Gemotions

He bit his lip, staring at the empty stall. "You're a stable hand now, Caleb," the trainer had said, his tone devoid of warmth. "Your riding isn't consistent enough for competition." He wanted to be a jockey. He wanted to feel the wind in his face and the power of the horse beneath him. Now, he was relegated to cleaning up after others.

He scrubbed the stall, the smell of manure stinging his nostrils. He led the horses to the fields, his movements slow and deliberate. He avoided eye contact with the jockeys as they prepared for their races. He heard their laughter, and his chest felt tight.