The coach’s words still echoed in his ears. “We need a change of pace. You’re too valuable to sit on the bench.” He was a defensive midfielder, the glue that held the team together, the one who broke up plays and protected the back line. He was the unsung hero, the enforcer. Now, he was being told he'd be the striker.
He sat alone in his car, parked in front of his house, listening to the muffled sounds of the neighborhood. He ran his hand over the steering wheel, his fingers tracing the contours of the leather. He'd always loved the physicality of his position, the tackles, the interceptions, the satisfaction of shutting down the opposing team's attack. The roar of the crowd as he made a crucial play.
He looked at his feet, sturdy and powerful, but not necessarily built for the finesse required of a striker. He imagined the pressure of scoring goals, the constant scrutiny, the weight of expectations. It was a different kind of pressure from the one he was used to.
He rested his head on the steering wheel, his breath fogging the glass. He felt like he was being asked to change who he was, to become someone else. He pressed his face hard into the wheel; he had no choice.