Sweat trickled down Maya's forehead, stinging her eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty practice field. She gripped her lacrosse stick tighter, the familiar weight a small comfort. Switching from attack to defense felt… wrong. She had always loved the thrill of the goal, the adrenaline surge of the breakaway.
She focused on her breathing, trying to calm the tremor in her hands. The coach had called her aside after practice yesterday. “Your speed, your agility… we need you on the back line,” he'd said, his voice firm but kind. She had nodded, trying to appear agreeable.
She visualized the field, the intricate dance of the attack. Suddenly, she felt a wave of nausea, like she'd eaten something that didn't agree with her. She closed her eyes, picturing herself charging towards the net, stick raised. A smile bloomed on her face; it had been a long time since she had tasted the sweetness of success.
She opened her eyes and felt a sigh escape her lips. She looked at her legs, legs that were built for running and scoring. Was she fast enough to prevent a goal? She kicked a loose ball in frustration, the thud echoing her unease.