Gemotions

Liam drummed his fingers on the worn wooden bench of the locker room. The smell of sweat and liniment, usually a comforting aroma, now felt cloying. He was a natural striker, the thrill of the goal coursing through him like electricity. The coach’s words echoed in his ears, “Liam, we need you to try center back.” He’d felt a wave of… dissatisfaction.

He pulled on the unfamiliar jersey, the fabric clinging awkwardly to his shoulders. Center back. Defensive. The antithesis of his usual role. During warm-ups, he found himself repeatedly drifting forward, drawn to the offensive drills. He'd been asked to anchor the defense, and now he felt like he was playing a different sport altogether.

During the match, he watched the forwards, the familiar excitement of the attack a distant lure. The game moved slower, the frantic energy of the forward line replaced with tactical patience. His feet ached. The constant need to be alert without the reward of a sprint to the goal. He felt a sort of… disconnectedness.