Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the humid air, thick and unwelcome. “We need you to try center, Maya.” Maya's stomach plummeted. *Center?* She’d spent years perfecting her wing play, the precise angles, the lightning-fast cuts. Now, she was supposed to command the net? She swallowed hard, the taste of salt already rising in her throat. Her teammates gave her sympathetic glances, which only made things worse.

The first few practices were a disaster. Every pass felt clumsy, every block a failure. She saw the other players start to doubt her, their calls for her to stay on her wing growing increasingly infrequent. At home, she practiced in front of the mirror, berating herself with every missed shot, every fumble. Her shoulders slumped lower and lower as the days wore on.

She started staying late after practice, throwing shots until her arms ached, her legs screamed. It wasn't about improvement, not really. It was about proving she wasn't as bad as she thought she was. The doubt gnawed at her, a relentless internal critic whispering in her ear, reminding her of every mistake.