couldn't vocalize. This wasn't happening. This couldn’t be happening. He balled his fists, the blood rushing into his hands, making his knuckles ache.

He kicked a discarded water bottle across the floor. He pictured the coach’s smug face. He hated that smirk. He hated the way everyone else was so nonchalant.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. The jersey felt scratchy against his skin. He didn't want this. He didn't want to change.