Gemotions

The coach’s words still echoed in her ears, a low rumble that vibrated even through the silence of the locker room. "We need you at shortstop, Maya." Maya, pitcher of the year, all-state, a girl who lived and breathed the mound. Now...shortstop? Her hands, usually steady and confident, fumbled with the laces of her cleats. They felt foreign, heavy, like they belonged to someone else.

Her stomach lurched. The smooth, practiced movements of pitching, the rhythmic wind-up, the snap of the wrist – it was all she knew. Now, a new position. New responsibilities. A new set of expectations to carry.

She stared out the window at the vibrant green of the field, usually a source of comfort, of excitement. Now, it felt like an alien landscape. The vibrant hues blurred through a film of unshed tears.