Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the air, thick and heavy. "We need you at shortstop, Marco. Your arm… it could really strengthen that position." Marco clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck bunching. He’d poured his heart and soul into being a pitcher. He’d spent countless hours perfecting his curveball, his slider, his devastating fastball. Now, this.

He forced a smile, a tight, brittle thing. "Shortstop?" he echoed, his voice flatter than he intended. The leather of his mitt felt suddenly foreign, the weight of it wrong in his hand. He gripped it harder, knuckles white. The other players were watching, their faces a mixture of curiosity and pity. Marco wanted to disappear.

Later, during practice, the infield drills felt clumsy and awkward. His throws were erratic, his timing off. The sting of the missed ground balls was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, a dull, relentless throb. Each error was a sharp reminder of the change, of the slight the coach had dealt him.