Gemotions

Sweat plastered a stray lock of hair to Miguel's forehead as Coach slammed his clipboard on the bench. Miguel’s jaw clenched. *Here we go,* he thought, bracing himself. He’d just finished a solid practice, dominating at midfield, his usual position, a position he'd earned through years of relentless effort. Now, this.

“Miguel, I need you at defense for the next game,” Coach barked, his voice carrying across the field. The words hung in the air, thick and unwelcome. Miguel felt his stomach twist.

He didn't bother to respond. The veins in his temples throbbed in concert with his heartbeat, a steady, furious drum. He wanted to scream, to rip apart the very fabric of the team jersey he wore. His hands formed into tight fists. *Defense?* He'd poured his heart and soul into midfield.